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It's unfair, Max Caster thinks, that a man with his charisma should be forced to wear such drab apparel. The beige apron is depressingly dull and does nothing for his complexion. Not to mention the hideous hairnet that flattens his usually lush hair in the most unflattering way. It's more than anyone should have to bear.
He blames his step-brothers. Ever since Matt and Nick Jackson superkicked their way into his life and home, Max has been relegated to scullery maid with no consideration given to his artistic temperament or sensitive skin. Without his extensive skincare regime, Max is terribly afraid he is developing dry patches and, the horror, a pimple. But such things have become a regular part of Max's new life below stairs, while his hated step-brothers pillage his closet and beauty products. If they have blunted his best fabric scissors, Max swears that blood will be spilled.
Today has been especially dire. Not only has a hole appeared in Max's favorite pink rubber gloves, forcing him to wear the cat-sick yellow abominations, but the Jackson brothers have been exceptionally cheerful all morning. If there's one thing Max really hates, it's seeing Matt and Nick happy. The reason for their good humour is even more vexing. Wedged above the fireplace is an invitation that was delivered earlier and immediately sent the brothers into a twittering frenzy of excitement and slow-motion hair-flips (seriously, how do they do that?). They have finally retreated upstairs to coat each other in an obscene amount of spray-tan. Maybe they'll suffocate on the fumes Max thinks hopefully, sprinkling rat droppings into the pie he's cooking for their lunch.
Max quickly grows bored with his food sabotage and picks up the invitation, gazing longingly at the gold-embossed lettering on a subtle Burberry background. So classy!
Come one, come all to the greatest event of the season!
Maxwell Jacob Friedman, Crown Prince of Long Island seeks a consort!
A ball will be held at the Burberry Palace this Saturday night. All eligible suitors are invited to attend.
No poor people, they're disgusting.
God, MJF is cool, Max thinks. The Prince is famous throughout the land for his charm, wealth, and lavish balls. Max allows himself a brief moment to consider just how lavish MJF's balls might be but quickly pulls himself together. There is simply no way he will be allowed to attend such a prestigious event and, even if he were, his thieving step-brothers have appropriated his carefully cultivated sneaker collection. Max couldn't possibly present himself to MJF wearing unbranded shoes - the mortification would kill him.
Max throws himself dramatically down into a chair and pouts in what he knows is a most fetching manner. That there is no one there to admire him only adds to his misery. He mooches around the kitchen, pausing occasionally to gaze dramatically out of the window until he hears his step-brothers leave. With no potential witnesses to his tantrum, Max gives up and slumps back into his chair with a defeated sigh.
"Surprise bitch!"
Max leaps from his chair, letting out a high-pitched squeal of terror as a woman appears suddenly in front of him.
"What the fuck?!" he yells, grabbing for anything that could be used as a weapon. He brandishes the egg whisk at the intruder and backs away, ready to run if the woman attacks or produces a paternity test (this is not the first time Max has been accosted by a woman calling him a bitch).
"I'm Nyla, your fairy godmother, and Maxie boy, you shall go to the ball!"
"Oh. Great!" Max says, dropping the whisk and relaxing.
"Wait, that's it?" She stares at him in confusion. "You're just accepting it? No questions about the existence of fairy godmothers?"
"Nah," Max answers with a shrug, "I always figured I had one. How else do you explain these abs?" Nyla stares at him for a moment, then shakes herself.
"I suppose that makes my job easier. Do you know how this works?"
"Yep," Max replies confidently. "I get three wishes, and I want to start by turning bitch-boy CM Punk into a dung beetle."
"That's genies, you fucking bimbo," Nyla says with a pained sigh. "Look, just stand there and look pretty, let Auntie Nyla handle the rest." Max grins. He can absolutely do that.
"First, we need to fix your clothes," Nyla says, looking him up and down with a disgusted grimace. "You can't win the heart of Prince MJF looking like a reject from the Wyatt Family, and beige is definitely not your colour." It's true, Max thinks with a scowl, but she shouldn't say it. "Oh, don't pout Maxie, I'll fix you right up!"
Nyla pulls out what looks like a Playstation controller and presses a few buttons. "Bippity boppity booyah, bitch!" and Max feels a strange tingle as his clothes magically transform, leaving him in a sparkling, silver, pink-lined suit that looks so sharp Max briefly worries he might accidentally blade.
"Damn!" He exclaims in awe, gazing down at himself with narcissistic glee that quickly turns to annoyance when he notices his bare feet. "What the hell? I can't go to the ball like this, and all my Jordans are locked up in Matt and Nick's room."
"Not to worry, honey," Nyla says with a smile, "I know a cheat code." She clicks a few buttons in rapid succession, and Max is momentarily blinded by the dazzling light around his feet. When his vision clears, he stares down at the most ravishingly beautiful sight he has ever seen outside a mirror.
"Are those....?"
"That's right, Maxie."
"Platinum Jordans!"
And they are. Jordan 1s, sculpted from the finest platinum adorn Max's feet. No one, in the history of the world, has ever looked this good. MJF is well and truly fucked.
Max arrives at the ball in an Uber. It's anti-climactic after the magic with the suit and shoes, but Nyla had declared that she was bored now, and carriages were hard, and just call a cab you ungrateful little shit. So here he is, climbing the steps of the fabled Burberry Palace in his glistening platinum Jordans, trying to remember what Nyla had yelled as he left. Something about being home by midnight, but Max always assumes that anything someone only tells him once can't be all that important.
He pauses at the entrance, waiting for a butler or similarly appointed lackey to announce his arrival but, to Max's disappointment, he's met only by a serious-looking woman in a striped shirt and a name tag that says 'Aubrey' who checks him over for weapons, drugs or unbranded accessories before he's allowed inside. Max is offended by her presumption, especially when she tries to confiscate his tie with the little microphones on it (it's not unbranded, Aubrey, it's bespoke!). After a brief argument, during which Max threatens to cry, he is allowed to enter.
The grand ballroom is fabulous. Burberry banners line the walls and tapestries depicting MJF in various heroic scenes (slaying dragons, riding unicorns, kicking the neighboring kingdom's Prince Cody in the balls) hang from the ceiling, brilliantly lit by impractically huge chandeliers. An ice sculpture of the royal cat, Piper dominates the centre of the room and is surrounded by buffet tables laden with the most expensive and lavish delicacies. Max thinks he sees at least seven varieties of couscous. Damn, MJF is classy.
There is no sign of the Prince yet, but of course, he will be fashionable late. Max entertains himself by scoping out the competition and slipping his number to a few of the guests wearing the most expensive watches. He might as well have a backup plan if MJF turns out to be blind or insane and somehow doesn't fall instantly in love with Max. Not that he's truly worried. No one here even comes close to his level of magnificence, especially with the platinum Jordans sparkling with every step, attracting envious glances from the other guests.
Max looks around for his hated step-brothers and quickly spots them by the Pepsi fountain. He shakes his head in disgust. If they had to raid his wardrobe at least they could have chosen something that didn't suggest Nick mugged Seth Rollins and you could rent Matt by the hour. Nick's garish shirt clashes horribly with Matt's black leather, and they are both wearing ridiculous headbands that make them look like rejects from a budget maid cafe. They don't have a prayer, Max thinks nastily. MJF would never.
Suddenly, electronic music blares out of carefully concealed speakers, and an extravagant pyro display sends waiters with fire extinguishers dashing to save the tapestries. A Burberry carpet is rolled down the grand staircase and, through a haze of lights, fog, and copious amounts of glitter, Maxwell Jacob Friedman, the Crown Prince of Long Island, makes his long-awaited entrance.
There he is! Max braces himself against a marble pillar to stave off a swoon as Prince MJF strides into the ballroom. He's flanked by a huge beast of a man who is glaring at anyone who dares to get close to the Prince and another smaller man who seems to have brought his own chair. Behind him are a team of indistinguishable backup jobbers in black security shirts. MJF stops occasionally to allow the more attractive guests to kiss his gleaming diamond ring, and Max sighs in envy. He'd give anything to be allowed to kiss MJF's ring. He'd quite like to kiss the diamond jewelry too.
MJF takes his place on a gilded, Burberry cushioned throne at the head of the room and gestures lazily for the band to resume playing. Many of the guests attempt to get close to the Prince but are sternly rebuffed by the security team. Clearly, Max will need to find some way of getting MJF's attention. Suddenly a perfect opportunity presents itself as a karaoke machine is wheeled onto the stage at the other end of the ballroom. A live microphone has just become available, and Platinum Max is about to smoke some bitches.
Max loves karaoke, but he needs to pull out something truly special to grab MJF's attention. Currently, his moronic step-brothers are up there butchering a duet version of 'Teenage Dream' complete with frenzied dance moves that have sent many of the onlookers scurrying for cover under the buffet tables. So far, no one has managed anything particularly impressive. A group calling themselves the Dark Order presented a cacophonous rendition of 'WAP' that at least had enthusiasm and volume, if not actual talent, but the performances have been otherwise unremarkable. It's time for Max to show them how it's done.
He chooses his moment carefully, and hops up onto the stage, firmly snatching the microphone away from the aggressively incompetent Austin and Colton Gunn. "You can have this back when you learn how to use it." Max strikes his most flattering pose, scissors the Ass Boys for luck, and begins.
"Yo! Listen!"
Nothing. MJF is looking at his fucking phone! The most devastatingly attractive man on Long Island is holding a microphone, and that bastard is on his phone! This cannot be allowed. Max quickly leans down to grab a prawn vol-au-vent from the buffet table, which he launches at MJF's head with deadly precision. Ignore that, cupcake! MJF's head snaps up and he meets Max's eyes with a furious glare that quickly turns to speculative interest as he takes in the suit, the smile, and the sneakers. Got you.
"Yo! Listen!" He says again, this time right where he belongs - at the centre of MJF's attention.
Hey there, sunshine, I heard you need a bride,
Looking for someone who can handle the maximum ride.
The handsome prince, finally ready to be tamed,
Can't settle for a jobber, you need someone acclaimed.
I'm better than these mid-carders, baby you know it,
I'm fire on the stick, but they all wanna see me blow it.
Pin me, slam me, choke me, baby, open up and sing,
And maybe Platinum Max will let you kiss his ring."
Mic drop
The crowd is silent for a moment, waiting to see how MJF will react. For a moment he doesn't move, then he slowly raises his hands to give a couple of brief claps, more than anyone else has earned so far. Taking their cue from their Prince, the audience erupts in thunderous applause. All except Matt and Nick who are glaring at Max in furious surprise as he hops down from the stage.
Suddenly the crowd goes silent. MJF has risen from his seat and is making his way to the stage. He ignores everyone's attempts to attract his attention, gesturing to his bodyguard to keep them at bay, until he passes Max and drawls,
"Not bad, but I prefer something a little more high-class." Cheeky little shit! Max is about to retort, but MJF is now walking away from him and the view is far too pleasant to stay mad. He contents himself with sticking his tongue out and waits to see what happens next.
MJF steps onto the stage and picks up the microphone. You could hear a pin drop.
"You want to hear me sing?" The crowd goes wild. "Well, if you insist." MJF clears his throat, rolls his shoulders, looks directly at Max and starts to sing.
"Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away,
But now it looks as though they're here to stay.
Oh, I believe in yesterday."
Oh, dear sweet merciful mother of god, he's brilliant. The Prince's voice is rich and clear, and every person in the audience goes weak at the knees; a few actually swoon and have to be dragged to the edge of the room or kicked under tables. The rest of the song passes in a blur as Max gazes up at his true love with adoration, wonder, and a frankly worrying amount of lust. That voice, combined with that ass and that bank account makes MJF the perfect man. And Max Caster won't settle for anything less.
Max is so lost in his fantasies he doesn't notice MJF hopping down from the stage and walking towards him until he's almost in front of him.
"That was quite the performance," MJF says with a small smile. "Care to dance?" As though there was any chance of Max saying no. He takes the Prince's hand and they step out onto the dance floor, Max already basking in the envy he can feel rolling off the watching guests in seething waves.
The music swells around them as they move in perfect sync across the floor. Guests move to the side to watch, although Max still manages to kick Matt as they pass. Max and his dashing Prince are moving together like they've been doing it for years, and he leans his head against MJF's shoulder, moving closer as the music slows to a romantic ballad.
"You've got some impressive moves," MJF murmurs into his ear.
"You have no idea, baby," Max whispers back, daring to lower his hands a little, earning himself a chuckle from the Prince.
"I confess, I didn't think I'd meet anyone worth my time at this thing," MJF says, glancing around the room with a sneer. "I mean, have you seen these people?" He's so wonderfully pompous that Max can't resist giving the royal ass a quick squeeze.
"I know," Max replies sympathetically. "It must be so hard for you, surrounded by inferior nobodies. You're so much better than any of them." MJF looks at him with a pleased smile,
"You know it."
Max could stay like this all night, he thinks. Dancing with MJF, listening to the whispers from the crowd, and enjoying his step-brothers' fury. Although, he's not sure what Matt and Nick are most jealous of; his dance partner or his gleaming platinum Jordans. Either way, they're miserable, and it's delightful.
But nothing lasts forever, and, just as MJF dips Max for what he's sure will be true love's kiss, he sees something truly horrifying.
Beige
The sleeve of his magnificently sparkling jacket is turning beige, and Max panics. What had Nyla said about midnight? What kind of stupid-ass spell comes with an expiry date? Thankfully, the Prince doesn't seem to have noticed, but Max can't be seen like this! MJF is wonderfully shallow, and the sight of Max in beige off-the-rack clothing would ruin any chance he has with the Prince.
Although it pains him to do it, Max pulls away from MJF and runs for the door. The loathsome beige has begun to spread up his sleeve, and he tucks that arm inside his jacket in a desperate attempt to hide his shame. His heart breaks as he hears the Prince's yell of confusion and, in his distraction, he catches his foot against the stairs. To his horror, one of his platinum Jordans comes off and clatters down the stairs, landing at MJF's feet. Max wants to go back for it, but his other sleeve is now rapidly losing colour, so he dashes out of the palace, onto the street.
Luckily, a passing old lady is easily parted from her electric scooter, so Max isn't forced to walk home, but it's a miserable journey nonetheless. By the time he reaches his house, his old clothes have returned and his fairy godmother is nowhere to be seen. Max's only comfort is that his single remaining platinum sneaker hasn't vanished. He cradles it protectively as he huddles near the fireplace, too distraught to even throw a tantrum.
Morning arrives as Max drags himself from the cinders and brushes himself off, taking extra care to remove any speck of dirt from his still-sparkling platinum shoe. His step-brothers had returned home shortly after Max, complaining that Prince MJF had cut the ball short, telling everyone to "get the fuck out of my palace, you goddamn marks" and unleashing his massive bodyguard on any stragglers. Nick had lingered by the buffet table, shoving breadsticks into his pockets, and had been power-bombed through it for his delay. He'd been in the bathroom for most of the night picking crumbs and cheeto dust out of his hair. He's in a foul mood this morning, so when there is a knock at the door he yells at Max.
"Answer the eff-ing door, dumbass!" Max spits into the coffee maker, closes the lid, and heads to the door.
Max opens the door and jumps back in alarm. The huge bodyguard from last night is in his porch. That means...
Oh crap. Prince MJF is walking up his driveway.
Max slams the door and sprints into the kitchen, flipping himself over the table to cower against the back wall. He panics as he realises he's backed himself into a corner. The windows are too small for him to climb out of, and there is no door that doesn't lead to the front hall where he can hear... oh shit. Matt is opening the door and inviting MJF and his entourage inside. Max is trapped in the kitchen, and he's wearing beige.
He creeps to the door and peers through the crack. Matt is fawning over the Prince who looks thoroughly unimpressed. Nick has dragged himself out of the shower for long enough to prance downstairs, flipping his soggy hair in what he probably thinks is an alluring manner. MJF remains unmoved.
"I'm looking for the owner of this." Max gasps as he sees what MJF is holding. It's his missing platinum Jordan. The Prince is here for him, and he's dressed like he's the help. Or worse - like he's poor. Max wants to die.
Back in the hall, Matt and Nick are already squabbling over who the sneaker belongs to, each brother claiming that such a fabulous piece of footwear could only have come from their prized collection. Eventually, the bodyguard suggests each of them try the shoe on. This is met with agreement and Nick slips his foot into the sneaker. Max grits his teeth as he watches his beloved shoe violated by the un-pedicured feet of Nick Jackson. Thankfully, he doesn't have to suffer for long as MJf scoffs in disgust,
"Yeah, like you could ever pull that off." Nick's face falls as Matt drags the shoe off his brother's foot and shoves it onto his own.
"See?" he simpers, fluttering his eyelashes (obvious extensions) at the Prince, "fits like a glove." It's not a glove, Max seethes from his hiding place, it's my fucking shoe. Get your damn foot out of it!
MJF looks Matt up and down, expressionless, and says just one word.
"Mid."
Matt looks to be seconds away from a full-blown temper tantrum when the bodyguard takes the shoe back, and Max can't hold in his snigger. MJF's head snaps to the kitchen door, but Max doesn't notice. He's too busy eyeing the curtains and calculating how fast he can fashion them into some kind of toga. Maybe he can claim it's from a hip, new, Greek atelier?
Just as Max has finally made the decision to just strip out of the hated beige and meet MJF naked, the kitchen door is thrown open, sending him scurrying backward. Prince MJF strides in and slams the door behind him. He's carrying the platinum Jordan and eyeing Max with a predatory air. Max holds the other sneaker in front of him like a shield, but MJF pushes it away and leans in to whisper in Max's ear,
"Put them on." He holds out the other show and Max silently (a first for him) slides his feet into the pair. They still fit perfectly. "Much better," MJF purrs, and Max's knees go weak.
"But..." he stutters, gesturing down at himself, "... beige!" MJF smirks and removes his scarf, draping it around Max's neck. The Prince lifts one end of the famous scarf and holds it in front of Max.
"What do you see?" he asks, and Max's brow furrows in confusion. What does he see? It's a Burberry scarf. It's the finest cashmere, with checks in brown, red, and black, and...
"Beige?" Max whispers.
"That's right," MJF replies, tugging the ends of the scarf to pull Max closer. "On most people it's revolting, but on a select few..." He trails off, his lips mere inches from Max's.
"Like you?" he says in wonder. "It looks better on you." In the seconds before MJF presses their lips together in what will be the first kiss of many, he smiles and answers,
"You know it."