Heirs to the throne

***

The king sat in a high chair at a long table, as if he had grown into it over the years of his reign. The heavy crown weighed down on his grey hair, but he did not allow himself the slightest movement that would betray his fatigue. The purple robe fell from his shoulders in neat folds, lined with fur, too warm for the hall. His face was gaunt, his skin thin, almost transparent, his fingers dry and pale. But his gaze remained the same: sharp, attentive, coldly clear. The frailty of his body was obvious to everyone, but his inner strength still lived within him, and no one dared to doubt it. There were papers on the table in front of him, but he hardly looked at them — he looked at his heirs, breathing heavily. — Well? — he asked curtly. Holland reported first. Calmly, to the point: deadlines, conditions, concessions. Rozanov added details of the negotiations — where they had stood their ground, where they had conceded, where they had had to apply pressure. The king nodded briefly, almost imperceptibly. — I see. You did what you had to do. He paused, suppressing a cough. The physician stepped closer, but the king waved him away. — Go. That was all. No thanks, no orders. As they bowed respectfully and headed for the exit, the king added quietly, without looking up: — Be careful. The corridor was colder than the hall. Shane walked a few steps in silence, then stopped at the window. Rozanov stopped, noticing the prince’s strange behaviour. He was clearly confused and nervous. — Tomorrow at dawn, I am going to the northern forest, — he said in a tone as if reading a decree. — To hunt. Ilya raised an eyebrow and looked at him so intently that Shane immediately regretted opening his mouth. — Are you… — Rozanov drawled, — inviting me? — No, — Shane replied too quickly. Then he faltered, frowning as if arguing with himself. — I mean… not exactly. — He coughed and looked away. — But if you have nothing else to do… you can join us. There was a pause. Shane felt his ears burning. Ilya smirked. He was clearly enjoying this. — Holland, — he said, almost affectionately, — you have no idea how to invite people. — It’s not part of my job description, — Shane muttered. — What a tragedy, — Ilya sighed. — Then I’ll go. Shane looked up at him sharply. — Someone has to keep an eye on you and your idiotic idealism, — Ilya tilted his head, his smile widening. Shane exhaled sharply. He clearly wanted to say something, but changed his mind. — At dawn, Rozanov, — he said quietly. — At dawn, Hollander.

***

The forest was fresh and crisp, as if it had just awakened with the dawn. Thin snow lay not in a continuous blanket, but in patches — on roots, on fallen trunks, on fir branches bent under the weight of night frost. The sun had just risen and was not yet warm — its light was sharp: golden rays pierced through the branches, fell in long strips on the ground, and flashed on the ice in the ruts and on the tips of frozen grass. The air was clear, cold, smelling of resin, damp bark, and the smoke of distant fires — that special smell of a winter morning that could only be found outside the city walls. Everything around seemed too clear, too real. It became easier to breathe, as if everything superfluous had finally disappeared behind the palace walls. Ilya appeared before Hollander and was already arguing with the gamekeeper about the direction of the wind. They were dressed differently and complemented each other perfectly. Shane was in a dark hunting suit, neat and trim. His belts were fastened precisely and evenly, his leather armour fit without a single extra fold. His cloak was thick, dark green, falling heavily on his shoulders, his gloves pulled up to his wrists. Rozanov was dressed much more lightly, more casually. The collar of his jacket was open, the fabric gathered softly on his chest, his belt was looser. His hood was down, and light brown curls peeked out from under it. — If we take the lower path, the smell will go into the ravine, — he said emphatically. — And if we take the upper path, you’ll scare away all the wildlife, and then you won’t get any prey, — grumbled the gamekeeper. — Let’s go against the wind, — said Shane, quietly riding up. Rozanov narrowed his eyes. — Do you always prepare so carefully? — he asked, watching closely as Hollander checked the fastening of his scabbard. — And I see you always rely on luck? — Shane retorted. — It hasn’t let me down yet. They rode side by side. The horses moved slowly, steam rising from their nostrils and immediately dissolving in the cold air. The snow under their hooves was thick and silent, the forest parted into narrow passages and closed again with dark trunks. Branches caught their cloaks, and somewhere in the distance, bark cracked — the sound too loud for such silence. Holland held the reins steady, looking around. Ilya leaned forward from time to time, listening. They hardly spoke, exchanging only brief glances and gestures, precise enough to understand each other without words. Half an hour later, they found the first tracks. A roe deer. Fresh. Ilya crouched down and ran his finger over the print. — See? It turned its hoof slightly. That means it was alert, — he said. — You spoke too loudly, — Shane replied discontentedly. They continued on foot. Branches caught on their raincoats, snow crunched under their boots. Ilya walked slightly ahead, occasionally looking back as if to make sure Hollander was still there. Ilya stopped at a narrow fallen tree trunk across the stream. — Will you go first? — he asked quietly. — Why me? — Because I’m sure you won’t slip. Shane crossed without hesitation, turned around, and held out his hand. Rozanov looked at it for a second and took it. — Thank you, — he said too seriously. — Watch your step, — Shane replied. A little later, they saw the roe deer. It stood warily between the trees. Both froze simultaneously. Ilya slowly raised his bow. The bowstring tightened, his shoulders straightened, his silhouette became clear and motionless against the backdrop of the forest. Hollander, watching him, involuntarily lingered his gaze. The wind brushed gently over Ilya with a caressing hand: it touched his cloak, knocked strands of hair out from under his hood, and ruffled the curls at his temples. He stood openly, not hiding, too focused. Somewhere ahead, there was a flicker of movement, but he did not shoot. The bow trembled and slowly lowered. — Changed your mind? — Shane asked. — Let it go, — he said quietly. Holland did not argue. For a moment, the forest, the cold, and the hunt faded into the background — only Ilya remained, standing in the wind, with a calm, stubborn dignity that was difficult to look away from. The roe deer disappeared as quietly as it had appeared. They continued on their way. The forest grew denser. Somewhere above, snow fell from a branch and scattered on their shoulders. — Did you see that? That was an assassination attempt, — Rozanov laughed loudly, brushing the snow off his collar. — On your pride? — Shane smiled, steering his horse to the side. — Oh no, that thing is invulnerable, — Rozanov laughed even louder, patting himself lightly on the chest. Shane couldn’t help but laugh briefly himself. Ilya caught the sound, turned around as if surprised, and for a moment there was a light, almost boyish cheerfulness between them that required no rules and feared no cold. At a halt by the stream, Ilya was the first to dismount, take off his gloves, and dip his palms into the icy water. He shuddered, exhaled briefly, almost laughing. — Hey, Hollander… And, without looking back, he scooped up a handful and splashed it on Shane. Shane froze, clearly not expecting the blow, then slowly turned his gaze to him. The pause lasted just long enough for Rozanov to regret his prank. Shane took off his glove, scooped up some water, and returned the “debt.” The cold splashed into his face, and Rozanov burst out laughing — genuinely, loudly, sincerely. He didn’t care about hunting, propriety, or the world around him. Shane looked at him for another second, then burst into loud laughter, unable to contain himself.

***

When they set up camp, the sun was already setting, painting the forest in soft pink and gold tones. The fire burned quickly, the flames leaping across the logs, casting dancing shadows on their faces. The warmth came from the flames and from fatigue — pleasant, lively, drawing them in. Rozanov sat down nearby, holding his hands out to the fire. His shoulder touched Shane almost accidentally — and that touch lingered longer than necessary, light, close. — You laughed today, — said Ilya, his eyes shining, reflecting the flames of the fire. — Don’t make things up. — I heard it. — You imagined it. Ilya smiled and leaned a little closer, his breath almost brushing Shane’s hair. A light breeze stirred the strands, and the movement made Shane involuntarily touch his hand. — I want to hear you laugh again, — Ilya said quietly, the corners of his lips twitching. Holland looked at him for a long time, calmly, but there was something heavy and alive in that calmness. He slowly ran his gaze over Ilya’s shoulder, along the line of his neck where the firelight played on his skin, and stopped at his bright eyes. — You know, — he said, — I like that you’re different here. — How? — Less… cocky. Ilya leaned a little closer, his fingers barely brushing Shane’s hand, as if testing whether he could linger there. He chuckled softly, almost smiling. — And you’re still the same. — What am I? — A bore. And for a moment, they sat like that. The light from the fire played on their faces, the wind gently touched their bodies. The fire crackled, filling the pauses, and there was more peace in that simple sound than in all the words spoken during the day. They stared into the flames, motionless, and only by the way their shoulders relaxed could one tell that they were allowing themselves the rare luxury of simply being together.

***

When they got up to go to their tents, Rozanov suddenly stopped at the entrance. — Holland, — he said quietly, his voice trembling slightly. — M? — Shane froze, almost forgetting about the tent behind him. Ilya moved closer, but not too abruptly. His gaze was soft, almost trusting. — Will you be so… formal again tomorrow? — he asked quietly, gently taking Shane’s hand and touching his skin. Shane wanted to answer, but all the right words stuck in his throat, his heart beating louder than usual. — I’ll miss your smile, — Ilya whispered, gently running his hand over Shane’s cheek. His fingers slid over the skin, over the scattered freckles. The slight warmth of his touch mingled with his breath. Holland took a step towards him, and their shoulders touched — lightly, barely noticeably, but enough to make time stand still. — Not everything has to be formal, — he whispered. — Not today. The world around them — the tent, the forest, the sunset — disappeared. There was only their gaze, the warmth of their breath, and the subtle tremor of their closeness. In this silence, full of tension and trust, they seemed to hear each other without words. And when Rozanov gently pulled Shane by the hand toward his tent, Shane smiled slightly, knowing that this moment was the promised intimacy, subtle and passionate, that remained between them. It was warm in the tent. Too close. Too quiet. Shane reached out and cupped Ilya’s face, gently running his fingers over his chin. Rozanov leaned into the touch, then pulled him closer. The kiss was sharp, hungry, as if they had been putting it off for a long time. Ilya’s heart was pounding wildly in his chest, his body aching with a familiar need that had become a habit. They pulled apart and looked intently into each other’s eyes. Shane leaned down and kissed Ilya gently, hesitantly on the lips. The gesture was so light, clumsy, and therefore charming, because Hollander was acting on his own for the first time. Ilya grinned, wrapped his arms around Shane’s waist, and kissed him hard. The kiss became more passionate, their tongues intertwining in a dance. Their hands wandered over each other’s bodies, feeling the strong muscles beneath their tunics, feeling the warmth of their skin. Shane’s fingers dug into Rozanov’s curls, and he tilted his head slightly to deepen the kiss. Ilya pulled away, his breathing ragged and his gaze wild. The tent was small for the two of them. The fire outside cast long, dancing shadows, and only its light penetrated the thin fabric. Ilya pulled the tunic off Hollander. Their hearts beat wildly in their chests, their bodies languishing with desire. Shane’s fingers impatiently untied the laces on the tunic, pulling it off his shoulders. His lips touched his neck, his teeth bit into the sensitive skin, sending shivers down Ilya’s spine. Shane’s lips were on his lips, his tongue explored his mouth, and his hands wandered over his body. His skin was sensitive to every touch, every kiss. Hollander’s hands smoothly found their way to his trousers, his fingers deftly untied the laces and pulled them down his thighs. Ilya’s cock was freed, hard and aching. Shane’s gaze darkened, and he slowly licked his lips. Pushing Rozanov back onto the furs, he straddled him. Ilya ran his fingers through Shane’s hair, tangling the soft strands and pulling him closer, hugging him tightly around the waist. Shane’s palm wrapped around his cock, his fingers slowly and teasingly sliding over the hard flesh. Ilya arched his back and a quiet moan escaped his lips. Then Shane slowly moved, leaving wet kisses all over Rozanov’s body, and finally his lips closed around his cock. His tongue teased the sensitive skin, sending waves of pleasure straight to his brain. From that first time, he gradually learned something from Ilya — the amazing art of mind-blowing blowjobs. Ilya arched his back on the furs, his moans growing louder. Hollander’s hands rested on his hips, his fingers digging into the tender flesh as he plunged deeper and deeper. After finishing, Rozanov wrapped his legs around Shane, pulled him closer, and rubbed his cock against Shane’s. Their lips burned from rough kisses, but they had no intention of stopping. - Ilya, — Shane gasped in a voice hoarse with desire. — Please. Rozanov understood. He reached for a small clay pot of oil, which was well covered. He dipped his fingers into it, covering them with the slippery liquid. Shane’s body trembled with anticipation, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. Ilya’s fingers were already at his entrance, teasing and tormenting him. When they penetrated him, stretching him, preparing him, Hollander arched his back. A quiet moan escaped his lips. It wasn’t the first time — they had done this countless times before. But today, everything felt completely different. - I’m coming in. Shane threw his head back, his pupils dilating. Ilya entered him, stretching and filling him. They passionately devoured each other’s lips, conveying everything unspoken, deep and sincere. Ilya’s hips moved actively, his cock sliding in and out, and waves of pleasure rolled through Shane’s body from these sensations. His fingers wandered over Ilya’s back, digging into his soft skin, holding him in place as he moved inside him, hitting the most sensitive spot. - Shane, — Rozanov exhaled. — I’m close. Their bodies trembled, their muscles tensed. A couple of powerful thrusts, a couple of loud cries. They came, and Shane’s cock throbbed in Ilya’s hand. They lay there for a long time, their bodies entwined, their arms locked, as if afraid to disturb the fragile balance of the night. The fabric of the tent rustled quietly in the wind, letting in thin streams of cool air. The heat gradually left their skin, giving way to a calm warmth. Shane lay on his side, slowly running his fingertips over Ilya’s wrist. Ilya, meanwhile, did not take his tender gaze off the tired, glowing face. His fingers squeezed Hollander’s palm a little tighter. Shane leaned closer. His gaze became quiet and soft — the kind he could only allow himself here, far from the palace, titles, and prying eyes. He touched Ilya’s lips with a light kiss. Outside, the night was slowly growing colder. The wind carried the scent of damp grass and forest. Inside the tent, it was warm. Peaceful. And for a brief moment, the world stopped demanding that they be someone else.

***

Late at night, Shane sat alone by the fire, watching the smouldering embers. A smoking pipe protruded from his mouth. — You ran away again. Rozanov came out of the tent, throwing a warm waistcoat over his bare chest, and sat down next to him. — I needed to think. — A dangerous occupation. Holland smiled. Silence hung in the air. In the distance, a stream murmured faintly. In the flickering light, Shane’s profile seemed incredibly attractive — hair as dark as the night itself fell softly on his forehead, casting moving shadows across his face. His elbows rested on his knees, his fingers casually holding the pipe, and there was something almost intimate about this carelessness. He looked different: quieter, softer, more vulnerable. There had always been something too calm for the heir to the throne and too lively for a man of power in this face. Romantic, pensive. In this moment, Shane was neither a rival nor a future king — just a man who had finally been allowed to breathe freely. Ilya suddenly felt that if he touched his shoulder, he would crumble like ashes trembling on the edge of embers. He became frightened. — What are we going to do next? — Shane asked quietly, looking up at the endless starry sky. — The same as always, probably, — Ilya replied uncertainly. — Pretend that everything is under control. — And how much longer are we going to lie and hide? — Do we have a choice? Shane snorted irritably, put out his pipe, and lay back on the cold grass, closing his eyes. — I hate this. Ilya lay down beside him. — Me too. They were silent. Then Ilya reached out his hand. Shane didn’t pull his away. — Your Highnesses! Shane jumped up first. — Damn it! Kicking his sleeping neighbour, he stumbled, tangled in his cloak. Ilya lazily opened his eyes and laughed. — Calm down, — he whispered, pulling on his tunic and trying to tie it quickly. — We’re decent people. — Certainly not now, — Shane muttered, hastily buttoning his doublet (and, of course, using the wrong buttons, which amused Ilya immensely). Rozanov smiled quietly, pulled him by the collar, and touched his lips casually — briefly, almost playfully. — Everything will be fine, Shane. He smiled charmingly. They managed to throw on their outer garments just as the canopy was pulled back. The huntsman looked delicately away. — I beg your pardon. The ambassador has arrived. It is urgent. The ambassador rode up on a weary horse. The snow on his cloak was grey from the road. He knelt down without raising his eyes. — Your Highnesses… the king died last night. The world around them seemed to take a step back. Holland stood motionless. Ilya looked at him — and in that look was everything that could not be said. Their morning ended before it had even begun.