Heirs to the throne

***

The palace existed in two dimensions of time. During the day, it was power and protocol. At night, it was passion and inevitability. The council met more and more often. The king’s illness was no longer referred to as temporary; it was discussed cautiously, in hushed tones, as if it were the weather, beyond human control. Maps of borders were laid out on a long table, the fingers of councillors and ministers sliding over lines and territories. Discussions became harsher, decisions colder. Holland spoke calmly, precisely, without unnecessary gestures. He listened, weighed up, agreed, objected. His voice was confident — the heir to the crown, the future ruler, a model of composure. Ilya stood a little apart, leaning against the back of a velvet armchair, as if he did not belong in this space, but every time his gaze found Shane. And every time he felt that gaze before he looked up. Nothing happened between them. Nothing — in front of others. At night, everything became easier. Sometimes Shane would return to his chambers and find Rozanov already there — in the semi-darkness, by the window, in an armchair, on the bed. As if he had always belonged there. Sometimes, on the contrary, he himself, without realising it, found himself at Ilya’s door, driven by some uncontrollable force. They hardly spoke. At first — rare words, dry, cautious. Then — touches that were not tender, but eager and confident. They recognised each other by touch faster than they understood the words they spoke. Everything happened as if it had been decided in advance, as if there was an unspoken agreement between them that needed no confirmation. And each time afterwards, the same silence. They parted without promises, without questions. But the next evening, it all happened again. The palace was buzzing with news. Messengers brought alarming reports from the border. Ambassadors demanded urgent audiences. In the corridors, people talked about a possible war, about the weakness of the throne, about which of the heirs would be able to save the country from disaster. Holland listened to the reports and felt the tension growing inside him — not only because of politics. He began to notice that he was thinking about Ilya at the most inappropriate moments: while signing decrees, in the middle of negotiations, even while praying for his father’s health. It was not a memory or a desire — rather, a constant feeling of his presence. It was as if there was another breath nearby, with which he had to synchronise his own.

***

At night, they met in the heir’s office. The curtains were drawn tightly, and a lamp illuminated the table and his face, leaving the rest of the room in semi-darkness. Shane sat bent over his papers. He began to speak — about the Council, about the state of affairs, about the risks. His voice was composed, almost formal, as if the meeting had not ended a couple of hours ago. Rozanov listened silently. Then he took a step forward. When Shane looked up, he interrupted him with a kiss — without hesitation, without explanation. — Did you know you’re a crazy bore? Shane didn’t answer. He just moved closer. And that was enough.

***

Week after week passed. The meetings became as habitual as breathing — something you don't think about until it stops. Habitual. And increasingly necessary. They didn't discuss it. But everyone already knew that the absence of the other was keenly felt. That night, the city beneath the palace shone especially brightly. Shane stood at the window — naked, motionless, illuminated by the cold light of the street lamps. A pipe smouldered in his fingers, a thin stream of smoke rising and dissolving into the darkness. He stared at the city for a long time, as if trying to see not the streets, but the people in the tiny windows. The thought was clear and heavy. He was the heir. He was the embodiment of power. His life did not belong to him. And yet, every night, he willingly broke the order he was sworn to protect. If their terrible secret became known, it would not be just a scandal. It would become a deadly weapon. Against him. Against Ilya. Against the throne. Against the country. Shane took a slow drag. He had no regrets. And that was what frightened him most. He realised that "they" were no longer a coincidence, a game, a daring prank by Rozanov. It was a quagmire. And he was not trying to get out of it. A quiet footstep sounded behind him. Ilya approached silently, as always. His hand confidently touched Hollander's fingers and took the pipe. He took a deep drag. For a moment, they stood side by side, looking at the same point — down at the twinkling city. Then Rozanov returned the pipe and hugged him from behind. Simply — without a hint, without a joke. His chin rested on Shane's shoulder, his breath touching his skin. Neither of them spoke. In this silence, something new appeared for the first time. Something stronger than they could control.