Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Personally, Max would say he’s had a pretty privileged life thus far. But sneaking into the Uppercrust Kingdom has definitely shifted his perspective more than he’d like to admit. He almost halts to a stop once he enters the main ballroom, the space so large and white he bet it could swallow him whole. PJ and Bobby stumble besides him, jaws down to the floor.

Max shakes his head, replacing his shock with a big ol’ grin. “This is what I’m talking about!” he exclaims, admiring the chandelier and its blinding crystals. “I told you this’d be worth it.”

PJ’s eyes still dart left and right. “Are you sure we’re not gonna get caught?” He adjusts his weight uncomfortably, one hand itching a spot beneath his armor. “Bobby and I aren’t even real knights.”

“Chillax, brochacho,” Bobby breathes out, slow and slurred. Max wonders if he missed the memo—why bother getting high when there was gonna be free alcoholic beverages here? “You can walk in anywhere if you wanted to.. you just gotta be as cool as a cucumber… heh.”

Bobby almost nods off; thankfully his knight in shining armor is there to flick his forehead. “He’s right, you know,” Max says, dropping his finger. “Even if he’s high as shit.”

“I don’t know why I let you drag me into these kinds of situations…” PJ grumbles to himself.

Max playfully jabs his friend’s side. “So you’re not here for Mocha?” he teases, and this moment is all worth it when he sees how red his PJ’s face flushes.

A few years back, the gang discovered an underground artist—Mocha. No last name, of course. That’s how famous she’s become, her stage name now renowned all over the world. But before she’d blown up, the trio were her biggest fans. Fortunately—well, unfortunately for them—Mocha has gone from artist struggling to pay rent in her tiny hometown to traveling poet. She’s performed for thousands, he’s sure. Most notably kings, otherwise why else would Mocha be here?

Bobby and PJ spent their limited time together thirsting over her. He wasn’t judging or anything—for christ’s sake, Max is bisexual for a reason! Women are awesome. And even his eyes lingered for a second or two over her pretty gaze. But at the end of the day, she wasn’t really his type. However, it seemed that out of the three, PJ caught her attentive eye. Though the poor guy has not a wink of confidence, Bobby and Max have convinced him to finally make a move.

Maybe asking her out on the biggest event of the year wasn’t the most… ideal plan. But still! Can you blame them? PJ’s their friend and well, they want him to be happy. Even if he does become strangely poetic when he’s thinking of her.

(“Hey, is this a good pickup line?” he asked, then went on a tangent about flowers and its stripped away petals being a metaphor for how he, too, was falling for her. They assured him she’d love it.)

Max is brought back to the present when PJ scoffs, turning to the empty stage. “So what if I am?” he grumbled. “You guys are just fooling around. Which isn’t very knightly of you.”

“Hey!” he frowns. “Come on. Let me enjoy my last days of freedom.”

Bobby’s eyes light up, staring smackdab at the culinary table. “Speaking of enjoyment.”

Before they know it, the trio quickly shifts into a duo. Max catches Bobby in the corner of his eye, gorging over wheels of exquisite, aged cheese. His stomach churns and he has to resist making a scene—and by making a scene, he means throwing up. He’s about to ask PJ a question when the lights start to dim and fluttery, light music plays from afar.

The crowd excitedly whisper between one another before leaning closer. Max, bless his soul, is confused at first. But then strangers around him reach for each other’s waist and shoulders. A quiet oh almost escapes his lips. Slow dancing already? Jesus, they must’ve snuck in pretty late. Max turns to PJ again, yet another question on the mind, but nope! The man is off on a mission.

PJ scurries to the stage when the red curtains finally open, revealing none other than Mocha herself. Cheers fill the air before leaving room for the orchestra to truly shine. He has a “front row seat,” standing only inches away from the wooden platform. His eyes are transfixed on the poet before she even starts speaking. Max grins to himself, eyeing her amused glance over at PJ. Pride, oddly, swells in his chest, and it’s enough validation for him to start booking it to the bar.

Frankly, it’s a bit of a disappointment. The bartender also booked it—now slow dancing with what he presumes to be his wife. Or at least he hopes so, seeing that his ring finger shimmers from a silver band. Max shrugs it off and gets to work behind the counter, pouring as much beer as he can into a flimsy flask. He spills a couple of drops, alcohol dripping on a fancy rug. Noticing his little mishaps makes him cringe, enough for him to bump into the only other drinker there.

“Watch where you’re going, peasant.” The venom in their voice sounds… strangely familiar? Max whips around, horrified to realize he’s knocked into the one person he didn’t want to see tonight. Bradley Uppercrust the III.

His face goes warm, and it’s not because of the beer. Shit, how did he not remember Bradley’s last name was literally Uppercrust? And he snuck into a party that the Uppercrust Kingdom organized? If Max had any functioning brain cells left, he desperately wanted to interrogate them for their whereabouts. It seems that Bradley, too, begins to recognize him. Something fluctuates in his cold gaze. Max can’t really tell what exactly he’s feeling.

All he knows is Bradley doesn’t seem too thrilled to see him. Brad, don’t worry about it, Max thinks to himself. He’s not thrilled to see the prince either.

“Nice to see you, too.” Max offers a lopsided smirk, which truly baffles his old “friend.” He hasn’t realized how long it’s been—perhaps four, fiveish years? Whatever the statistics are, they wouldn’t show the most important fact: Bradley’s temper is still easy as ever to rile up. He receives a great deal of joy from learning this. “So, uh. Do princes normally sulk at bars or is there some sort of cultural difference here?” And he leans in, just for good measure, against Bradley’s ear. “Because I’m a peasant and all. What do I know, right?”

Bradley backs away, letting out a disgruntled scoff. “Freshman,” he mutters, hiding his face. “Was kinda hoping you’d die along the way. You never seemed quite like knight material to me.”

He sneers. “Thanks. Glad to know you were rooting for me from the start.”

The prince flashes his perfect, pearly white teeth and it’s like they’re back to being kids again. But before Bradley can spit out whatever mean comment he’d been gearing up, he’s interrupted. In the crowd, a woman pushes past them, attention solely on the pair. The damsel gasps, wagging her plump, peach finger at Bradley. “That’s him! Prince Bradley!”

“Um, Prince Bradley Uppercrust the III,” he grits his teeth, correcting them. His words are lost, however. For the young lady’s enthusiastic cries have called upon a dozen or so more girls. They shriek at the very sight of the man—which is embarrassing, considering how… uncomely his appearance was tonight.

Okay, well. He wasn’t ugly by any means. Somehow, he made the greasy hair sticking to his forehead and bloodshot eyes look actually hot. (You didn’t hear that from Max, though.) But if you’d compare him to his usual presentation, you’d find a striking contrast.

“Can you dance with me?!” The girls all scream in unison, drowning out the very wholesome poetic banter PJ and Mocha have going on right now. Weirdly, Bradley’s face turns pale and it isn’t until Max notices him glancing disgustedly at their hands for him to know why.

Typical Bradley, he thinks bitterly. What a pretentious asshole. He’s somehow above dancing middle-class women? Max is pretty sure if he brushed hands with anyone non-royalty, he’d probably explode. Which… actually gives him an idea. A mischievous smile unknowingly crosses his face. Shoving his flask in pockets of worn jeans, Max reaches his free hand towards Bradley’s waist.

The prince flinches under his touch. For some reason, he doesn’t run away. “Sorry, ladies,” Max pouts. “I already have dibs on dancing with this fine specimen of a man.” Okay, Bradley does end up lightly smacking Max’s arm when he says that though. Thank god. He’s still the Brad he knows and despises with his entire being.

Some of the women shrink away, sad. The rest, however, coo—causing Bradley’s face to somehow flush even redder shades. He didn’t even think that was possible. Max hadn’t actually expected for people to be watching, but hey. If they want a show, he’ll give them a show.

Max leads him away from the bar, shot glass abandoned. Bradley tries to sputter out protests but once he’s twirled around, he’s stunned with silence. He can’t tell if Brad is flustered or on the verge of popping a blood vessel from anger. It doesn’t really matter. So long as he has a reaction.

“There we go,” Max hums. “Look how easy it was! Now you look like an actual prince. Kinda.”

“I didn’t realize a Goof cared about appearances,” Bradley spat out. Nonetheless, he goes along with the dance—the idea of behaving himself now particularly desired. At first, it’s awkward—the prince is not used to following. He learns quick, though. Max knew that from the very beginning.

“What brings a…” Bradley chooses his words carefully, “commoner like you here?” Hm. Maybe he wasn’t being very careful. “I assumed Father didn’t want me embarrassed at the most important gala of the year.”

He chuckles. “Officially a knight now.” Max is almost dumbfounded at how easily the truth left him. Though he hated the guy, and their arguments could really suck ass, there was something about their relationship that… well, flowed. “Thought it’d be fun to celebrate here.”

“So you could humiliate me one last time?” he retorts.

“Not everything is about you, Brad.”

Bradley fumes, intentionally stepping onto his toe. Max winces, but refuses to stop moving. No sign of weakness, not in his territory. “I told you years ago to not call me that,” he hissed.

“And yet here you are, calling me freshman. Seems like we’ve both got shit memory.”

His shoulders stiffen. “Fine. Whatever,” Bradley grumbles, mostly to himself. Max’s eyebrows raise; it’s not like him to give up so easily. He supposes they’ve both changed throughout the years. Maybe the prince is just a coward now. What a bummer.

“But just so you know,” Bradley murmurs, “I didn’t forget the aftermath of the Xavieth Games.”

Oh, shit. Just the simple mention makes the hairs on his arms jump. Max is royally pissed. Pun not intended. Okay, well—it was sorta intended. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” he growls.

He gives Max a look. “What do you think it means?” Bradley asks innocently.

The Xavieth Games wasn’t a very fond memory he liked to think about. Partly because they were set in high school but mostly because well, Max nearly fucking died. (His dad was also there, but he tries to forget about that.) Leave it to a bunch of snooty rich white boys in boarding school to ruin a fun event. He’d still won, thank the lord—the trophy now on display at the Goof household—but afterwards, he’d been approached by a goddamn prince: Bradley Uppercrust the II. Otherwise known as this bratty bitch’s father.

It was humiliating to have to grovel for Bradley’s help, especially knowing all the relentless teasing Max was put through. His frown deepens. “You know what I think?” he whispers. “I think you asked Daddy for a little favor.”

Bradley leans away, eyes widened. His bewilderment is so painfully authentic Max knows his theory is all shades of wrong. But he continues anyway, loving how his intense blue eyes peer right through his soul. The outrage settling in the prince is all too familiar. “Me?” he raises his voice. “I would never.”

Max looks at him through half-closed eyelids. “Well, if we consider your long history of cheating,” he bats his eyelashes, “it seems like a reasonable conclusion.”

He runs his hand through his hair, further tangling his chestnut brown strands. “Not when it comes to my father, freshman.” The words come out dangerously quiet. They tread on thin ice. That isn’t too much of an issue for Max—they’ve been on this slippery slope one too many times. “You reek of insecurity.”

Okay, that deserves a dramatic scoff. “Look who’s talking.”

Bradley glares at him, grasp tightening on his shoulders. Ow. “Say what you want, but here’s what I think. My theory is you’ve realized you still owe me one and you’re feeling a little too shabby about it.”

Oh, shit. Did he really agree to those terms? Max tries to look back on specifics but finds he can’t really remember. “I don’t owe you anything, Brad. I turned down the towel boy deal, you could at least do the same.”

“You didn’t have to. Why should I?”

He smirks, stepping closer. “What was that?” Max coos. “Did you want to be my towel boy?”

Alright, so he’s not perfect. Even he likes to flirt with cute boys—even if it so happens to be his childhood rival. So, sue him. Besides, it’s really funny to see Bradley nearly trip over his own boots and stutter out a nonsensical defense or two. His face is ridiculously pink now. Max has suspected over the years Bradley, too, is a boy-kisser but he’s never gotten actual evidence. He did, however, figure out how insecure he is over his sexuality. Call him mean but he’s learned to utilize that information for his own gain.

Eventually, Bradley yet again gives up and lets out an exaggerated sigh. The prince is undoubtedly a hot mess now. “What am I doing?” He pulls away, leaving Max empty-handed. “I shouldn’t be dancing with the likes of you.”

“Care to elaborate, your highness?” Maybe it was the sip of beer but Max is feeling confident—enough to tug Bradley’s wrist closer. And unfortunately, he’s way too overconfident, to the point his delirious mind is sure dipping him would be a good idea.

It is not. Bradley’s back arches perfectly, and his tiny waist fits Max’s hand so well he never wants to let go. But above all, he’s a Goof—and what are Goofs known for? Being very, very clumsy at the worst moments. Max watches in slow-motion, horrified, as his fingers slip away. Bradley gasps sharply, right before he stumbles onto the ballroom floor. He barely lands on his butt. The thud that echoes shortly after is mortifying.

Max doesn’t have enough time to stammer out a rushed apology. He opens his mouth as fast as he can, but Bradley is quicker. The prince shoves him several feet back, much to his dismay. It takes all of his effort not to fall over. In the heat of the moment, Max blurts out, “What the hell is your problem?”

From there, it all goes downhill. Bradley brushes the dust off his fancy schmancy pants—because of course that’s his first priority—then faces Max once more with a look of pure fury. The desire to dig his own grave and bury himself alive becomes increasingly evident. The prince jabs a long, lanky finger into Max’s chest, the touch stinging him with heat.

“Me?” At this point, music has stopped playing. Strings cut short, soft hums no longer. The pair have not processed this information yet, stuck in their own world; the only thing that matters right now is one-upping the other. “You’re the one who tried to fucking assassinate me!”

Max crosses his arms, defensive. “It was an accident! Jesus, do you think that highly of yourself?”

“Yeah,” Bradley exhales, tense. “Yeah, I actually do. You know why? Because unlike you, I have a reputation to uphold. And I do it flawlessly. I don’t need my old man to hold my hand everywhere I go.”

His fingers ball up into fists. Max doesn’t even know it—just shoves them in his pockets. A stray hand brushes against his flask, the chill of steel embraced wholeheartedly. He plays with its cap unconsciously.

“We were kids,” he hisses. “I’m over it now.”

Bradley grins. His face twists in a way, maniac. “Face it, Max. You haven’t changed one bit.”

“Look at you!” he sputters, wildly gesturing at the prince. “You’re still the same dickhead I knew as a freshman.” Max shakes his head, trying to will the ache away. “You wanna talk about my dad? At least he’s proud of me. What about yours, huh? Imagine his disappointment when he ended up with you.”

The prince slightly jumps, eyes widened. Max is too lost in the moment, to the point he doesn’t recognize the flash of hurt in Bradley’s gaze. “You’re just a rich nobody, Brad. The only person who even gives a shit about you is you. Talk about narcissism!”

Seems like Max bruised more than just his ego. His nostrils flare, and Max knows he’s in a world of hurt when Bradley shouts at the top of his lungs, “What did you just say to me?!”

Max is now increasingly aware of everyone’s stare on them now. He tries to approach the situation carefully. “Maybe we should take this outside,” he lowers his voice.

“Why? Too afraid to fight me like a real man?”

When Max doesn’t say anything, brain too mushy from alcohol to navigate such an intense conversation, the prince charges. Well, sorta. He swings, sloppy.

Good news? Max is not harmed whatsoever.

Bad news? His reflexes are still active. When Bradley leans in, Max’s hand wraps around the flask, its cap now popped open. To his horror, his arm moves faster than his mind, and it takes a second for him to realize Bradley is now drenched in beer.

Even worse: he still looks great. Shambolic, yes, but great nonetheless. (Maybe Max should reflect over his taste, particularly how… concerning it is). His hair, now seemingly golden in the chandelier’s light, clings to sticky skin. It’s a shame Bradley decided to wear such a pretty suit: fabric a dashing shade of ivory. He resists the urge to reassure him the stain will come off with a couple of handwashes—not when Bradley looks completely ridiculous, red from shock and rage.

If Max was any smarter, he’d run away. Except he’s stubborn, and he knows for certain the knightly virtues do not include a hint of cowardice. He stays put, trying his hardest to appear like a kicked dog. It kinda works? An exasperated groan escapes the prince’s soft lips.

..Not that Max was looking at them or anything.

Bradley walks off—as gracefully as a pissed off, drunk man can, anyway. He does make sure to bump into Max, hard. When he turns around, clutching his soon-to-be bruised shoulder, Max notices the prince mouthing something.

You owe me. Okay, that… That was pretty deserved, if he was gonna be honest.

Max slumps back into the bar’s obnoxiously gorgeous stools—trying to avoid everyone’s eyes over him. Thankfully, the lyre player begins the melody once more and everything seems like it’s back to normal. Save for all the whispers surrounding him, the attention oh so suffocating. He shrinks in his seat, muttering a refill this, please to the bartender, who’s returned. The man’s neck is now puckered with stains of lipstick. Max has to swallow his jealousy down.

So what if he hasn’t gotten a date in a couple of weeks? Well, more like a month. Or two. Or three. He’s sorta lost count, groveling in his own misery. He receives the flask back in a minute and downs it all in one sip. This is a mistake he instantly regrets.

Rubbing his temple, Max’s world has gotten so chaotic he almost doesn’t notice his two friends sitting besides him. Bobby pokes at his side, sure to leave a stain of whatever cheesy snack he’s devoured recently. “Hey, Maxmillian—my man—maybe cool it with the drinks?”

PJ gently drops a fancy glass of iced water onto the counter. He takes it gratefully, swishing it in his hand. “Thanks,” he murmurs, still feeling woozy. Having their company helps, though. “How did things go with Mocha?” And at the very mention of the celebrity’s name, PJ lights up.

His smile is bright. Maybe even brighter than moonlight creeping in through the balcony windows. “Get this,” PJ whispers. “She said I’d been as sweet as the first tears of a newborn baby.”

Normally, Max can understand poetry if given a few seconds. But the gears in his brain are currently jammed. “Please translate for this drunk ass man,” he asks, words garbled together.

PJ pushes his armor down, revealing one too many hickeys over his neck. Max curses under his breath, mostly in awe. “Holy shit, we told you, dude. You’ve got game! Congratulations.”

The trio all exchange handshakes, bro-fists in the air and everything. The moment felt right.

“Thanks, Max,” PJ sheepishly giggles. As soon as Max blinks, though, he’s back to being serious. Which honestly sucks—he really liked seeing that big ol’ grin on PJ. “Hey, you okay man?”

“Do I look okay?” The words come out all wrong. PJ and Bobby almost cower over the weight of his gaze. Max rapidly realizes he came off super bitchy and softens. “Sorry. Still recovering from Brad.”

Bobby gets comfortable, lounging over the marble countertop. “Yeah… not to dog on you or anything, but sheesh. That was rough, bro.” He lifts his head. “All good if you want to leave early.”

He feebly attempts to retort. It just so happens that his prefrontal lobe is lacking today. Max, inspired by Bradley’s behavior earlier, gives up. Sighing, he pushes himself off the stool. Also another mistake—he’s been making a lot of those lately—as the boy has to desperately wobble to keep himself balanced. “You’re right. I’ve been a total clown.” He hesitates, and he’s not sure why until the words come out of his mouth. “But I should probably apologize to Bradley before we go.”

PJ chokes on his own spit. “You mean the Bradley you just threw alcohol at? No offense, dude, but I don’t think he wants to see you right now.”

“Yeah,” Bobby adds, fidgeting with his sticky hands. “He might call his guards on you.” For emphasis, he throws up some finger guns. The pew pew sounds are also appreciated.

“I’ll be quick,” Max insists. His two friends glance at one another, uncertainty hanging over them ominously. “Like I said,” he’s just bullshitting at this point, “I’m a knight now. I know how to protect myself.”

PJ mutters under his breath, “By throwing beer at people?” and is immediately met with a half-hearted glare. “What?” he asks. “Too soon, Max?”

He rolls his eyes, finding this exchange mildly endearing. “I’ll see you guys soon,” Max calls out, putting up a peace sign for good measure. They wave him “sorrowful” goodbyes, to which he snickers at. But his laughter quickly dies down once he wanders into an empty hallway. It suddenly hits him that this might… be a bad idea. Not because Bradley might throw a fit at seeing his face, but because he has no clue where he’s going.

Whatever. It’s too late. Besides, Max is a Goof—once he starts something, he’s bound to finish it. Whether he wants to or not. (This is proven by the fishing trip shenanigans back in the day). He’s not sure how long he spends exploring the kingdom’s nooks and crannies. All he knows is his ears perk up at a certain corner.

When Max freezes, another realization hits him: he has reached jackpot. Muffled noises seem to come from a nearby room. Though he can’t exactly decipher any words, he’s pretty sure the conversation is as sharp as a blade’s edge.

Finally, he stops, the frame of a tall, wooden door towering over him. The argument seems to have lulled. It’s dangerously quiet, to the point Max accidentally holds his breath when knocking.

Silence engulfs him for several moments. He’s about to tap his knuckles on the door once more when out of the blue, his name is called. “Max?” The voice is strained, weak. Oddly enough, his heart skips a beat—he’s never heard Bradley speak so… soft.

“Yeah?” he asks, slightly confused. Did he recognize Max’s shadow or what?

“What are you doing here?”

He tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear, feeling awkward. “I wanted to apologize.”

A pained laugh leaves the room. “I think you picked a pretty bad time.”

Max doesn’t think about why a smile comes to him so easily. “I tend to do that. Want me to come back another time?” A part of him wants to punch his own teeth. For christ’s sake, Max. He’s a literal prince—this is probably gonna be the last time you’ll see him. Unless he makes it a habit to sneak into rich people parties. (He sets this note aside for a future bucket list.)

But then, he hears Bradley gently whisper, “No.”

“Stay.”

And his thoughts completely dissipate, all focused on the current moment. Thump, thump, thump. He wants to tell his heart to shut the hell up, but Max doesn’t want the prince thinking he’s crazy. Not that that’s a bad thing! Considering… well, you know. “Crazy” and Bradley are pretty intertwined.

“Okay,” Max exhales. “I can do that.” His hand presses down on the door handle, its metal somewhat relaxing. “Do you…” he trails off, fingers lingering on the knob. “Do you want me to come in?”

He waits. He waits and waits and he thinks he’s going to spend his entire life waiting. That is, until Max finally processes that Bradley… Bradley might be crying. At least for a second or two, he hears a shaky breath—a contained sob unable to break through. Alarms are blaring in his head.

“Bradley?” he asks, ignoring how his voice cracks at the end. Max swallows, and it feels like something—something has to be crawling over his skin. He knows he’s just being silly. There’s nothing. But god, even though he knows it’s irrational, he’s still scared. “Bradley, I’m right here.”

A sniffle. It sounds like he’s rubbing his nose with a sleeve. Classy. “Sorry. It’s just…” The prince sharply inhales. Breathe in, breathe out. “Please don’t think of me any differently.”

“What?” Max might sound really stupid right now, but it’s a reasonable question.

Their world turns silent. He wipes his neck sheepishly, a bead of sweat now caught on his hand. “You can come in,” Bradley eventually answers. His tone is indecipherable.

Max gulps. He counts the seconds in his head—one, two, three, four—while he turns the door knob. The click makes his stomach churn, nausea his one and only companion. When he finally has the balls to pull a stupid door open, his eyelids instinctively shut. The cold air in his bedroom pierces right into Max’s skin, and his shudder accidentally forces his eyes open.

There’s a lot to stare at, and not enough time to process what the fuck he’s just walked into. There Bradley is, somehow looking even worse than before. His face is wet with sweat, tears, and… blood. Oh my god, there’s so much blood—spattered over the prince’s hands, pants, and floor. This is probably a good time to mention the dead body. Max has never seen a dead body, and if he was gonna be honest, he was hoping he’d never have to. On the off-hand chance he’d be forced to see a corpse, he thought it’d be the bare minimum for him to at least not recognize who it used to be.

This is the second time he’s seen Bradley’s father, the King of the Uppercrust Kingdom. He wished their reunion would’ve been on more light-hearted terms, but who is he kidding? Max would not want to talk to the man ever again. And although his instincts are telling him holy shit, this is really, really bad—Bradley just killed his dad, another sick, twisted part of him is a little grateful.

“So,” Bradley starts. Max nearly jumps out of his own skin. “You owe me one, right?”

He’s not sure he likes where the prince is going with this. Regardless, Max feels like he’s already in too deep. And so, idiotically—he nods.

(This is where everything goes wrong in case you wanted to take notes. You’re welcome.)

Chapter Text

The first time Bradley met Max, he’d been attending Xavieth All-Boys Boarding School as a junior. He started as a puny sixth grader there. It only took five years for one goofy-looking kid to ruin his entire reputation.

This is what he thinks about when grabbing a new change of clothes. He’d rather not, but you know. The world is awful, and if (for some god damn reason) his coping mechanism is thinking about Max Goof, then so be it. As a sixteen-year-old boy, Bradley had thought he had the whole world in his hands. For christ’s sake, he was on top of it—straight-A student, sports-inclined, club leader of the Gamma Mu Mus, and 5-time winner of the Xavieth Games.

Well, until that jackass pulled in with his pity scholarship. Bradley still remembers the way Max glanced at him that very day, with this bashful grin and that annoyingly endearing tooth gap. At first, their rivalry seemed fuelled primarily by hatred—but looking back on it, there were obvious signs he’d been falling for the freshman. As nice as it was to finally put a name on his absurd obsession over Max, it still hadn’t been comforting to know that he had such… uncouthful taste. After all, when Bradley had first seen him at fifteen, he’d been wearing ridiculously large clothes—a red t-shirt and worn-in jorts that were likely three sizes too big.

But his brown eyes were so gentle, the ones you could swim in… Oh cut it out, Bradley.

He shakes his head, prioritizing the current task at hand: getting his act together. Okay, so he let himself fall in love for a little bit and he certainly paid the price for it. He can come back from this; the proof of this lies in his very name. He’s Prince Bradley Uppercrust the III! Sure, he’s been knocked down before—a couple of foolish crushes, a bad grade here and there, and the whole Xavieth Games situation he’d prefer not to get into—but he’s always managed to get back up.

If he couldn’t, then he’s sure his father would be able to convince him otherwise.

Bradley distracts himself from this looming doom, opting to take off his shirt instead. He welcomes the cool breeze from his window over his chest. Especially considering how suffocated he’d felt in the ballroom—the way Max’s hand felt over his waist, the touch so hot he thought he’d burn… Well. Let’s hope this night ends rather quickly. Bradley’s been doing just fine without the knight and he’d like to keep it that way.

He shrugs off the rest of his clothes—his suit and corset falling onto the floor with a light thud. Bradley then slipped into bed in undergarments, his nightly routine now in act. That is: to stare at the ceiling and contemplate the many regrets he’d obtained over the years before passing out. Unfortunately, it’s cut rather soon. Three harsh knocks ring through the room.

Groaning, he rolls over onto his side. “Come back later.” Bradley assumes he’s speaking to a staff member, guard down. He has no idea what’s waiting for him. “I’m not in the mood right now.”

Someone forces the door open. “You’d speak to your father like that?”

Thump, thump. In horror, Bradley sits up immediately. Shoulders stiffened, fingers tightly clinging to his blanket. (As if that’d save him). What was he doing here? “My apologies, sir,” Bradley dips his head down in respect. “It was to my belief you’d… be attending to the party.”

“Not when my son is making a fool of our name.”

He flinches.

As pathetic as it is, Bradley has to resist every bone in him to not cower when their eyes meet. His dad finally steps into his room, a look of disappointment he’s gotten the grand generosity of seeing many, many times. The king appears as perfect as ever—combed blond hair, trimmed beard, and icy-blue eyes that strike fear at every given moment. It’d been Bradley the II’s idea to match their suits and of course he pulled it off better. Of course. Bradley could never compete with his father, and this has been proven excruciatingly true ever since he was born.

It’s fine. Really. He doesn’t give a shit. He never did. Right?

“I understand things… got out of hand,” Bradley answers slowly. He tries to hide his trembling, tries to hide how white his knuckles have gone. “I promise next time—”

“Next time?!” His voice bellows, and Bradley is so shaken up he doesn’t even bother covering up his fear. For a brief moment, he thinks his father almost enjoys the moment—a slight curve at the mouth, then back to his typical scowl. “I have spent twenty years carrying your ass. And every single time you fuck things up, which happens often might I remind you, you grovel to my feet like a sissy!” And at the last moment, the king swings an arm at him—Bradley shields his face, only for him to realize too late it’d been a fake-out.

His father lets out a big, hearty laugh. It lingers in the air so long Bradley ends up awkwardly chuckling along, only for the king to immediately stop. He has no idea what type of game they’re playing. He has no idea how to win. A sort of hopelessness settles in his chest, slowly understanding this time he might not be able to get out of this scot-free.

(Well, depending on your definition of scot-free—if it includes being unreasonably humbled.)

“What do you want me to do?” Bradley asks, desperate. “Anything? Because I—I can do that.”

He rubs his temple, frustrated. “Can you go back in time and convince your mother to abort you?” Silence hits their conversation way too fast. Bradley opens his mouth but nothing comes out. It doesn’t matter. None of it does. “That’s what I thought,” his dad murmurs. And he crosses his arm with such a smug grin, it—it kills him inside. “Hm. You sure are an interesting dilemma.”

What’s that supposed to mean? He wants to ask, but he’s pretty sure he hasn’t earned his speaking privileges yet. Part of him wants to suck up to his father so badly; he’s used to that. But another part of him—the majority—is hungry. He can’t help the thoughts, how vicious and bare they make him feel. This is unfair. The word unfair runs through his head a hundred miles per second. Unfair, it echoes when his dad eyes him, disgust so prevalent in his gaze. Unfair, he thinks, his fingers sore from digging itself into his sheets. Everything about this is unfair.

But Bradley has never been one to talk back to father figures. He wouldn’t even know how to start. So, he remains frozen—watching the king nervously as an idea seemingly pops into his head.

“You just need to earn your worth to me!” His dad exclaims, pointer finger in the air like a mad scientist. A shiver runs down Bradley’s spine; what sick experiment did he want to perform on him now? “That should be easy.” And with a snap of his hands, a knife shows up out of nowhere. (In all seriousness, Bradley’s eyes are focused more on the king’s maniac expression than anything else.)

Time slows down once his blade makes itself known. Bradley gulps, a metallic taste in his mouth. He must’ve been biting on his lip hard for it to bleed. “Your Majesty.” The weapon of choice is beautiful, as silver as moonlight. He can see his dad’s reflection in them. There’s a hunger in those familiar blue eyes. Bradley wonders how different they truly are. “What is the title of this game?”

“Oh, I don’t know if you’d want to call it a game, per say.” He grins, right before Bradley’s life flashes before his eyes. Right before his father jams the tip of his blade into his son’s shoulder.

There are not enough curse words in the English language to articulate the amount of pain he is in.

The sting stemming from his flesh is loud and clear. Bradley’s entire body is screaming, Hey. What the FUCK is going on?! and he has no idea how to explain the shitfest he’s gotten himself into.

“Think of it like a challenge. I lead, you follow. Since you’re so good at it.”

Bradley’s scrambled memories wander back to the slow dance he shared with Max. Jesus christ, was he that caught up on a boy he barely flirted with? “Got it?” When his dad doesn’t get a response—since you know, it fucking hurts to move, yet alone talk—he digs the knife in his skin.

That sure gets him. “Got it.” The scream is hardly contained, his voice breaking.

The king softens, wiping his son’s tears away. Some of his own blood gets on his face. “I know you’re in a lot of pain,” he coos. “It’ll be over quick. All you need to do is comply.”

Bradley uncontrollably nods—once, twice, he’s too delirious to actually keep count. Beads of sweat drip from his forehead, and honestly it’s sad. For a second, he’s briefly distracted at how gross he feels. Leave it to the prince of the Uppercrust Kingdom to be more attentive to his hygiene than the fact he’s currently being stabbed with a dagger.

His father smiles before clearing his throat. “Right,” he says in his business-man voice. “Repeat after me. I am a failure.” This doesn’t seem like a very fun game.

“I…” Bradley nearly chokes on his spit. “I’m—I’m a failure.”

The words hurt. But not as much as the knife that’s, y’know, inside him right now.

He pulls his blade away. Not enough for it to be released from his flesh. But enough to offer slight relief. When Bradley sharply gasps, his dad hushes him. His voice is remarkably gentle. He almost wants to pretend this is normal. If he closes his eyes and wills the pain to go away, then maybe…

(Maybe Bradley is back to being a little boy, waiting excitedly in bed for his father to tell him a story. And he’s being so loud Bradley the II has to quiet him down so he can finish the chapter. And though his bedroom may tower him with such scary shadows, strangely—he’s not scared at all. How could he be? His father is right here. Here to protect him from any monsters hiding in the dark.)

(At this moment of time, their world is so full of love.)

(And it’s all thanks to the bond between a father and his son.)

“Breathe in and out. You’re doing good with time.” Bradley looks down at his tank top. The blood trickles down his shoulder, turning the white fabric a nasty shade of crimson. What a bond, indeed. “Now,” he hums. “I am unfit to be your successor.”

Bradley lowers his gaze. “I am unfit to be your successor,” he quietly repeats. Everything spins around him, fuzzy shapes drifting in and out of vision. He’s given up on silent prayers. This will all be over soon, his dad had told him. Either way, he’d been right. Only, Bradley was secretly hoping he wouldn’t have to die for his father to prove his point.

“From here on out, I will always obey you.”

He didn’t mean to hesitate. Except, his eyes did widen. Horror flooded over him when he recognized what he’d be agreeing to. The king took that as a sign of weakness. He’d always considered his son weak, anyway. Why would today be any different?

His dad slowly and agonizingly draws the blade in. Bradley didn’t know how deep his flesh could go, but apparently—there’s a lot to go. He feels a little light-headed, barely conscious enough to watch as more and more blood gushes out. “Say it,” his father mutters, teeth scraping against one another.

Say it, his body begs him. He is giving you the easy way out. Say it and spare future suffering. But his heart, that cursed beating organ, says otherwise. Stubborn, it keeps yelling at him.

This is unfair and unfair and unfair and unfair and unfair. It’s right. It’s always been right.

Bradley was no longer a little boy. He needed to listen to someone else for a change.

“No,” he mumbles. The regret that washes over him is so intense he’s sure he’ll drown. But the tides of determination are stronger. “No,” Bradley says, louder. “No, I won’t.”

He probably should’ve expected the sharp screaming sensation from his shoulder. The pain is growing, waves so extreme he’s sure he’ll faint any minute. It’s no wonder, considering the king now slides the knife into his arm. The motion is so sluggish Bradley wants to beg his father to just get it over with—to just aim for his vital organs and be done with it.

“We talked about this,” his dad reminded him, dangerously quiet. “Be smart.”

Bradley has spent his entire fucking life “being smart.” He has whimpered under the shadow of Bradley the II like a pathetic little pet. But he wasn’t some dog—he was his own person.

Though they may share the same name, that doesn’t mean he has to continue his legacy. Bradley never asked for any of this. He just let them beat him into a pulp, one they could manipulate for their own gain.

Jokes on them. The Uppercrust Kingdom was about to lose their king.

He still doesn’t know how he managed to scrounge up so much energy. But with half-lidded eyes and blood spilling everywhere, Bradley was somehow able to pull the dagger out of his shoulder blade. The rest is a blur. All he knows is there’d been a wrestle on the ground as they both desperately fought for possession of the knife. It’d been a fight to the death, in a way.

His father had the upper hand. But he’d lost it. So, so easily. His back had been against the wooden planks, Bradley crouched over him. It would only take a second or two for his dad to roll over. But in the moment, his son spat right at his face—saliva mixed with blood.

He spent too long processing how disgusted he was. It gave Bradley leeway. It gave Bradley a chance to strike the king of the Uppercrust Kingdom right in his chest. He thought it’d be more climatic. But all he did was listen to his own heart beating a thousand miles a minute—thump, thump, thump—and his father’s frail breaths coming to an end. He thought he’d be happy about this development.

It’s a little hard to be happy about your dad dying in your arms. Even if he was a major bitch.

Bradley doesn’t know how long he stays there, staring at the familiar corpse. He’d tried to synchronize their breathing together—a desperate attempt to bring him back, perhaps—but then, it’d stopped. Everything had. There was no life there. Just the frozen, petrified eyes of a stranger.

When he hears knocking on the door, his first response is Max? He doesn’t know why. At his worst possible moments, he calls for his childhood rival out of people. And absurdly enough, the amount of relief that crashes over him when his hopes come true nearly cures his pain. Nearly.

The pair remain there for a while. It takes Max a while to register what he’s walked into. Which is fair. A little annoying, don’t get him wrong. But fair. Maybe he shouldn’t have started off with, “You owe me one.” Too late for that, though. Too late to go back in time and y’know, not kill his father.

Oh well.

_________

For some reason, Max doesn’t leave. Which might be more annoying. He’s not really sure.

They sit in silence. The quiet is unbearable. What’s even more unbearable is how he looks at Bradley with such a gentle gaze. How when the knight bandages his wound, Max stops to ask if he’s applying too much pressure. He holds so much care inside him and Bradley doesn’t know what to do about it. A part of him wants to punch Max. A part of him wants to punch himself for letting Max see him so vulnerable. But the rest of him—the one that’s currently in control—would just prefer to cry.

Bradley does. Tears run down his face and he doesn’t even try to hide them. Who is he?

The knight says nothing. Just wraps white fabric over his arms. When Max is finished, he leans against his bed frame. Bradley joins him. They stare at the corner of his room—the only spot not discolored with blood.

“I know a place.”

He nearly breaks his neck turning to Max. “What?”

“I know a place,” the knight says again, louder. “Where you can go.”

Right. Because Bradley can’t show his face around this neck of the woods. Well, unless he particularly had a desire for being beheaded in front of a live audience. (Not that the Uppercrust Kingdom was that vicious to their prisoners. At least he hopes so.)

Bradley scratches the back of his neck. His entire body feels itchy. “I hope you’re not referring to jail, freshman.” He takes some time to reevaluate the situation. Was it too early for a joke?

Nah, it’s fine. Do the dead deserve respect? Sometimes. Not if they happen to be Bradley’s dad. Otherwise, fuck them.

Thankfully, Max laughs—the type of laugh he used to conceal. Hyuck. He wonders about all the times he missed hearing such an adorable sound. “No, I’m serious.”

He narrows his eyes at the knight. “Are you certain? Because you drank a lot.”

“So? I’m still serious,” Max retorts, crossing his arms. “There’s this crazy isolated town out in the country. My dad and I used to go for our annual fishing trips.” Bradley’s mouth curves at the end. It is slight. It doesn’t stay for long. But thinking about little Max waving a fishing rod into the air, well—it’s hard not to smile at the thought. “They don’t know shit there. It’s all retirees. And it’s like, insanely hidden. Not even the best guards could find you.”

This feels too easy. “And you’re… not trying to trick me?” Bradley squints at him.

He lets out a long, melodramatic sigh. “Brad, if I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it ages ago.” Max pauses, actually thinking it out. He can’t tell if he should be offended or not. “However,” he hums. “It would make us even. So. Maybe I’ll change my mind.”

And at that, Bradley scoffs. “I never once tried to kill you, Max.”

“What?” The knight’s eyes go all wide, and he can’t resist the smile forming anymore. There’s just something about the boy that makes him feel all soft and fuzzy. Which is strange to feel when his father’s corpse lies only a few feet away, but still. It’s not about him right now. “Because I still remember the Xavieth Games as clear as day. I might be a Goof but I’m not stupid.”

He rolls his eyes. “If you say so, freshman.”

“Hey.”

Bradley turns to see Max watch him through his long, inky eyelashes. The way his eyelids open and fall makes his heart skip a beat. “Hm?”

“Go back.”

“...To what?”

Max’s eyes stare into his soul. He’s pretty sure he’d drown in them. “To calling me Max.”

Okay. It’s terrifying, how immediate Bradley answers in his head. If the knight asked him for anything, he’d probably go with it. He’s weak after all. He’s weak when it comes to saying no to him and his stupidly pretty face.

So, he doesn’t. Nor does he reply yes. Instead, he avoids the request altogether. “I know it might seem like I wanted you dead,” Bradley says. “But really, I just wanted to win.”

“Second-degree murder is still second-degree murder,” Max reminds him.

He shrugs. “Well, I just committed first-degree murder, so. You know.”

Their eyes peel away from the room’s corner. Instead, they both very much are staring right at Bradley’s father. He wonders why he ever felt so afraid of him. He seemed so small now.

“You need to cool down your murderous tendencies.” There’s a long pause. “Sorry. Too soon?”

“A little,” Bradley agrees. “But I deserved it.”

Max whistles. “The Bradley I know would’ve lost his shit and thrown a temper tantrum.”

“Yeah, well.” He lowers his gaze, picking at the skin on his hands. God, he’s never wanted to shower this much until today. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Max.”

At the mere mention of his name, he lights up—his eyes wrinkled, a grin stretched to his cheeks. Half of him thinks about how beautiful Max looks right now. Another half of him is a little concerned at how excited he gets over the bare minimum.

Too soon, his ears perk down. And the knight glances away, nervous energy radiating off him.

“I want to, though,” Max whispers, so full of longing. It scares him. “I want to know you.”

It scares Bradley a lot. But not enough. Not enough to drive him away.

He rubs circles into his own thigh, then hums. “Come with me, then. If you’re so… inclined.”

Bradley’s been afraid before. But not like this. Not in this way. And the wait for his response—it’s excruciating. But there’s also a sense of… glee that’s burning him up right now. He’s giddy, almost. It’s pathetic, don’t get him wrong. However, it’s nice to feel this light. The weight of his responsibilities no longer burdening his shoulders. (Quite literally.)

Now, he’s just… He’s free. Free to do whatever he wants. Which so happens to be yearning over a boy. Whatever—Bradley will take whatever win he can. It’s Bradley for christ’s sake; he’s going to be a competitive sore loser forever. No matter if he dabbles in childish romance or not.

“Um. I thought I already was.”

That was not what he was expecting to hear. “Huh?”

“What, do you think I was just gonna ditch you?” Max asks, obnoxious as always. “Do you even know how a compass works?”

Okay, what is this? “Of course I do!” Bradley sputters out in disbelief. “I’m a prince, not an idiot.”

“I don’t know, man,” he mumbles. “Seems like you’ll need your very own tour guide.”

He’s about to snap back then realizes, almost too late, that he might be… flirting? God, this is all so confusing. If only Bradley had an actual childhood—maybe then he wouldn’t feel so lost.

Bradley still retorts anyway. “Yeah. Preferably someone not as annoying as you, though.”

Max’s smile is so soft. He feels like he’s not supposed to see it, as if his smile was supposed to be a coveted secret. That’s how precious it was to Bradley. Holy shit, when did he become so sappy? “Beggars can’t be choosers,” Max offers. “Now, do you wanna bury your dad’s body or not?”

“Not ideally, but I guess if I have to.”

(And thus began his fruitful arc of running away. Yayyyy.)

Chapter Text

The next day, Max finds himself terribly hung-over. The fact his head is throbbing isn’t much of a surprise. What’s more shocking is he wakes up on a wagon—one of those creaky, wooden carriers reined by a white, majestic horse. And who so happens to be touching his shoulder, their heat nearly intoxicating? None other than Bradley Uppercrust the III.

He groans, sitting up. That gets the prince’s attention. Max almost falls off the wagon once they exchange looks with one another—his confused expression meeting Bradley’s eyes. They’re so unbelievably soft, swimming pools of blue. It’s strange. It’s strange to see him so concerned. Max had gotten so used to his furrowed eyebrows and outraged scowl. He felt like he was in a whole new world. (Not to quote Disney’s movie “Aladdin,” though.)

“Wipe your mouth,” Bradley huffs—and everything goes back to normal. His glare is familiar but Max swears there’s a glint of… endearment in them. Or he’s just again, really hung-over. “Did your old man not teach you manners?”

He wrinkles his nose, rubbing drool off his chin. “I’m not the one with bed hair right now.”

At that, the prince stiffens, right before cursing under his breath. He ran his fingers through his hair, tangling his strands further. Max has to stifle his laugh down. He wasn’t lying about the bed hair; it was a hot mess—but not a bad hot mess. He thinks about waking up to Bradley everyday and seeing his hair like that, loose caramel locks against his pillow. He quickly buries that thought in the back of his head. Not right now, dude.

“Did I fix it?” Bradley eventually asks, out of breath. He nods, grinning like a fool. The prince suddenly realizes what’s going on. It’s hard to take him seriously right now. “Don’t lie to me.”

Max shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re doing about.”

Bradley lightly shoves him away; it’s half-hearted. “Typical Goof. Always ruining my day.”

He pouts. “Well, it’s not like you need to keep up appearances.” Max scratches a bug bite under his sleeve. “Besides,” he adds on, distracted, “you were born pretty, so—not much you can do to fix that.” It’s not until he notices Bradley staring at him dumbfounded that he realizes the implications of what he said. Max’s entire face flushes and he looks away.

Bradley tilts his head, and from the corner of his eye he sees the prince’s typical pompous smirk. Max wants to wipe it off. In more ways than one. “Aww. Does Baby Goof have a little crush?”

He kinda feels like he’s dying. But fortunately, Max is able to swallow his confusing, chaotic feelings down and plasters on a smug grin. “What’s it to you?”

Now it’s Bradley’s turn to be flustered. “Never mind,” he grumbles. “Stupid question.”

Max rolls his eyes, wetting his lips. If he notices Bradley’s eyes flickering down, he doesn’t say anything. “God, all of last night is crashing over me.” At that, the prince’s bushy eyebrows rise up. It’d be funny if he didn’t look so horrified.

“How much did you forget?”

“Not the important stuff!” he reassures Bradley. “Just like. Little bits here and there. Like, I’m pretty sure the bartender was cheating on his partner. And I vaguely remember you punching me. Or at least—trying to punch me. It’s still a little fuzzy.”

He’s quiet, contemplative. Max has seen him distracted before, but none of his deranged hyperfocus is coming through right now.

He just seems sad. “I’m sorry I dragged you along.”

“What?” He’s pretty sure nothing could’ve prepared him for that response.

Max only gets a glance of Bradley’s face. Those sunken, sullen eyes. But then he looks away, as if it never happened in the first place. “Why are you here?” he exhales. The words sound all wrong, like the prince was holding something else back.

He lifts his shoulders, slight. Trying to remain casual. “I wanted to help you.”

“A man is dead because of me.”

That’s true. Part of Max already knows that this must be a mistake. Everyone who has at least slight recognition of Bradley knows the rumors—knows how he fluctuates from cool and curt to psychopathic and unhinged. But another part of Max is hopeful. He’s always been a little naive. Takes after his father. And who is he to deny his own blood?

Max clicks his tongue.

“Yes,” he offers, cautious. “But I want to hear your side of the story first.”

Bradley looks over, his expression so torn. “I treated you awfully, Max. I don’t deserve this.” And then, gentler, he adds, “I don’t deserve you,” the words so light Max almost didn’t hear it.

Almost.

“Yeah, well,” he mumbles, cheeks feeling warm. “As much as my dad can really get on my nerves… he’s a good guy. And he taught me a lot about you know, forgiveness.” He waves his arms around. Even though he’s pretty sure it doesn’t help to get the point across. “It’s all water under the bridge.”

A beat. “I think he’d want to see you again, Bradley.”

He snorts right away. “Sure thing, man.”

“No, I’m serious. We can stop by my hometown for the night.” Max doesn’t want to scare him off by any means. But he does stare at him with those puppy dog eyes of pleading.

“You have got to stop doing that.”

He bats his eyelashes once or twice. “What are you talking about?”

Bradley jokingly pushes him again. “You can’t feign ignorance just because you’re a Goof.” Max laughs, and he eyes Bradley’s lips twitching into a smile from it. He wants to drown in the whites of his teeth. “But yes. I suppose we can pay your father a visit.”

“Great.”

When silence falls over them once more, Max resists the urge to break it with nonsensical words. Or even worse: try to force him into confessing. Bradley will share when he’s ready, he reminds himself. It’s not his fault he’s like this. The prince was essentially raised into being an alternative version of himself—the “best” one, though he knows that’s pretty much a load of bullshit.

Max wishes the universe had given better cards to him. If it were to spare anyone cruelty, he wanted it to be Bradley. Then, maybe things could be okay.

This exact wish is not answered. Another one is, though.

Bradley eventually parts his lips. And what comes out is not surprising. Max was able to pick up certain pieces himself—whether that be by context clues or the ugly cut deep in Bradley’s shoulder.

But hearing it out loud, hearing the hurt so alive in his voice, is different. How he stops and the only audible sound for a moment is just him swallowing. There’s so many voice cracks and pauses where he has to blink back tears.

Max’s heart is racing. And he knows this is the wrong moment but he can’t help but seethe. He’s never felt so much rage over a man who’s already gone up and died. All this love—well, if you want to call his feelings for Bradley that—is stifling. All this love had originally been love. But now it’s shifted into its most bitter form. Anger.

He’s never been much of a poetic person. But if he could somehow convert his thoughts into words, he thinks it’d go a little like this: “something terrible happened to you—something irreversible and horrific—and I hate it. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.”

Max grieves for the person Bradley used to be. Not because the prince is necessarily worse this way but because Bradley lost a piece of himself he can never get back. And how can Max not be mad at that? God picks His favorites surely—otherwise, why was Bradley left so unlucky?

“Am I a bad person?” the prince asks suddenly.

Right in the middle of his tangent.

He is completely taken aback. Max’s first instinct is to disagree entirely, No at the tip of his tongue. But he waits too long. Stupidly, the first words that escape his mouth are, “I don’t know.”

Bradley doesn’t respond. So, Max reaches over and carefully intertwines his fingers with another. The prince stares at him, a question mark forming in his gaze. “But I like believing you aren’t,” he breathes out. For good measure, he repeats himself, louder.

“I like believing there’s good in you, Bradley.”

Max glances over, and he risks losing all of his oxygen by doing so. He’ll never get over those eyes. Especially not when the afternoon sun hits them so perfectly, the shade of blue aglow. He’s enchanted all over again; there’s just something about Bradley’s sunkissed skin and half-parted lips. Something about how he looks at Max with such…

Awe.

It makes his stomach twist and turn all kinds of way. A knot of feelings—except this time, one of them isn’t nausea. A win is a win. Max will take it! Even if it’s just him getting giddy over his stupid childhood rival.

Before Bradley can reply—or at least, it looks like he’s about to—their wagon suddenly veers off-course. Their hands fly away from each other, clinging onto the wooden carrier instead. The white, majestic horse (Max makes a mental note to ask the prince its name later) lets out a disgruntled neigh. Bradley peers his head over, checking potential issue in the wheels.

He curses under his breath, then calls for the stallion to stop. It follows his command almost immediately; the pair nearly gets jolted out of the wagon. Max has so many questions, like—hey, can we kiss some time—and also, what the fuck? Are they in danger?

Unfortunately, he doesn’t even need to impose his query. Bradley’s eyes dart around them. “Show yourself!” the prince shouts before plucking something off the wagon’s axels. He waves an arrow in the air; it’d been made from maple wood and red feathers. “We know you’re following us.”

Instinctively, his fingers wrap around his sword, sheathed and on his belt as always. This is his whole life now, Max realizes. Fighting for the people who he loves. He hadn’t realized that also included the cute boy he liked to sneak glances with but hey. He’ll take it.

From the shadows, three figures emerge. They all share similar resemblance—the same wispy black hair tucked under velvet hoods and misty green eyes. One of them steps up, and he’s guessing she’s the oldest. They’re all pale and lanky but she especially; more akin to eldritch monster than human. “Miss me, babe?” she coos, and a flash of recognition seemingly strikes Bradley.

He lets out a big, long sigh. His eyes flicker down at his feet, almost like he’s a little kid admitting to his parents he broke the vase. “This is Max, my tour guide. And this is Valerie, leader of Triple Trouble—a group currently being investigated for potential acts of terrorism.”

She giggles, hand over her mouth. In spite of her strange aura, Valerie’s… gorgeous. To the point where Max feels intimidated, even if he’s not sure why yet. “Cut us some slack, honey! So are you.” Bradley folds his arms, eyes narrowing. “You’re forgetting one important detail,” she hums.

The prince grits his teeth. “Valerie,” he mumbles, “also known as my ex-girlfriend.”

And for a moment, all is lost. Max’s jaw is agape, and it takes his entire being to shut his mouth like a normal person. “What?” he finally says, voice cracking. Valerie cackles like a witch.

“Me and Brad-bear go way back,” she grins, smiling so inhumanely. “Don’t we?” When she offers a seductive hand over his arm, he quickly brushes it off. Max has never been so relieved.

Bradley’s scowl deepens. “Max and I have places to be. Now, if you’ll excuse us—”

Much too quick, one of the boys behind Valerie sprints up. And though Max tries to knock him over, it’s too late. A knife is pointed at the prince’s neck. When he swallows, the tip nearly touches his Adam’s apple. “You forgot to introduce us, Valerie!” the kid whines.

The woman glares at him. “This asshole over here,” she jabs his side, “is my brother, Michael. The other one cowering behind a tree is his twin, Myles. Say hello, Myles.”

And as expected, Myles pops his head out. “I’m not cowering!” he insists. “Just… you know. Warming up. Gotta gear my guns for stabbing and stuff.”

Okay, Max likes kids and all, but this is getting out of hand. He lightly shoves Michael aside, who pitifully flops onto the ground. Valerie does nothing to help the kid out, just glowers.

“Okay, no one is stabbing anyone,” Max waves them off.

Stern, but like in the manner a babysitter would be. So not very stern at all.

Valerie obviously doesn’t take him seriously. “And who the hell are you, Max?”

“You heard what the man said,” he says, tensing up. “I’m, y’know. Tending to my tour guide duties.”

She smirks, eyes flitting to his sheath. “If I had half a brain, I’d think you were a knight. Is that right?” When Max doesn’t answer, she draws her own blade—or rather, two. They shimmer in the sun, one of silver and another in bronze. “Let’s play a game.”

He hears Bradley next to him mutter, “I’m really starting to hate these fucking games,” under his breath.

“And what exactly is it?” Max questions her, right before pulling his own sword out. It’s not as dramatic as an entrance, so to compensate he tries to do a trick. It awkwardly fumbles in his hand and he has to lunge to catch the weapon before its untimely death.

Bradley coughs in the background. How supportive.

“I challenge you to a duel,” Valerie sings. “If you win, I spare your life.” And for a beat, she checks him out. She smiles, and frankly Max isn’t sure whether to take that as a good sign or not. “But if I win, my brothers and I get first dibs on our dearest Uppercrust here. He’s worth a lot, you know.”

Bradley sputters out, “What? I didn’t agree to these terms!”

She sticks her bottom lip out. “Awh, honey. Did you forget? Fugitives don’t have rights.”

Max pauses for a moment. “Wait, really? They don’t? That’s fucked up, Brad.”

“I’m a prince, not a lawmaker!” he exclaims. “Just hurry up, will you?” Quickly, Bradley adds on, “Not because I want to see you guys fight. Like I said: I’m a very busy man.”

Valerie blows him a kiss. “All for you, sweetie!” There’s a weird dynamic going on between them, and if Max has any issue with it, he doesn’t say a thing. Why would he when body language exists?

She notices his scowl. “I don’t think your boy toy likes me very much, Bradley.”

Okay, that’s it. He lurches forward, but Valerie anticipates his movement so easy; it’s like she’s already memorized his fighting tactics. Max slashes, only for their blades to clang together—a terrible, dissonant sound clashing against the once harmonious forest. And when she slips past his guard, he’s always inches away—always narrowly avoiding a painful strike.

She’s good. Like, really good. And Max has to swallow his jealousy down. You know, before he gets quite literally stabbed in the heart.

“You’re sloppy,” Valerie laughs, more of a bark than anything.

He scoffs, sliding away from another slash. That one could’ve gotten right through his side, blade cutting through flesh with ease. But it didn’t! It didn’t, he reminds himself, his breath getting unsteady and erratic. He catches Bradley in the corner of his eye watching. Max couldn’t look too long, didn’t see his expression. But secretly, he hopes he’s a little impressed with Max’s skill.

Or he’s quietly criticising his fighting style in his head. Who knows?

“Well, Veronica,” Max spits out. “I just don’t think this is a very fair fight. This is practically a 2v1.”

Her grin widens, and he didn’t even know that was possible. “Touché,” she purses her lips. “How about this?” Valerie tosses her silver sword to the ground, the soil muffling its thud. “Brad-bear gets to relive his fencing lessons and I get a fun challenge. A win for everyone!”

“What do we do?” Michael calls out, sitting on the ground. He’s playing with a flower, picking petals slowly and painstakingly.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Look pretty?”

Myles salutes from afar. “Easy,” he shouts, right before plopping on the grass. He joins his brother in destroying the local wildlife. Then, all eyes go to Bradley—trembling when he picks up the blade.

Max softens. “You don’t have to do this,” he whispers. “It’s okay.”

He laughs it off, the sound fake and familiar. Bradley smirks, pretentious rich guy persona back on. “Don’t be silly, Baby Goof.” A shiver runs beneath his spine at the nickname. Baby. “Valerie might seem intimidating but I promise you—she’s all talk, no bite.”

“There you are!” Valerie squeals, snapping her fingers. “Oh, what fun we used to have.”

When Bradley rolls his eyes, casually picking up the sword, that’s when she attacks. Swift on her feet, Valerie is only inches away when Max pushes her away. It doesn’t really do much; the troublemaker just regains her balance and giggles, not a hint of struggle in her eyes.

The fight becomes a blur. It’s certainly easier, though—thank the lord. When one of them is slammed down, the other is there to fend Valerie off. They work well as a team, Max thinks as he parries yet another slash. (He knows full well he’s gonna be ridiculously sore tomorrow.) Strange how they were always pitted together. What would happen if they actually worked together?

Well. He supposes this. In a particularly terrifying moment, he kicks Valerie to the ground. She’d been all up in his face, and based on the sting from his arm, she’d definitely been able to cut through his limb. So, his instincts acted accordingly. Max doesn’t miss the disheartening crack as she lands on her arm. He stands, dropping his sword to the ground. In his mind, the battle is over.

Not to Bradley. He calmly steps over, a sword pointed directly to her chest. “What do you have to say for yourself, Valerie?” the prince asks. It’s more rhetoric than anything; anyone could sense it from the uninterest in his voice. “You seem to have gotten yourself in quite a predicament.”

“Brad-bear,” she chokes out, a smile even as saliva drips down her chin, all ugly and raw. “God, when will you learn? You should never underestimate me.”

But before the words even flow to his ear, Bradley’s on the floor—caught off-guard by her feet sweeping him from under. And soon enough, Max runs over, only to accidentally slam into the prince when he gets up. They both hit the ground with a loud thump.

Thankfully, no bones are broken in the process.

But everything is fuzzy. Max blinks, the sun too bright—the sky too blue—the clouds too white. And he winces, head too bruised to notice someone approach him.

Valerie hovers over him. There is no light in her eyes. “It was nice to meet you. Max, was it?” she asks—but not really expecting an answer. Not when dead men can’t speak. Not when she’s one second away from slamming the sword straight into his heart.

It so happens though that Max is one lucky goober. As soon as Max awaits his demise, eyes closed—welcoming the darkness—she lets out a shaky breath. When he reluctantly looks up, Valerie collapses onto the grass, sword still in hand.

She’s not too badly hurt. Just a nasty wound on her back, a slash from her shoulder all the way down to her waist. It’s hard to see any blood but it’s there. Oh, it most certainly is. Michael and Myles run to her side, less concerned than he thought they’d be.

Bradley is right behind them, soundless. He studies his reflection in his blade. Max stares at his thoughtful gaze and sees nothing in those blue eyes. When the prince finally tosses her sword away, he just stands there, lost. Dazed, pretty much.

The poor guy only has a second or two before he throws up.

Max looks away, mostly for his dignity, as he retches over the ground. Michael and Myles plug their noses while tending to Valerie’s cut. Once the brothers confirm she’ll be okay and drag her off, he walks over to a humiliated Bradley, one who’s leaning against the trunk of a tree, head in his hands like he’s truly done something despicable.

Max sits down. He doesn’t want to scare him by any means but he can’t help but blurt out, “Thank you.” The prince whips around, eyes widened. He’s still shaking. It looks like it’s getting worse.

“You saved my life,” Max continues, picking at his swelling skin. “Now I owe you again.”

Bradley offers a weak smile. It’s nice to see him so genuine. “No more favors. That’s how I got us both in this mess, remember?”

“Yeah, well. I’m enjoying myself.” That’s not a lie. But it’s not really the truth. Even when he glances at Valerie’s unconscious body, bitterness always ends up crashing over him. How stupid was going to school for knighthood or whatever if he couldn’t even fight off a stupid ex-girlfriend? “How,” he begins the question, even though he’ll probably regret it soon enough, “did you meet Valerie?”

The prince groans. “Oh, I don’t even want to think about her anymore.” But then, the conversion lulls, and to break the comfortable silence, he answers. “She kept bothering the royal staff. Snuck in one time and we ended up getting along… sorta.”

“Sorta?” Max raises an eyebrow. “You guys got along enough to date.”

“But it didn’t mean anything!” he asserts. “I just wanted to be a rebellious teenager. In my own way.”

Max pokes his shoulder. Gently, considering they’re all scraped up now. “Look at you now. You’ve reached like, the highest form of rebellion. Not many are wanted for the assassination of their father.”

Bradley has a realization, one so rough he buries his face back into his arms. “No fucking wonder Triple Trouble tracked us down,” he grumbles, words muffled before he lifts his head up. “We’re not gonna make it if we don’t change something quick.”

“Makes sense,” Max muses. “Wanted criminals are wanted.” And to that, the prince lightly punches his arm. “Oh, come on!” he complains. “I’m bruised everywhere, dude.”

“Make funny jokes, then,” he retorts.

He has no time to be offended. An idea pops into mind, and it’s so brilliant he sits right up. “Oh my god,” Max whispers to himself. “That’s it.”

“What’d you say?”

A big, ol’ grin finds itself on his face. “You are the most stuck-up, pretentious asshole I’ve ever met.”

The glare he receives is very deserved. “I appreciate it, Goof,” Bradley sneers.

“There’s a point to this!” he promises. “Right off the bat, you radiate spoiled rich boy vibes. And we don’t want that. We need you to be unrecognizable.”

Bradley’s skin immediately turns a sickly white. “Oh, you’re not implying…” he trails off. Probably because he’s waiting for Max to share his magnum opus. And not because of any negative feelings, nosiree.

Max simply crosses his arms. “How do you feel about a makeover?”

The look of horror Bradley sends him is enough to rival his own worst moments. Hm, he thinks to himself, a grin starting to form. Maybe this trip won’t be so bad after all.

Chapter Text

Let’s get one thing straight: Bradley is not a narcissist. In fact, he’s doing the opposite of loving himself currently. As he stares in the mirror, eyes twitching, he has to bury the desire to punch his reflection right off. Even the clothes feel wrong, Bradley too used to fabric fitting him just right. But now? Now, his sleeves ended just a bit too short; it was driving him insane.

Where was the kingdom’s royal tailor when he needed her?

He shuts his eyes, the picture of him in baggy pants and a casual wool shirt permanently burned into his retinas. With much reluctance, he steps out into the light.

“Please tell me there is a better alternative,” Bradley mutters under his breath.

Max laughs. Because of course his misery is funny to the knight. “Come on! You look good in my clothes. And I can’t afford you wandering around the store for too long. I’m starting to think you want to get outed as a murderous prince again.”

There they were in a generic clothing store’s changing room. Bradley has just exited his stall, only for Max to snicker into his hands. Which, not a good sign at all. “Fine,” he huffs, despite the fact it is not fine whatsoever. “Let’s just get out of here before I kill myself.”

“Not so fast,” Max stops him before he can walk away. Unfortunately, the knight didn’t think this tactic very well—now his hand is completely atop Bradley’s chest. They blink at each other. Several times. Their world, for a little too long, is just them fluttering their eyelashes at one another. Bradley is briefly lost in dark, inky lashes. They seem to perfectly curl at the edges and fall.

Max pulls back rapidly, like he burnt to touch. “Sorry.” He doesn’t sound very sorry. Just confused.

He has a harder time putting any thought to words. So, Bradley continues to stare at him. Because that’s the normal course of action in this situation. Though… he supposes normal people don’t get themselves into circumstances like this, do they?

“Anyway,” Max coughs. “You forgot accessories.”

The color drains out of Bradley’s skin. This has happened for the millionth time today. “No,” he exhales, any confidence he once had slowly but surely slithering out of him. Especially after he takes a mere glance at the items Max shoves on him—first circular glasses with a bronze finish, then a worn-in beanie. Great, he doesn’t just look like a commoner, he looks like one of the degenerates.

“You are an evil, evil man,” Bradley seethes. But weirdly, the words don’t seem to hit him. The knight doesn’t react, just gives him yet another confused look. Okay, maybe confused wasn’t the right word. Max was in a daze. He doesn’t know why. Maybe it was because they were rapidly approaching his father’s location? Would he really spare his old man that much thought?

He snaps his fingers, not caring anymore. Bradley has always been a man of his priorities—and right now, he’s focused on trying to look less like a dimwit. And additionally, he’d also like to get Max’s attention. Thank god the snap works. “How do I look?” he asks.

“Um.” A shade of light pink seems to dust the bridge of his nose. “I’ve never seen you with glasses.”

Bradley raises an eyebrow. Avoiding the question? Jeez, he must look awful. “Yeah, I pride myself on having perfect vision,” he scoffs. “I assume this does the job.”

Max nods, but it looks more like he’s just bobbing his head up and down. Kinda like a fool. “I’ll pay.” Although today’s been a series of absurd events, this surprises him the most.

“You’re poor, Max,” Bradley blurts out. “No, no. Let me do it.”

But he’s already ripped the accessories off, marching straight to the register. What’s gotten him in such a frenzy? It hadn’t even been that intense of a makeover.

(Is he that ugly with glasses?)

_________

Thankfully, Max is relatively back to normal when they drop off Amaryllis into a horse stable. After flicking an old man a coin, they now walked alongside the sidewalk—more like a flimsy stone path, really, but hey. Even a prince himself could admire it for its charm. Bradley wasn’t a shut-in by any means. Still, it’d been a while since he was able to venture into… well, plebeian spaces.

Everything felt so alive here. The kingdom had its glamor and all but it’d been so suffocating. The walls would tower down the prince and everything—from the thrones to painted commissions and sculptures. They would just remind him that he had very high expectations he needed to live up to. Ones which he was profusely failing.

But Bradley doesn’t feel as small here. He just breathes in the cool air, wet grass underneath him, and the weight of the world seems to fall off his shoulders.

He’s never gotten a chance to truly relish in this joy. If he’d ever taken pleasure in a puny village, he’d continuously bash into his head, you are an Uppercrust, you are an Uppercrust, you are an Uppercrust. And Uppercrust, they’re meant for bigger things.

However, the rules don’t apply if you’ve been basically kicked out of the kingdom. Bradley knows this very well. The sun is out, and even though he has to keep pushing glasses up his nose, he’s happy. And subconsciously, he glances over at Max, and seeing his smile—tooth-gap and all—makes it all seem okay.

Even if Valerie’s silver blade felt so familiar in his grasp. Even if the blood pooling out of her back had looked just like his father’s.

No. No, she’s fine. He shakes his head. How frivolous happiness can be, Bradley thinks to himself. How it can all go away, slipping through your fingers like sand.

Max nudges him playfully, and a laugh somehow breaks free. Turns out it’s hard to be bitter when he has the knight beside him. “So, here’s the plan. We leave on Thursday which gives us a couple of days to truly go sightseeing.” He pauses, scratching his neck. “Well, as much as you can sightsee in a teeny-tiny town whilst in hiding.”

“Whilst?” he chuckles. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong but I swear I’m positively influencing you.”

He lets out a startled laugh. “We went to the same boarding school, man,” Max waves off the joke. “I don’t think you deserve all the credit.”

“If you say so,” Bradley shrugs, feeling a smile twitch onto his lips. Who the hell is he now? It’s like he’s on cloud-fucking-nine. “Any sightseeing ideas in mind?”

“I don’t know,” Max muses, shoving his hand into his pockets. “Thought we could just see where this goes.” For a brief moment, a terrifying one, Bradley gets the sense he’s not just talking about sightseeing. He doesn’t push. The guy’s been a coward his entire life and old habits—well, they certainly die hard. “There’s this nice place out in the woods, though.”

He softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. PJ, Bobby, and I found this wicked cool spot.” Bradley’s questioning his taste now. How does one go from whilst to wicked cool? “It’s super hidden. Back in the day we just messed around pestering bugs but I don’t know. I think it’d be nice for picnics. And stuff.”

Max is looking at him now with those half-lidded eyes. It takes all of his willpower to not collapse from sheer desire. “And stuff,” he echoes, restrained. “I’d—” Bradley swallows. “I’d like that.”

The knight hums in approval. “Good. ‘Cause you didn’t have a choice.”

Yes, the magical moment is broken. But Max still remains as beautiful as ever. Crap.

They finally make their way to a quaint little house on the side of a stream. Its waters twist and turn, shimmering with blue hues. Though Bradley is not used to buildings the size of… well, his typical bedroom—he nonetheless appreciates how charming it is.

You know, despite its lackluster performance in other departments.

The walls have been worn down over the years, painted a calming lavender with circular windows scattered about. He almost steps on a flower when crossing into his front lawn. Turns out Old Man Goof has got quite the green thumb.

Max gently taps the door with his knuckles. He only needs to knock once before the hinges nearly fly off and a gust of warm air slams into the pair. There Goofy is, one second standing in the open door frame and the next hugging his son so tight he lets out a squeak. Bradley makes a mental note to himself. “Dad, Dad!” he groans. “You’re embarrassing me, let go.”

Goofy spins him around, then quickly brings the knight back down. Max’s face is so flush with embarrassment he can’t help but chuckle. Like the nice person he is. Goofy’s ears perk up. “And who’s this handsome fellow? Gawsh, I didn’t know you were back in the dating scene.”

“No, Dad!” Max yells, shrinking in place. “This is just my friend, Bradley. You remember him from Xavieth All-Boys Boarding School, right?”

Goofy frowns, scratching his chin. “Well, it’s been a couple of years… Did I have him as a student?”

Though Bradley has no clue why, four years ago Goofy lost his job and opted to finish his training to become a teacher. This meant for him the role of a teaching’s assistant that’d recently opened up was perfect for him. Not for Max, though—who allegedly managed to see his father 24/7.

“No, we competed against him in the finals for the Xavieth Games. He recruited you into his club before that, though.” Somehow, even that blood-curdling memory doesn’t ring a bell.

He shrugs. “It’s nice meeting you again, Bradley.” Goofy extends his hand. He takes it, instantly regretting the firm and sweaty handshake. “I don’t know, Maxie. He looks like your type.”

Max sputters out a couple of defensive words but they all mumble against one another, gibberish. Then, finally: “I love you Dad, but please shut up.”

“I’m just saying!” Goofy lets out his notorious Hyuck. “He’s got the same eyes and hair as the boy you used to like back in the day. How old were you? Fourteen or so?”

Nothing’s computing in Bradley’s mind, except for the horror within Max’s gaze. “Dad. Dad, I’m not going to say it twice.” It’s a little funny how he’s reprimanding his father like a pet dog.

“Okay, okay. Gawsh, I’ll back off.” He does so quite literally, giving them space to enter. “For dinner tonight, Sylvia made meatloaf. Best be at the table by six, Maxie!” Wait. Sylvia, like the librarian at his old school? Bradley brushes that silly idea off. There’s absolutely no way.

“Thanks, Dad!” He doesn’t even look back, just sprints up the staircase. Bradley awkwardly follows.

_________

Max’s bedroom is somehow cuter than his house.

When the knight notices an adorable teddy bear neatly propped on his pillow, he flings it underneath his bed. The cuteness factor decreases dramatically.

His eyes wander around, and doing so makes him feel more and more comfortable. There’s something about how lived-in his room is—the posters of Powerline, abandoned guitar in the corner, and socks on the floor immediately ease him.

Okay, maybe scratch the dirty socks on the floor. They’re not that pleasant to look at, let alone smell.

The knight plops onto his mattress, sighing. “It’s weird being back home.”

Bradley politely sits besides him. “Can you bring back your teddy bear?

“No.”

“I’d prefer to look at it more. It’s cuter.”

He rolls his eyes, then hesitantly pulls the stuffed animal away from the darkness. Bradley studies it from afar, the plushie missing a button eye; barely hanging on by a thread. “It won’t kill you.” When he gives Max a blank stare, the knight adds, “To touch a teddy bear.”

Oh. Bradley wraps his fingers around the stuffed animal. It feels so small. He gives it a light squeeze and can’t seem to look away. “I’ve never had a toy like this,” he finally murmurs.

“He likes hugs,” Max offers.

He laughs, a little choked up. “Don’t be stupid,” Bradley mutters, pushing the teddy bear aside.

The knight tilts his head. It’s strange, to be examined, almost. Thankfully, he says nothing.

“So,” Bradley continues. “What’s the plan?”

Max parts his lips when suddenly, something clunks on his window. Jesus christ, can’t the universe show a little respect at least? You’d think they’d get some time alone. Not that he was particularly looking forward to it.

(Okay, he has to stop denying the truth. Even Bradley’s painfully aware of his… attraction.)

They both walk over to the glass, glancing down to see two boys pelting his house with rocks. When they meet Max’s gaze, they furiously wave. He grins, and Bradley suddenly remembers the knight had snuck in with some of his buddies. What were their names again?

He frantically lifts up the window to speak from above. “Come up!” Max calls out. “We’re having meatloaf for dinner tonight, you should join us.”

Unruly hoots and hollers ring from below, and Bradley can’t help but rub his temple. Where were their manners? Not that Max was any better; god, what kind of company has he gotten himself into? Whatever. It’s fine. To live a simple life means to be surrounded by simpletons. Obviously.

Much to his disdain, they’re fast. And before he knows it, Max’s door is slammed open and the trio exchange half-assed hugs and handshakes that consist of many “bro-fists.” That’s what they called them, anyway. How unoriginal.

“Glad to see you, my main man!” the small, ginger one exclaims. “I was starting to think you’d died trying to apologize.”

What? Apologize for what? Max pats his friend on the back. “Glad to know you have faith in me, Bobby.” He turns to someone else—a large guy with yet another baggy blue t-shirt. Sheesh, why does no one wear anything fitted anymore? Fashion is done for. “How have things been, PJ?”

PJ brightens. “You’ll never guess who’s coming to town tomorrow. Mocha.”

Finally, there’s a name Bradley recognizes. “Mocha?” He decides to speak up. “You can’t be serious. What’s a renowned poet like her doing in this stuffy little town?”

Bobby burps. “What’s this nerd doing here?” He takes off his glasses instantly, fuming. “Don’t tell me you’ve started dating again.”

Max groans. “Why does everybody keep thinking that?” That comment makes Bradley refocus. Not because he was checking out the knight’s lips or anything. That would be crazy. “I guess the makeover worked a little too well.”

“Not for me,” Bradley replies, deadpan. “Not. For. Me.”

“To answer your question,” PJ pipes in, “she wanted to visit her boyfriend. Me.”

His brain buffers for an insane amount of time. “You,” Bradley says slowly. “And Mocha?”

“Shut up, Brad,” Max huffs. “We should totally get together tomorrow and celebrate.”

Bobby sighs, exaggerated. “No can do, my amigos. Duty calls.” He salutes to the window. “And by that, I mean my family’s hauling my ass away for a trip.” The guy dips his head, almost like he’s mourning. “Such a shame.”

“That’s fine,” PJ answers. “Why don’t we just go on a… double date of sorts? You know: me, Mocha, you, and your—uh, friend.” He smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Bradley.” He doesn’t give a shit anymore. “Bradley Uppercrust the III.”

Bobby’s jaw goes agape. “Oh, shit. Prince Bradley? We’re talking to a wanted criminal.”

“Okay, ‘dude,’” Bradley starts to argue. “I’m more wanted than you’ll ever be.”

Max interrupts with a disappointed, “Not the energy you want to bring to the table, man.”

“Um,” PJ darts his eyes back and forth frantically, almost as if he’s trying to send the knight a secret code. “Well—the offer’s still open if uh, you want. Just as long as you don’t start killing anyone.”

“He was framed,” Max promises. The lie makes his stomach churn. “He’s staying here for a couple of days before we head on north to the middle of nowhere.”

“Wait,” Bobby blubbers out. “Like, here?” he points out the window. “Or here, here?” A stray finger is directed towards the floor. What an easy question to answer.

“Obviously not here,” Bradley sneers. “I knew from the start I’d rent out a room from your silly town’s tavern. I don’t think this setting is my sort of vibe.”

He notices the flash of hurt over Max’s face and wonders if he’s about to vomit twice today.

“You’re wasting money doing that. Why not just stay here?” An intense beat. “Unless you’re afraid of the ‘poor’ all over me. Don’t worry, Brad—it’s not contagious.”

Bradley narrows his eyes. He’s starting to feel like his old self again. The man has no idea if that’s for the better. But hey. At least this way, he can protect himself. Right?

“Don’t get so emotional,” Bradley coos, and yikes. That was the wrong move. Even his friends behind him are shifting their weight, awkward.

“Hey,” PJ begins. “Should we get out of here?”

“Yeah,” Max exhales, cold. “Actually. I’ll come with you guys. I’ll let our prince have time to find his perfect tavern room. Isn’t that right?”

Before Bradley realizes he’s fucked up, the door is closed. And he’s left alone in Max’s childhood bedroom, trembling like a child. The room is cold but he’s sure the teddy bear is even colder.

Shit. He’s had a lot of experience destroying things but… fixing them? Well. There’s a first time for everything. And so, he gets started on reciting a rushed apology for Max when he gets back.

It’s not good. But hey, it’s something. Which—basically counts, question mark?

Chapter Text

The next day, Max Goof wakes up at six AM sharp; this is not a sensical move—it is a necessary course of action. But he doesn’t have to be happy about it. He at least thought his father would be though, but when Goofy’s son bumps right into him in the kitchen, delirious, he has certain concerns. For some strange reason.

“Maxie,” he cups his son’s face, forcing him to stand still. You’d think based on the worry in his eyes Max’s skin was melting off or something. “What’s going on?”

He knows it’s a little mean but he brushes his dad’s hand off. Pushing past him, he tries to make a cup of coffee to the best of his abilities. It’s a struggle when his sight is reduced to blurry blobs and his hands tremble more so than usual.

“Nothing,” Max mumbles. “I’m just—” he vaguely makes a stabbing gesture, “gonna get some practice in.”

When Max fumbles around with the coffee machine, Goofy steps forward, taking control. It’s remarkable how functional his father can be in the morning. Why didn’t Max take after him? “Gawsh, it’s not like you to reach for the worm.”

It takes him a second to realize Goody was referring to the “early bird” idiom. It takes him even longer to resist groaning.

“Is this because of your new friend? Bradley, was it?”

He doesn’t mean to flinch so harshly at the prince’s name. He doesn’t really mean anything anymore. “N—No!” He stutters out, feeling like an absolute fool. “Dad, come on. Just drop it.”

“If you say so, son,” he shrugs, dropping the finished coffee onto the counter. Max immediately grabs it, greedy, before downing it like a mad man. It’d be embarrassing if he was out in public, coffee surely dripping down his chin, but he’s never had to hide any part of himself when with Goofy.

Max has been grateful for his father in the past. Annoyed most of the time, but for the most part—he’s aware Goofy’s a really good guy. And he has to remind himself that when taking a deep breath in, prepping for those dreaded words to come out. “I like him, Dad. I really like him.”

He came out to Goofy when he was fourteen years old. So, though his sexuality wasn’t really ever a secret, Max has never had a heart-to-heart to his father about anyone he’s been interested in. Why would he? Yes, his old man is currently in a very happy relationship with his fiancée, Sylvia. But that didn’t mean he was the guy to go asking about romance. For christ’s sake, each time Max accidentally lets out a Hyuck, he feels his attraction level go down by a landslide. And it’s not like Goofy would know the difference between dating girls and guys.

(There are a lot. That’s how Max knows sexuality isn’t a choice—in an ideal world, he would not want to be attracted to men. Not because of any internalized homophobia or anything. But sometimes, the hate towards guys is a little deserved.)

Despite all these things, he decides to confide in his father. The moment just feels right.

“And he has this crazy ex-girlfriend who’s even crazier at sword fighting and I—” He sighs. “I don’t know. It’s stupid, never mind.”

Goofy rubs gentle circles over his son’s back. It’s like he’s back to being a child, small once more. “It’s not stupid, Maxie,” he reassures him.

“But I barely even know the guy,” Max insists, even if he knows that’s not the full truth.

They’ve known each other since they were kids. Would it be fair to call them childhood friends? Definitely not. But still: they had this connection. It was invisible and frayed along the edges, but it was there. And he kept getting tugged along by this mysterious thread, one that continued to lead to Bradley over and over again. One that made him fall head over knees for this asshole.

He’s never felt this confused before.

“You remember how I met your mother?” The words pull him out of his ongoing crisis.

Max wrinkles his nose. “Um. Am I a bad son if I say no?”

Goofy laughs. “Good heavens, of course not.” He takes a piece of bread out of a plastic bag and spreads butter on it almost… thoughtfully. As if he was trying to savor this very moment. Slowly but surely the knife sweeps crumbs away. “I’d been a wee boy off to further my education. But there’d been a girl in my class I sure was falling for. You wanna know what I did, Maxie?”

“I don’t know. You talked to her like a normal person?” This is a joke. Goofy is unlike most people. That’s kinda why he’s the greatest father of all time.

He grins nervously. “I went ahead and goofed it up.”

“Yeah, no kidding, Dad. But like, how exactly?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “She was so beautiful, son.”

Max recalls old photographs tucked into journals and chunky books. It would’ve been nice to have seen that beauty in person. But he’d been a little too busy getting born, so. Makes sense.

“Your old man was so distracted he’d walked straight into a pole.” And to really set the scene, he initiates the sound. Boing. “She went ahead and checked up on me, with those big ol’ eyes of worry. You have the same ones. That’s how you get the girl, Maxie.” He pauses. “Or in your case, the guy. Hyuck.”

He blinks. “Wait, what? So, you’re suggesting I try to get brain damage?”

Goofy chucks the buttered bread into the toaster. “No! I’m saying you should be yourself. If he’s the right one, he’ll like you for who you are.” And with a sly smirk, he adds, “Maybe he’ll think you’re pretty groovy.”

Max can’t help but groan. “Dad, come on. No one says groovy anymore.” Even then, a smile twitches onto his lips. “Thanks. For everything.”

“‘Course. You’re my son. Now, give your pop another hug.”

Before he can utter any complaints, Goofy’s arms are already wrapped around his waist and squeezing him to death. “Dad, I’m not leaving any time soon,” he chokes out.

He steps back, sentimental as always. “You know me,” his father sniffles, wiping a stray tear away. “I can’t help myself. My little boy’s all grown up. Too old for visits.”

“Well, I’m right here, aren’t I?” Max raises an eyebrow. “I’m gonna talk to Sylvia. Maybe you should get out of the house more.”

“I don’t know, son—”

He opens the back door, wind blowing onto his face harshly. Max has to spit out hair before saying, “I heard they’re opening up a toy museum in the North. Sounds like a great road trip idea.”

Goofy’s eyes brighten, and the light is enough to rival the sunrise. He closes the door. Though he may be unable to hear his dad’s response, muffled behind glass, that ginormous smile does all the talking.

He turns away, facing his childhood straight in the eye. Max remembers his days of picking at the grass, climbing trees, and naming clouds like it was yesterday. It was strange how long it’d been since he’d stood in his backyard, let alone trained here. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the air of his youth—now long gone. He was going to miss it, yes. But Max had other things to prioritize.

When he exhales, a sword is drawn from its sheath. But not fast enough. Frustratedly, he tries again, the blade’s metal against the sun nearly blinding. That’s better.

For many moments, his world is defined by his weapon and it only. Senses are bombarded—the only touch that matters is hand on grip, only sounds that matter are the swishes the sword makes when cutting through air and the thump, thump, thump of his heart. Sweat drips down his forehead, but again. It doesn’t matter. None of it does. He just keeps lunging forward. Keeps slashing and slicing, swinging his arms even if he’s clearly overexerting himself.

The soreness is a good thing. It means that it’s working.

His breathing is unsteady. His movements drag on. His sword feels heavy in his grasp.

Can you fix something that was already broken from the start? Maybe Max was getting ahead of himself. He’s a total joke! Disappointed, he takes an undeserved break—slumping onto the stump of a tree that's been cut down a long, long time ago.

Head in hands, he doesn’t even realize someone’s knocked onto the backyard door at first. That is, until his father shouts from the kitchen: “Maxie! Your guest is back.”

When he sits up, knuckles clinging onto dead wood, he meets the gaze of none other than Bradley Uppercrust.

(The III, because that’s an important detail.)

A distant thought in Max notifies him that he’s still supposed to be mad at him. Mad that he got to see the soft side of Bradley but had been hit with the snarky, selfish part of him last night once Bobby and PJ came over.

Unfortunately, he’s delusional. And whether Bradley’s being a little bitch or not, Max finds himself fond of him and those pretty blue eyes, anyway. (He makes a mental note to celebrate his win—that is, discovering how the prince looks with glasses. What a wave of emotions that day had been.)

Bradley steps forward, clearing his throat. Once they’re finally in the same proximity, Max notices a sheet of paper crumpling in his hands. A corner peeks out, and he’s able to see Bradley’s handwriting—smooth cursive, straight to the point. Of course it is.

“It has… come to my attention I made some rather uncouth comments last night.” The words are so deadpan Max has to stifle a chuckle. He leans into the page, squinting. “Shit, what does that say?”

He assumes the rhetoric question is not a part of the script.

“Brad,” he sighs. “What are you doing?”

Bradley looks up. “What does it look like I’m doing?” Finally, some emotion. “I’m apologizing.”

That probably shouldn’t surprise Max as much as it does. He tries to act casual. “If you’re gonna write me an apology, at least don’t make it sound like a five-paragraph essay.”

Bradley glares at him. Turns out he doesn’t accept constructive criticism. He eventually glances back at the paper. It’s rough around the edges, probably because of how tight he’s clutching onto it.

“Continuing on,” he mutters. “I now admit our disagreement was due to my own wrongdoings.” Then, of course he stops to say, “See? Personal pronouns. Obviously not an essay.”

“Okay, you know what?” Max rips the sheet away from him. His first instinct is to raise his arm so high Bradley couldn’t possibly reach it, but he’s made a grave miscalculation: the prince is taller than him. He nearly tears the entire page in half trying to take it back. “Is it that hard to talk to me?”

Bradley stammers out, “What? No! Of course not.”

“Then, what’s the problem?”

His face is flush with red. “Can a man not want to be prepared?”

Max sends him a look. Thank god Bradley gives in. If this kept on going, he’d probably incorporate the essay in his training montage. It’d most certainly be satisfying.

Wait, why is he thinking about how easy his sword would cut into paper? Not right now, brain.

“Fine,” Bradley exhales, shaky. “I was a dick last night. I’m sorry I called you poor and emotional. Even though it’s basically true.” He groans immediately. “This is why I needed that essay, Max. It’s hard to be mean when you’re hiding behind flowery vocabulary.”

“I think it’s hard for you to not be mean in general,” he points out.

The prince rolls his eyes. “Yes, I also admit me being a dick is second-nature. Can you blame me?”

“Um. Yeah, dude. You’re really bad at this. I take back everything I said earlier.”

Bradley, out of the blue, laughs. The sound makes his heart flutter. Max reacts so soft and tender, to the point he wants to gorge his eyes out instantly. (Balance is now restored to the world.)

“How about this?” he asks. “I’m sorry. Plain and simple. Surely I can’t mess that up.”

Max pretends to contemplate this. “Hm. I don’t know, dude. You tend to be full of surprises.”

The prince furrows his eyebrows. It’s adorable. It’s adorable and which means he needs to stop immediately. “Do you forgive me or not?” Bradley pulls out his hand. This is new.

He is not a perfect guy. If he was, he wouldn’t enjoy messing with Bradley’s head as much. And so Max, feeling a smirk atop his lips, lets go of his sword. Before he offers his hand to shake, he decides to pay respect to his father.

In the typical Goof style, he spits into his palm.

The amount of disgust on Bradley’s face could be plastered onto the walls of a gallery. The prince drops his arm so fast Max can’t help but let out a snicker, wiping the saliva onto his pants.

He lets out an audibly repulsed sound at that, which makes Max laugh even harder.

He was almost expecting Bradley to explode based on how red his face has become. But before he can make a sly remark and further anger him, a Hyuck escapes his mouth.

The laughter abruptly stops.

Max freezes, fingers clasped onto lips instantaneously. He thought he’d finally learned to control it over the past few years. But somehow, he blew it—in front of the literal prince of the Uppercrust Kingdom.

God, he really is paying respect to his father.

The couple seconds of silence are the worst couple of seconds of his life. He almost hears the ticking of time in his mind, counting down to the end of Max’s existence. The mortification is so horrid he wants to run to the stream by his house, dunk his head into the cool waters, and drown.

But then Bradley lets out a somewhat surprised chuckle. There’s no hint of malice in his voice. “You look like you’re about to piss your pants.” The entire English vocabulary is lodged at the back of Max’s throat. So, instead of denying his comment, he just nods lamely. “I’ll take a bold guess and assume I’ve been forgiven. Is that right?”

“Yes,” Max squeaks. Then, coughs into his hands. He tries to cover up his face to the best of his abilities. It’s getting hard to breathe normally. “We still on for dinner? With PJ and Mocha?”

“Well.” He grins, leaning in. “I can’t say no now, can I?”

_________

They manage to find a secluded section in the restaurant—dimmed lights over a booth. On one side, PJ and Mocha are attached to the hip. On the other, Bradley and Max attempt to avoid touching each other. It doesn’t work, their knees brushing against one another. He tries not to think about it too much. But he’s always been too good at getting in his own head.

When they do their best at engaging in small talk, he notices in the corner of his eye a small, petite woman walking over. “Hi! I’ll be your waitress for the night.”

Wait, what? The familiarity strikes him right to the core, and when he looks up, there she is. Fluffy ginger hair, now cut to a bob. Her dark eyes remain sweet but older. Her smile drops for a second once they exchange gazes.

“Roxanne,” he blurts out. “It’s um, nice to see you. Again.” Max avoids glancing over at the others. He stares at his fingers, fidgeting with them. “I didn’t think you’d be in town.”

She softens. “I’m just here for the summer.” His ex-girlfriend passes them menus out on the table. “Saving up to move over to Europe.” Max’s eyes widen. Since when was she interested in Europe?

Well. He supposes it’s been a while.

“That’s awesome,” he says. “If you don’t mind me asking, what for?”

Roxanne sheepishly tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, my…” she nervously turns away, “girlfriend lives there. So, you know. It’s more practical this way.”

“Oh!” He imagines he looks like a fish with the way his lips are permanently shaped in a circle. “Don’t worry, me too.”

That sounds really weird, actually.

“I mean, I don’t have a European girlfriend,” Max stammers out. “Like, I—I also like the same gender. You know, solidarity.”

He’s been making really awkward gestures this entire time. Eventually, he just digs his fingers into his pants. His eyes accidentally flicker to Bradley, who’s been staring at him oddly. There’s an indescribable look on his face.

Max resists the urge to slap himself silly with the menu.

Roxanne laughs. So, maybe his misery is worth something. “Let’s catch up sometime soon?”

“Not too soon,” Bradley butts into their conversation. “Get us four waters, won’t you,” and because the prince has apparently learned nothing from yesterday, he adds in a, “sweetheart?”

She grimaces. “Right away, mister,” is uttered before she slips away. Max is left dumbfounded. What is his problem?

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to do the task of reprimanding him. Mocha snaps her fingers. “Your envy,” the poet hisses, “is sending us all into a frenzy.”

“Okay, Little Miss Mochaccino,” Bradley sneers. “Why don’t you cut the act?”

“Not an act,” she hums. “No need to feel so attacked, dear.” The pet name clearly does a number on him; Bradley slams his hands onto the table, the thud deafening. He’s as red as a tomato.

Subconsciously, Max’s fingers stray to the prince’s, his palm against shaking knuckles.

It’s as if a wave of shock crashes over Bradley, washing any of his hot-tempered nonsense he once had away. He turns to Max like an rabid animal, a wild look cast over him. It’s unlike Bradley’s usual maniac episodes; skin no longer red from anger, flushed only with light pink—lips slightly apart instead of his usual toothy grin—eyes full of mixed blue hues and surprise.

Max doesn’t know it then but he’s just made a move he can’t take back.

They stay like that for either a couple of nanoseconds or decades. He’s not sure anymore. How could he gauge any sense of time when his entire world is now on Bradley Uppercrust the III? All he knows is he’s seriously gone insane because this—this should not be his reaction.

It’s like everything else around them disappears into the shadows and what’s left is the spotlight, its glow hot against their skin. Almost as if they’re the only two characters on a stage; the only ones that matter right now. And once this moment ends, it’s written into the script that they are to lean in and… Well.

In a stage kiss, the actors shove their thumbs in front of their lips. But they didn’t have to fake it here. The two boys were free to do whatever they wanted.

…What did Max want? Really?

“Don’t try to deny it,” Mocha finally interrupts them. “For I think you’ve caught each other’s eye.”

And soon after, her soft, melodious voice breaks apart the very moment they still had.

But not completely, Max thinks to himself when he withdraws his hand. He still can very well feel the heat from Bradley’s fingers over him, still senses the electricity in the air when they stared at one another. When he sneaks a glance towards the prince, Max notices his distance. How he’s scooted back a couple of inches, eyes pointedly at the wooden table’s grooves.

“Maybe it was a bad idea to suggest a double date,” PJ mutters, apologetically.

Max waves his worries off, even if he’s pretty sure his heart is about to explode from how loud it’s pulsating. “It’s fine,” he says, weak. And as much as it hurts, he looks over at Bradley again. “Sorry. I don’t know what came over.”

The prince shoots him a glare but its coldness dissipates rapidly. Maybe he’s just as confused. “Let’s continue with the rest of the night,” Bradley decides, weirdly courteous. “Might we order now?”

_________

Thank god the atmosphere goes back to normal. If he had to be stuck in the suffocating air of whatever Bradley and him have going on, Max would probably throw up on their appetizers. But fortunately, good things can happen to him—and so their “double date” ends on a rather pleasant note, even if he gets the feeling PJ and Mocha have to tread on eggshells when conversing with Bradley.

Some good news: the prince’s temper never shows up during their dinner once afterwards. Bad news is once they’ve wished PJ and Mocha farewell, his former self is back immediately.

Particularly, in the form of a challenge. Which, considering their whole past together was tied down to the Xavieth Games, you’d think this’d be a terrible idea. It unsurprisingly was, by the way.

But old habits do die hard, and Max finds himself unable to say no to this arrangement—especially when he’s given a chance to hurt that guy’s dignity. (Who allowed Bradley to have such a big ego?)

Besides the cozy restaurant is a bar. They stumble inside, emitted with colorful lights and ear splitting music (if you can even consider mediocre beats that). Max orders one too many shots of beer for the two of them, and they’re back on flimsy stools like that fateful day they reunited.

Except this time, he actually feels like he belongs here.

The prince? Not so much, based on how his eyes wander everywhere, his distaste seemingly increasing by each second. This is a common occurrence apparently.

“Hey, you asked for this,” Max points out. “At least try to pretend you’re having a good time.”

Bradley scoffs, nose up in the air. “Who says I’m not?” he asks, like he didn’t just gag over a mysterious stain on the floor. What a liar.

The bartender brings out their drinks. The rest is straight up history.

Eventually, Max gets used to the warm buzz slowly turning his body into mush, their exchange of sly comments, and how red Bradley’s lips have gotten. He especially has gotten used to snickering so hard to the point everything stings—whether that be because his mouth’s sore from smiling or through his chest, nearly heaving from how much oxygen it’s losing.

He didn’t realize they could have so much fun together. He didn’t even think they could have anything together.

But this night might change everything.

“Dude,” Max can hardly contain his laughter. “You’re such a lightweight.”

Bradley is completely slumped onto the counter. His hand is fighting to keep his grasp on an empty shot glass. It is losing. Just like how he, too, lost at the drinking challenge. Quite miserably, might he add. “Am not,” he mutters—the words slurring, drawled out. “I just let you win, freshman.”

“Come on. I’m sure there’s some originality you can chase after. New nickname, go.”

He groans. “What about freshie?”

“What? That’s just a worse version of freshman. Try again.”

The prince thinks long and hard about this. Max gets bored and grabs another shot. “Maxie.”

He immediately spits out the alcohol, feeling it drip from his chin. Max coughs while Bradley lets out the most unrestrained, casual laugh of all time. It makes all his pain worth it. He wishes he could just take his joy for himself—record the prince’s laughter and place it into a little jar. That way, whenever Max was sad, he could just pull up this little memory and boom. Sadness eradicated.

Unfortunately, life doesn’t work like that. So, instead Max just replays this exact scene in his head, wanting this moment to never end.

It does, though. That’s on him. Maybe Max never learned how to shut up. “No!” he yells, somehow louder than the blaring music. “No, oh my god—never have free will ever again. Gross!” Maybe he just likes seeing the way Bradley reacts to his words, that smirk more intoxicating than the beer.

“I like having free will,” the prince hums, drumming his knuckles on the stool. “I should test it out more often.”

“Oh, yeah? I think Karaoke Night’s starting pretty soon.”

At first, Max totally believes he would sputter out a no off the bat. But it turns out drunk Bradley—like extremely drunk Bradley—is a different kind of beast. “Great. I’ll sign up for the first spot.” Before Max can say anything, whether that be positive or negative, he’s already vanished from the night. How can someone so intoxicated move so quickly? Who knows what they teach royalty.

It takes him way too long to make his way back to the bar. “Hey,” Bradley murmurs, leaning in a little too close for comfort. Max doesn’t move an inch. Unlike the prince, he’s not a coward.

“Hey yourself.”

Bradley is not given enough time to process what he’s just said. Why? Well, from afar, an announcement rings, alerting them that Karaoke Night is now on and a… Mister Bradley Goof will be singing first? Oh my god, Max’s face must be so bright red now; he can feel the heat creeping up on him.

So, Drunk Bradley is smart enough to know he shouldn’t use his real name—but not smart enough to realize what he’s just fucking implied?

Wow. He has some strong opinions to express.

Before Max can interrogate him, he’s slipped away. Max has a hard time looking for him when suddenly, all the lights dim and the only illuminating glow is cast upon a tiny stage. Bradley trips his way over, then grins at the crowd as he squirms around the vintage microphone.

He veers forward, mouth nearly engulfing the mic. “I have a song for you guys. It’s called—” Bradley frowns, looks off-stage. “Why am I so loud?”

Someone quietly advises him that microphones are naturally built to carry volume throughout.

“I don’t want to hear myself,” he insists, a bit of a whine coming through. “Make it quieter.”

When the underpaid employee tries to be polite and delve into an actual explanation, Bradley shuts them up with the mere snap of a finger. “Sheesh. Must I do everything around here?” he asks, bored, right before messing around with the instrument himself.

This is a very bad mistake.

Though the staff caution him, it’s already too late. Frustrated, Bradley pulls out the microphone from its stand, only to overcompensate.

The mic flies right into his forehead, the force hard enough to draw blood. Thump. He’s not only made a complete fool out of himself but topples right off stage. As if giving himself brain damage wasn’t enough!

If Max wasn’t worried shitless, he’d be cackling his butt off. But nooo, instead he runs straight to his fallen friend, whispering whatever comforting words infiltrate his mind first. They’re more… lovey-dovey than he’d like to admit.

“I’m okay,” Bradley grunts, avoiding eye contact. The prince leans into his weight, and he has to do whatever he can to stay afloat. “Stop touching me.”

“I’m trying to stop the bleeding!” he shrieks. Or, well—it absolutely sounds like one. “Where’s your room?” Bradley just stares at him blankly. “Your tavern room? The one you slept in last night?”

God, it’s like trying to collaborate with a brick wall. Remind Max to never get a drink with him ever again.

“It’s not mine anymore.”

“Excuse me?”

Bradley gives him a slight shrug. “I liked your room more. It wasn’t as sad as the tavern’s. So, I—I moved out of it today. I wanted to redeem myself. Even if that’s sorta impossible.” He lets out a pathetic chuckle. “I’ve done too many bad things.”

That one’s a doozy.

“Okay, save your crisis for later. We’re going home.” Wait, fuck. Wrong choice of words. “I mean, uh,” Max stutters. “We’re going back to my place. Sorry about that.”

This doesn’t bother the prince. “You were right the first time, you know.”

“What?”

The silence says more than words could possibly tell. Bradley just stares at him. Finally, his lips part. Only, Max could never anticipate what could’ve come next.

“It is home.”

Chapter Text

How did Bradley even get here?

He lets out a disgruntled moan, eyes drifting around these mysterious surroundings. Well, okay—they’re not mysterious, for crying out loud he’s shifting around on Max’s squeaky mattress in his stupidly endearing bedroom. There’s a distant voice telling him not to move around but frankly, he’s currently phasing through several planes of reality right now.

His head is throbbing, he’s got these limbs that are mimicking spaghetti noodles a little too well, and everything royally sucks right now.

Except for the fact that Max is right next to him, so close their noses could touch.

Bradley’s back remains against the wall and maybe in another alternate universe, he’d feel uncomfortable with their vicinity. But another part of him knows quite well that this is Max we’re talking about. That Max has somehow figured out how to defy his very own odds. That if there happened to be different timelines, Bradley would want to be with him each and every time.

Ideally, in the same position they’re in right now—with Max’s legs in between his own as they sit in the corner of his bed. Ideally, in another world Max is also touching him as gently as he does now, one hand holding his cheek and the other inspecting the ugly gash on his forehead.

“How did you hit yourself this hard?” Max mutters.

Bradley studies him, no longer caring what anyone thinks of him anymore. He’s handsome, but not in the stuck-up preppy boy way Bradley has going on. Max is handsome in a boy-next-door kind of way, this dorky charm that sticks out like a sore thumb whenever he’s in a crowd. He’s always appeared a little different. The type of guy who was used to rude comments walking down school hallways. Or at least, that’s what Bradley assumed—that’s what he’d seen when they were kids.

Max is not the same freshman he once knew.

He’s a young man now, and his fingers wander over Bradley like he’s something… precious. There’s a beautiful man right in front of him and each bone in Bradley’s body is crying for more. More of Max’s worried, brown eyes over him—more of how soft his voice rings in his ears—and certainly more of his touch. His skin has never felt so cold yet warm all at the same time.

The knight frowns. “I have to disinfect the wound before bandaging anything.”

Bradley pushes past him, wobbling off his mattress. He nearly tumbles over but somehow, last minute, he’s able to regain balance. Somehow. “I’ll shower,” he mumbles. “Water is nature’s finest disinfectant, am I right folks?”

“...Folks? Who are you talking to?”

He ignores Max, stumbling over his own feet to get to the bathroom door. When he twists the doorknob open, the knight is right behind him. “Brad,” Max groans. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“You have such little faith in me,” he huffs. Bradley almost falls again. He thankfully saves himself by clutching onto the metal bar above Max’s bathtub. That sure proves his point.

“Just wash your face,” Max orders him. It’s hard to take him seriously when he’s imitating a kicked puppy. “I don’t even know why you want to shower right now.”

He crosses his arms, the sensation weird. Slowly but surely, he’s sobering—even if things are still feeling a little more loopier than usual. “Because I’m disgusting right now!” he whines. “I think I stepped on a homeless guy’s foot before leaving the bar.”

“Normally people would feel remorseful in that situation,” Max retorts. “Whatever. Just wash your face first. Once I’m done bandaging you up, you should be sober enough to shower.”

Bradley turns on the sink and dunks his face into the cool tap. “I can’t,” he tries to say, but the idiot manages to get water in his mouth. He lifts his head immediately and spits it out.

“You what?”

“I have to shower now.”

Max’s glare pierces right through his flesh. “Okay, give me a good reason why.”

Easy enough. Bradley shrugs and then pulls up his shirt, revealing a nasty slit that’s dug itself right into his stomach. It’s still red and raw from the day before. He hadn’t bothered with cleaning it up. He didn’t even bother to tell Max he’d been wounded from their fight with Valerie. He was the son of Bradley Uppercrust the II after all—he’d dealt with a lot more pain than that.

Although the annoyance in Max’s eyes was very much there, it disappears so easy; fading into a horrified look. The knight curses under his breath before resting his hand on the wound to be examined. Bradley winces, hoping he disguised the sudden ache well enough.

Apparently not. Max drops his arm rapidly.

“So, yeah,” Bradley says casually. “We should do something about that.”

Max buries his head in his hands, tugging on some stray locks in the process. “Scratch that,” he whispers. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He sends him a sloppy thumbs up. “Glad we could stumble upon an agreement,” Bradley hums, all cool and professional—until he lets go of the metal bar and collapses right into the bath tub. The thump from his ass hitting the acrylic will forever echo in his head from this moment on.

“Nope,” Max sighs. “Okay, you’ve clearly proved you’re too incompetent to take a shower.”

“Have not!”

Max shoots him a dirty look. “So,” he continues. And then stops again immediately.

Bradley watches for any shift in his face, and there most certainly are. The knight’s face had gone aflame—cheeks so rosy he wasn’t even sure if Max had ever been tan in the first place—and he’d wetted his lips one too many times. He’s surely gotten an idea. But why does he look so… tormented at the thought?

“Let me help you,” finally escapes his mouth.

He stares at Max blankly. What was that excruciatingly long wait for? “Help me with what?”

The younger man’s lips presses into a thin line. “...Showering.”

Now it’s Bradley’s turn for his face to turn ablaze. The heat rushing over him is unbearable. He seriously didn’t just imply that, did he?

When he continues to dig daggers right into his eyes, Max elaborates. “You’d just have to sit back in the tub and relax. I’m not bad at it or anything—I used to volunteer at this retirement home.”

Because of course Max is a good person who helps out the elderly in his free time. Of course Bradley’s gotten himself into this horrifying situation. “So you’re offering to… bathe me?” he asks, skeptical. “This sounds like a trick.”

“I’m not going to take pictures of you and leak your nudes if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Bradley rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t worried about that per say.”

The truth is, the mere thought of having someone bathe him is mortifying. Shame has already found its way into his chest, lodged right inside his ribcage. There’s a side of him—loud and obnoxious—that insists he is better than this, that this passion creeping up on him is childish.

He’s Prince Bradley Uppercrust the III for god’s sake. He doesn’t need Max; he doesn’t need anyone. Even if his heart is pounding like there’s no tomorrow. Even if he feels like a fucking school girl twirling her braids because of the shy smile Max gives him.

The other side of him doesn’t care anymore. Meanwhile, it’s not distracting him with any commands—just a tender question that sticks to him like a parasite. Don’t you deserve to be happy, too?

Screw the fear. Screw how degrading relying on someone else feels. Screw it all. Bradley puts away insecurities he’s built up for the past twenty-or-so years, looks Max right in the eye, and agrees.

“I’ll do it.” Bradley’s lips curl into a smirk. It’s not genuine by any means; forced on over the sheer nervousness rattling his body. But he can afford to be a little fake right now. “Just try not to ogle me too much, okay?”

There’s a glint in Max’s pupils. He doesn’t know what it means.

“I’m not a creep,” he snorts. “I’ll look away when you change if it makes you feel any better.”

It does.

Max turns his back, facing the wall. After counting the seconds down, Bradley starts to remove his shirt, nearly hissing at the exposed air over his wounds. Jesus, maybe he should’ve gone to check that earlier. He keeps his eyes directly at the knight, even though it’s incredibly impractical. There’s a voice in his head that keeps egging him on, waiting for the bit where Bradley can say, I knew it! I knew this was all a joke. I knew you just wanted to make a fool out of me. But that moment never happens.

He tosses his shirt onto the tiled floor. Then his pants. Then his undergarments. Bradley never glances away, his eyes peering into the back of Max’s neck. There’s a mole there. He wonders what it’d feel like to touch it, to have his hand gently settle behind the knight.

He quickly shuts that thought down before hopping into the bathtub, the tap already running. Bradley holds onto a bar of soap, watching as the water fogs up. He’s left more relieved than ever. The only thing Max would be able to see is his face, his chest, and knees. Which is fine. Everything about these circumstances is totally fine.

“You can turn around,” Bradley murmurs before shutting his eyes.

The darkness is comforting. He can pretend that this moment is all but a dream. That when Max’s hands float around—scrubbing dirt off his arm—he can just disregard the guilt that rises into his mouth, taste too similar to bile. That when Max’s fingers brush against his thigh, he actually doesn’t let out a sharp inhale at the sudden warmth.

“Sorry,” Max lowers his voice. What does he have to be sorry about? What possibly?

He’s been bare in front of people before. But never quite as seen.

Bradley’s insides have been lit aflame, all these new emotions alive and well. It’s like desire has seeped itself into his soul and made itself a home in there. He wants to pretend. He wants to brush this off as a silly fantasy. But it’s not. It’s real, just like Max’s skin on his. It’s real and it makes him sick. Because it doesn’t mean anything to the knight. Because Max is just a good person whilst Bradley has turned himself into some sort of dimwit for the guy.

Because this is the last time he’ll ever feel like this and he hates it. Because soon after, Bradley will be off shipped into the middle of nowhere. And he’ll likely never see Max ever again.

Max’s hands are more calloused than he thought—flesh most likely scarred over the years of knight training. But it’s not bad. In fact, it’s comforting, to know he, too, had scars. His fingers were almost graceful. He noticed hesitations when it came to certain spots, places where he bore bruises.

Bradley wanted to cry. He wanted to laugh until his lungs gave out. He wanted to punch Max right in the teeth and watch his blood spill onto the water. He didn’t know what to do with all this longing piling up on him. He can’t recall a time where he’s ever felt more loved.

And it scares him. How much he’s lost. How much he’ll continue to lose.

The bath is done too soon. Bradley opens his eyes a little quickly, his body almost having a physical reaction when Max’s warmth disappears. The knight has moved over to the sink, turned away.

“You can dry yourself now.” The words sound cracked open. Bradley notices from his peripheral vision Max wipe his face with his sleeve. He isn’t really sure why.

Maybe Bradley did something wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Reluctantly, he pulls himself out. Wrapping a towel around him, Bradley finds himself much too sobered. Frankly, more aware than ever. To the point that he steps forward, pressing his wet hand onto Max’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Max whips around, tears welling up in his eyes. The sight sets him ablaze.

“Yeah,” the knight finally says. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Worry about yourself, Brad.”

The sentence that breaks free is unbelievably bitter. And he’s seen Max mad—Bradley used to their back-and-forth rude exchanges—but not like this. Never like this.

Bradley shouldn’t feel so hurt. He deserved it after all.

Not wanting to give Max a chance to speak, he shoots back a, “Get out.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

He looks away, the corner of the wall peeling more exciting than ever. “I need to change.”

The door closes. Bradley is left shivering without his presence in the room.

But most of all, he’s left with this sentiment crashing down on him: their relationship as it was has significantly changed. And he has no idea whether or not that’s a good thing.

The door knob reflects Bradley’s own ashamed features. He stares into the metal, hoping it’ll suck him in and he can avoid the important conversation waiting for him outside.

Fuuuccckkkkk. When did being a normal person of society get so hard?

_________

Bradley steps out after much too long of a wait. He catches Max on his bed, fiddling with his thumbs. The knight is quiet, carrying a ripple of melancholy behind him. If he could, he’d make all the sadness in the world go away. He can’t bear to see Max like this.

Hesitantly, Bradley settles down besides him. They don’t look at each other. The pair sit in silence. There’s nothing awkward about it. But there is something lingering over their heads.

He just doesn’t want to be the one to address it.

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

Bradley spins around, facing Max right in the eye. They’re red. “Pardon me?” he asks, cautious.

“It was a mistake,” Max explains, picking at his skin. “I took advantage of you. And I’m sorry.”

He knows this is the wrong time for it but come on. Bradley lets out a stunned laugh. Max glances over, a question forming in those gorgeous pupils. “How exactly did you draw that conclusion?”

The knight’s eyebrows furrow. “Um. Educated guess?” A smile graces Bradley’s features. “Did I… not?” he asks, right before going rapid speed. “I don’t know, I just—you looked really uncomfortable and I—I didn’t want you to seem like you were pressured or anything and I—”

Bradley presses a finger to his mouth. “Shut up.”

Max, of course, makes a face. But he does stop talking, so.

Bradley pulls his hand away, missing the touch of his rough lips. “You didn’t force me into anything,” he reassures him.

There’s another thought. One that could ruin their very fragile dynamic right now. He’s done being a coward. He’s the one in control now anyway. Might as well show it. And so, he leans into Max’s ear. Right before whispering:

“Besides. I liked it.”

Time slows. Time is a syrup slathered all over them, one they’re drowning in. But honestly, Bradley could care less. He would swim in syrup forever if it meant he could relive the way Max’s eyes flicker to his own, astonished—then right down to his lips.

“Yeah?” Max breathes out.

“No,” Bradley deadpans. “No, this was all a part of my plan where I insult you for volunteering at retirement centers.” The man rubs his temple. “Yes—yes, I indeed did like it. ”

Max releases a scoff. “Okay, maybe you’re the one taking advantage of me. I am younger, you know.”

“I’m only two years older than you,” Bradley reminds him. “And we’re adults, who gives a shit?”

“Am I not allowed to partake in the giving of shits?” Max asks. “That’s what you sound like half the time.”

“I do not.”

He continues blabbering on. “Sup, I’m Prince Bradley Uppercrust the III.” Max makes dramatic peace signs. At this point, he’s not even trying to give out a decent impression; the guy just wants to annoy the hell out of him. “My hobbies include being an asshole and kissing younger men.”

Bradley grits his teeth. “Shut up,” he repeats himself.

“Oh?” Max smiles at him, all sweet with a bit of a bite to it. “Make me, then.”

The moment is perfect. The moment is perfect and Bradley is afraid he’s going to ruin it.

Him with his ugly laugh, weirdly shaped eyes and long, lanky fingers. Max with his adorable tooth gap and doe-like pupils and beautiful, beautiful personality.

He is perfect. He is perfect and if Bradley ruins Max, he’ll never forgive himself.

But then he finds himself leaning in. He finds himself unable to let the moment die in his hands. And the rest is history. Bradley wonders what his ancestors would think of him as their lips suddenly crash together. As he’s overwhelmed with the taste of Max’s mouth in his, though, Bradley realizes he actually doesn’t care about the opinions of old, rich, white men anymore.

Max kisses Bradley as if the guy’s slipping from his grasp—the knight’s hand in his wet, ruffled hair, another laying on his waist. Max kisses Bradley like he’s meant to be held. In spite of the scars he wears with shame, there is still a part of him that’s still desirable. In the grand scheme of things, all the constant hurt—nightmares flickering into reality one too many times—it didn’t matter anymore.

Not when they were here. Together.

Bradley kisses back, and he hopes Max understands what he’s trying to say with his body language. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

The knight pulls away too quickly, bearing a smirk he wants to wipe away with sweet, sweet lips. “I think you just proved my point. You do like kissing younger men.”

“Only you,” Bradley murmurs. “Now, get back here. We’re not done.”

Max laughs, a sound he’d bathe in if he could. Maybe Bradley would be cleansed of all his sins if he had him by his side. That was a nice thought. Too nice.

Several loud thumps rings from downstairs. They instinctively jump from one another, then exchange apoloegtic glances. “Sorry, kids!” Goofy calls out. “I think someone’s at the door.”

“I’ll go get it!” Max yells out, then faces him with so much tenderness that it scares him. “I’ll be back.”

“You better be. We need to sit down and have an actual conversation.”

“What, like what are we? I was sorta hoping we could be boyfriends, personally.”

The title make his heart skip a beat. “We’ll talk about this later,” Bradley grumbles. “Get the door.”

“I will!” Max beams, right before pressing his lips onto his maybe-boyfriend’s cheek.

Heat rushes to Bradley’s face, and he’s pretty sure his features must be blossoming with red. He watches, mouth slightly agape, as Max walks off, basically sprinting down the stairs.

Much to his amazement, a giggle of all things escape his mouth. God, who has he become? Well… he supposes that could be answered pretty easily. Bradley’s better now. Softer, yes—but ultimately, he likes the person he is when with Max.

He looks out the window, memorizing how the clouds swirl together; its multiple hues of soothing pink and orange and yellow forming to create a painting in the sky. Perhaps life isn’t so bad as he originally thought. Perhaps happiness is more of a friend than you could ever imagine.

Bradley stares at the evening air and takes it in. He’s full of so much love. So much love for the very Earth they reside in. Even love for himself—for how much he’s grown since then and how much he’ll continue to evolve. And of course, the amount of love Bradley holds for Max is unfathomable. Of course—of course—of course.

When the knight walks back into his room, Bradley’s grin quickly fades away.

The look Max sends him is unbearable. Something happened. Something happened and it’s really fucking bad. What kind of trouble did they get themselves into now?

…It’s only a shame their time together doesn’t last long enough.

(Well, shit.)

Chapter Text

It only takes four days for Bradley to drift away completely.

The night the two men kissed—the night the guards knocked on their door and asked if they’d seen a particular prince prancing around—Bradley shut down. He can’t even look Max in the eye, yet alone talk to him. He wants to pry the words out of his mouth. He wants to fix whatever troubles Bradley has. But at the end of the day, he’s just Max. And Max barely knows a thing.

Once midnight arose, Max hops into bed, leaving room for Bradley to sleep by his side. He stares at him, hopeful—even if Bradley’s gaze lingers on his own hands, trembling.

Instead, the prince walks away without a word.

Max is staring at the ceiling when he hears a thud downstairs, understanding Bradley has yet again run away. He wants to chase after him. But a part of him is afraid of ruining things beyond repair. If one of them snapped…

Max shakes his head. They have a good thing going right now. It couldn’t be torn apart that easily. Right?

The first day, Bradley comes back for meals. He sees him at breakfast, at lunch, and at dinner. Max doesn’t mean to but he pushes—asks him if he’s okay, offers his hand numerous times. But Bradley can only engage in small talk; a shy, restrained smile resting on his weary features. They can’t even banter, the prince keeping his distance, watching Max’s every move.

I won’t hurt you, he wants to say. But the words die in his throat when Bradley steps out of the house once more. Max doesn’t cry. Only when his father lurches forward, his hand comfortingly settling onto his shoulder, does he even think about tearing up.

His face is dry. He wouldn’t want to scare Bradley even further away. Max has to remain strong for the sake of their relationship. Even if he has to ignore the sob scratching the back of his throat.

The second day, Bradley shows up twice. Once in the morning to pee, then another time in the evening to take a nap. Even though there’s nothing special about the living room, the prince appears so ethereal resting his little head on the couch. Cautiously, Max throws a blanket onto him, adjusting so Bradley would be as comfortable as possible. When he shifts in his sleep, that’s when the tears start falling. He’s so close yet not close enough.

Max caresses his cheek, finger against his eyebags, then leaves before he can do more damage.

The third day, Bradley doesn’t even bother. Goofy reassures him that the prince has not been captured. Max imagines all the ways he could have died. He’s left with goosebumps for hours.

But on the fourth day his presence means the most. Max wakes up in the middle of the night to strange sounds, as if there had been rustling in his room. He sits up immediately, hand subconsciously tugging at his lamp’s tassel.

There, Bradley is illuminated in a mustard glow, frozen. The man is crouched right in front of his night stand. When their eyes meet—the prince staring in absolute horror—something falls. Max looks away to see Bradley drop a sheet of paper. The same handwriting he’d seen before, all smooth and cursive. But it’s sloppy this time. Rushed.

When he glances back, Bradley is already shuffling away.

Max can’t take this anymore. Can’t take all of his disappearances, can’t take the ravenous thoughts eating him up. They had something. And even though everything’s gone to a pile of shit, he won’t have Bradley just… let that go effortlessly.

“Where are you going?”

Bradley pauses again. Well, that implies he never stopped moving. In the dim lights, Max could still see his figure, twitching. At first, he thinks the prince won’t answer him. Then: “I’m leaving.”

“Yeah. No shit, Sherlock. You’ve been doing that for the past couple of days.”

He turns around. Bradley has always conjured up this exhausted aura around him. But here, he looks more tired than ever, the bags under his eyes severely darkened. “I’m leaving for a long time, Max.”

What? The Fuck? Does that mean?

The words throw him for a loop. To the point where he’s distracted, enough for him to not notice Bradley has already booked it. When he hears the quiet thud on his stairs, Max’s brain finally catches up to reality. Flinging his blanket off, he runs out of his room, following Bradley’s every move.

When Max finally reaches him, Bradley’s already out the front door. He steps outside in his pajamas, rain pelting his skin. He resists the urge to shudder, attention solely on Bradley. The prince is only a foot or two from walking on the concrete road.

He doesn’t know what to do, relying purely on instinct. Bradley glances back at him—first on his eyes, lips, then back down at his fingers, now wrapped around Bradley’s hand. Max had staggered forward, reaching out the only way he knew: by grabbing his wrist.

He told himself he would remain strong. But bit by bit, he’s already breaking. And he knows Bradley can see right through him. “Please,” Max begs him, squeezing onto his hand.

“Stay.”

At the end of the day, Max is more boy than man. How could he ever try to be anything more than weak? And so, tears fall down his cheeks—so easy, it’d been like breathing. It came too naturally. Bradley’s face scrunches up at the sight; not disgusted, just ashamed.

Max should be as well. He should, but he’s not. Because liking Bradley could never be described as any shameful act. It was merely the truth, just another one of the knightly virtues he lived by.

In a way, there was honor in maybe even loving Bradley.

He waits and in the meanwhile watches as Bradley’s features shift. How his cheeks flushed in desire, how his eyes were full of longing yet grief all the same time, how his lips curved at the edges—a slight smile that was fragile, close to shattering completely.

Max knows the prince is about to speak before words even come out.

“I can’t,” Bradley whispers. He pulls back, almost afraid. Afraid?

Of what? Of what, Max asks—knowing in his heart the answer has to be him.

The rain starts to drizzle, drowning them in its sound. “It’s pouring,” Max says, hopeful. “You’re gonna catch a cold.”

“So?”

“Come inside. I can—I can make you tea. We can drink it while we cuddle on the couch and watch bad movies.” This perfect image flooding into his head makes his chest pound. “We can be happy,” Max promises. “Together.”

Bradley resembles an angel in the rain. He removes his glasses, delicately pocketing them. This sends a twinge of pain in his heart, for beads of water are dripping down his face. Max wonders if any of them happen to be tears. His lip seems to be quivering.

“You’d be happier without me.”

No. No, what? How the hell did he get to that conclusion? Max peers over, hopeless. He tugs at Bradley’s sleeve instead. God, he’s soaking wet—flat hair dripping, shirt so damp it’d become see-through. There is warmth inside, Max wants to tell him. Please, please, please. Go inside.

He doesn’t. Rather, Max lets out a sob; almost like he was crumbling into pieces. “There has to be something I can do to convince you,” he insists, voice cracking far too often. “I’ll do anything.”

“You don’t have to do that, Max.”

“No, but—” He pulls Bradley closer. Their noses could touch if they weren’t careful. The prince kept his distance, though. Because of course he did.

“I want to, okay?” Max continues, then takes a big breath. “I’ll—I’ll let you call me freshman or freshie or whatever you want. You can make as many rude remarks as you want, and I won’t even call you a bitch for it.”

“I,” Max exhales, “would fucking destroy the Uppercrust Kingdom from the ground up if you asked.” His knuckles cling so hard to Bradley’s sleeve it’s changed to a sickly white. Or at least that’s how it looks in the dark, raindrops not making it any brighter. “Your wish is my command, Bradley.”

Bradley leans away. Anger sneaks into his features, scowling amidst all his heartbreak. “You could at least leave me alone.” He sneers. It hurts. “Why? Why won’t you—?”

“Because I love you!”

He screams it out, the words coming straight from his core. The storm, for a brief moment, seems miniscule in comparison. Bradley flinches, pupils widening. But not as surprised as Max, who instantly clamps his own mouth shut, more horrified than he could possibly imagine.

The prince stands still. He looks him right in the eye. As if challenging him. “Do you really?”

Shit. Shit, why did he say that? Max’s mouth opens but nothing dares to leave. I want to love you, the words in the back of his throat call out, suffocated, but I don’t know how. If he was being honest—like, incredibly honest—Max didn’t think he even could be much of a good boyfriend to him. He was stupid for offering in the first place.

Stupid. It was a good way to describe him.

When it’s become excruciatingly transparent Max has no response, Bradley smiles. His lips twitch, and there is such sorrow woven into his skin that it kills him. He thinks the prince’s smile will always kill some part of him. To get the chance to see something so beautiful yet not truly have it. Unattainable. That was what he was. And Max should’ve known that from the start.

Bradley does the most un-Bradley move of all time. He crouches down even though his pants are for sure going to get muddy from the wet soil. A fucking prince lowers himself so he can glance up at a commoner like Max. He’ll forever be haunted by that look of gratitude. Eyes that spelled out a goodbye that happens too soon.

He lowers himself down so he can take Max’s hand and press onto them a kiss. His lips grace soused knuckles with respect only royalty could dream of. Bradley moves, sluggish. Or alternatively, Max internally plays this moment in slow-motion, trying to savor the prince’s mouth on his hand. That’s probably it. Otherwise Bradley wouldn’t walk away so quickly.

“I wrote you something.”

Max whips around, only for him to already be crossing the road. Even as he’s stepping off to the outside world, Bradley calls out, “You should read it.” The rain nearly drowns him out. Though it’d only been for a second, Max swears there’d been an ounce of hope hidden in his voice.

Hope. Hope, that goddamn beast, is the only thing that carries Max out of his front porch. Hope runs through his veins, supporting him like it’d been his very own blood. That’s what drives him to run up a flight of stairs in the dead of night, ignoring how his footsteps echo around the house. Without hope, he wouldn’t have frantically burst open the door to his bedroom. Hope is what guides him to his mattress, where he—with shaking hands—pulls the sheet of paper from his nightstand.

A letter. Addressed to him at the top. Max runs his fingers over the calligraphy, admiring how the letters intertwine in such a gorgeous manner. How aesthetic Bradley had made his name. Briefly, Max wonders if that’s how the prince sees him. Beautiful.

He doesn’t want to think about that anymore. He dives into the contents of the letter.

My Dearest Maximillian Goof,

Don’t worry. This isn’t an essay. It’s much worse, actually: a love letter. Gross, right?

(Max snorts, subconsciously thumbing the edge of the paper so it stays flat.)

I’ve never been good at expressing how I feel. Especially when it comes to saying words out loud. It’s hard not to rely on old habits. I thought you deserved better, though. You know—the real me. As authentic as I’m able to be, anyway.

The truth is, I’ve been avoiding you for the past couple of days because of how much I’ve revised this stupid letter. I went through notebooks. Max, I’m the sole reason for climate change. I can’t imagine how many trees I fucking killed. Their blood is on my hands. Or, well—sap if you want to be technical.

(Who knew Bradley was such a dork? Well, he did. But this was a nice confirmation.)

Let’s just get it out of the way. I love you. I’m pretty sure I love you, anyway. All this stuff is new to me. Whatever I feel about you, it’s really annoying. I wish I could just let you go. Disappear into the night without a word. All cool and mysterious. But I can’t.

I really like it here, Max. There’s something about the way the trees sway here—how much charm your house holds—plus how your dad makes eggs, too. The omelets are remarkable; they’re enough to rival my personal chef. I’ve never felt so… me. All my life I’ve spent being someone else, this mini version of my dad. But here, I had a safe space to explore who Bradley really could be.

Then the guards came. It was a nice surprise. Not pleasant, but nice. It’d been polite for them to remind me of my place. That I was intruding on you, on your hometown. That I could never truly run away from my past. After all, aren’t we all created from history? Doesn’t history make us who we are?

Am I the blood that ran down my father’s chest that night? Am I the knife I’d stabbed right into his heart? Am I his last shaky breaths he’d taken before the darkness swallowed him altogether? I don’t know. I’m something, alright. Something dangerous. I’d brought the royal guards to your town. What if they’d been suspicious? What if they did something to you?

(A part of him permanently fractures. Max wishes he knew this sooner.)

I wouldn’t be able to bear it. I had hurt you many times before. I wanted to prevent that pain. And the best way for me to do that was to leave. I’m continuing the journey we were supposed to have together alone. In a week’s time, maybe I’ll be fishing. Who knows?

You’ll never understand how sorry I am, Max. I dragged you along to this mess, toyed with your feelings, and abandoned you. But I swear this is for the better. It’s okay if you never want to see me again. But I’d like it if you came over. Ideally, not now. I think we need some time separated before you visit. I’m not in a good head space. I doubt I could see you without bursting into tears right now.

I don’t like this. In another world, I stayed. Your home slowly became my home and I learned how to be my own person. In another world, this letter doesn’t exist.

But in this universe, Max and Bradley can’t go together. I hope you understand.

Love (with all my heart),

Your Bradley.

Max sits there for a long time. He listens to the rain’s pitter-patter against his window. All while he eyes the paper, so nervous you’d think the sheet was made out of glass. There’s something that has to be done. Something that could be incorporated into the duties of a knight himself.

He doesn’t go back to sleep. Rather, when the sun peeks its head, dawn emerges, that’s when Max strikes. That morning, rage seems to bubble beneath his flesh.

It ends up leaking into the day, red and diseased and deadly.

_________

Max marches right up to the motel rooms the guards are occupying like a fucking idiot. The worse point is that he knocks way too many times, so harsh the sound reverberates into the halls. He doesn’t stop until he gets an answer which in hindsight was an outrageous plan.

Thankfully, there’s actually someone inside. Max nearly gets plowed by the door, nose only an inch away from being cut right off. Someone towers over him—a man, large and bulky, with dusty orange locks poking out of his helmet. The stranger glares at him mad, as if he’d woken him up from a nap. Based on the way he yawns, Max probably did.

“Tank,” he grunts his name out. “Lead guardsman of the Uppercrust Kingdom. What business?”

“You need to get out of my town,” Max snarls. “Right now.”

The guard looks at him, bored. He crosses his arms. “Check your attitude, sweetheart. I could smash your pretty little face into oblivion with this bad boy.” Tank pulls a thumb out, grinning.

Max glances over him, unimpressed. If it’s possible, his frown definitely deepened.

“You have no reason to be here,” he spits out.

“Oh, yeah?” Tank’s hand rest on his hips, almost mocking him. “And why’s that?”

He looks at Max like he’s some sort of pathetic kitten, moreso entertaining than anything. Hope seems to die in his throat. How the hell does he prove himself? He’s just…

A knight. A knight wielding a killer sword forged from metals that God touched in their pure form. Or at least that’s how the story goes.

Max almost doesn’t realize he’s drawn his weapon out, not until he finds himself in Tank’s motel room, blade’s edge about to scrape against the guard’s throat.

Tank is backed against a wall. Max, again, is very lucky—no one else in the vicinity except them.

“How did the lead guardsman get himself in this position?” he coos.

He seethes. “I’m not supposed to hurt townsfolk,” Tank grits his teeth. “But right now, you’re veering into dangerous territory. I won’t hesitate to defend myself.”

Max’s gaze lowers, and he notices the guard’s hands balling into fists. They look powerful. To the point where he’s distracted—stuck in a moment of realization that he’s really gotten him into some shit this time. To the point where his mouth runs on, not catching up with his brain quite yet.

“You wouldn’t have to do anything if you just left Bradley alone!”

He backs away, rapidly. The sword drops onto the floor, a clang muffled in carpet. Nobody says a word, both staring at each other in shock. Well, Max most certainly is. Tank just appears confused.

“You… know we’re not gonna harm Bradley, right?” he asks.

“What?”

The guard gives him a sympathetic look. “We just want to talk to him.”

Usually, in movies, that line is used quite ironically. But Max frantically searches for signs. He can only find honesty in Tank’s features. This doesn’t feel right, though.

“But he’s—he’s wanted for murder,” Max stammers.

Tank dismisses his concerns with a wave. “There’s an easy solution to that.”

What the hell is happening right now? First, Bradley runs away after confessing his love—now, this? He’s starting to think this is just one hell of a dream. “Okay, you need to tell me everything.”

“Right now.”

_________

Max sits on the back of a horse, watching as the outskirts of his town shrinks away. He said his goodbyes to his father and friends. He’d even wanted to send a farewell to his childhood teddy bear, but apparently, Max had tossed it too far under his bed or something.

Whatever. It didn’t matter. He was on a mission. Maybe Bradley didn’t want to see him right now. But he deserved to know the truth.

And Max was just the right guy for that job.

Chapter Text

Bradley is used to loneliness; its hold on him consistently a shadow cast over him, lacing him with goosebumps. But it’s never been quite as intense as it is now. He’s familiar with how days sometimes drag on, time’s movement sluggish like a knife thoroughly woven into flesh. Not that he would know about that.

This week is more than a dagger. It’s fucking hell. On the first day, it’s already off to a rough start—that whole fiasco with Max he’d rather not retell. It continued to rain the rest of the day, souring his mood even further. Each drop that trickled down his skin only reminded him of how Max stared at him, eyes so full of want and danger.

It both intrigued and scared him. After all, Bradley had caused that.

…But also, without Bradley, the knight wouldn’t have spat out the words, “I love you,” as if it’d been a slur. He wouldn’t have clamped his mouth so tight, like his heartfelt confession was merely a dirty little secret. Bradley shouldn’t have asked, “Do you really?” He should’ve just left. Otherwise the hurt over his silence wouldn’t have existed in the first place. He could’ve saved himself a lot of trouble.

The morning is spent hunched on top of Amaryllis, his beautiful white horse. And if he stops by a motel to bawl his eyes out, that’s no one’s business except his.

The next day, Bradley wakes up, only to notice the signs of him crying himself to sleep were showing up. His features, which usually radiated old-fashioned charm, were now worn down, to a Victorian-boyish extent. Not one of the cute Victorian boy types. More like in the homeless urchin dying on the street way. At least, that’s what the swollen eyes and wrinkles roughly translate to.

Pathetic. How could he do this to himself? He was Prince Bradley Uppercrust the III! He used to be great. And then he got all wrapped around this business over Maximillian Goof, rendering himself a fool for the sake of a commoner’s life. So what if he’d ended up enjoying his hometown? The silly banter between him and the knight? The home-cooked meals Goofy oh so politely brings him?

This life was soft, yes. But Bradley had been hardened. He’d broken a long time ago and now everybody had to pay the price; rough along the edges, splintering glass shards. He didn’t deserve anything gentle.

He didn’t belong there. And the sooner he pushed that into his mind, the better.

Bradley, for days on end, is traveling. Granted, there’s little bits of breaks here and there—god knows he wouldn’t want a dead horse over his conscience as well—but for the most part, he can’t afford to slack off. If he spent even a little time hesitating, his brain would stupidly wander back to Max and his gentle smile.

And he couldn’t turn back. Not after that letter. That was meant to be a final goodbye. Bradley wanted nothing to do with the knight anymore. Except… for one thing.

Each night, once he hits the motel mattresses, he finds himself clinging onto a stuffed animal, the scent of Max on it quietly withering away. Yes, Bradley knows he’s done enough damage, and he’s on some thin fucking ice for stealing his childhood plushie. But Bradley’s weak. If he were to abandon Max once and for all, he wanted some memorabilia.

It comes in the form of a teddy bear, old buttons bulging out as Bradley unintentionally squeezes it in his sleep. Though he was most certainly a man now, that didn’t mean he couldn’t at least try to heal some of that inner child in him. Even if he thought that idea was kinda a load of bullshit.

It takes him three days to reach the tucked in lands of that “renowned” fishing town. When he rides on in, he notices a sign so ancient all the letters had been rubbed off from time, save for a stray letter here or two. Welcome to… what? No clue.

Bradley is secretly grateful. He challenged Max’s credibility every now and then but this was living proof he hadn’t been lying. The sign matches his description perfectly. Which meant this was perfect.

He wants to thank Max for all his help. But then Bradley remembers he ran off into the rain, not turning back once. And suddenly, nothing seems desirable now.

Bradley ignores this sinking feeling of doom within his stomach. This was the happiest his ending was gonna get. Surrounded by a bunch of grandpas and their stuck-up middle-aged daughters who spoke in funny accents. He might as well try to enjoy it.

His first and second day, he merely rests. Occasionally, Bradley goes out to eat—only to encounter judgemental whispers of this “strange man” in town. When he asks about potentially buying a house, the banker laughs in his face. No one seems to want him here, their fear of anything unfamiliar obnoxiously showing. Bradley would’ve lost his shit if he wasn’t just like them, terrified of the unknown.

He’s still mad, don’t get him wrong. Just, he hasn’t gone on a killing spree, so. Who cares?

_________

However, on the third day, Bradley meets someone new.

A middle-aged man bumps into him when he’s doing his errands. This grocery store in particular seems to have narrow walkways, because of course it does. The wooden walls are splattered sloppily with white paint and they carry all their fruit in baskets and barrels, anyway. It makes sense.

Bradley expects him to get mocked, whether that be over his stiff posture or how “wrong” his choice in eggs is. (Again, the elderly in this town are insane. Perhaps they should invest in some hobbies.)

Instead, the older man just laughs, warmth seeping out of purely the sound. Bradley lightly smiles, and it’s a sensation that aches; it’s been a while since he’s done that. “I’m sorry, kid,” he says, voice all gruff—but not in the way in which it’d intimidate you, gruff as if he's seen some shit and has lived beyond it. “Legs don’t work the way they used to.”

“It’s okay,” Bradley responds, careful. He searches the man’s face for any malice, but detects nothing of the sort. If anything, he’s the opposite, all rainbows and sunshine.

“My name’s Neil.” He offers his hand out.

Bradley reluctantly takes it. “Bradley. I’m, uh. New here.”

Neil softens. “I know. You’ve been the talk of the whole town.”

“Good things, I hope?” It’s sarcasm. Bradley pulls the carton of eggs into his basket, about to leave.

He doesn’t actually expect an answer. “Don’t worry, son,” Neil reassures him. The nickname is enough to send a shiver down his spine. “They’ll grow fond of you soon enough.”

“Oh, please,” Bradley scoffs, not caring about his first impressions anymore. Nothing he does matters here, not when it’s all gonna be faced with ridicule. “I can’t even get my own place here. Frankly, I’m shocked they haven’t thrown pitchforks at me yet.”

“Yeah?” Neil asks, an amused glint in his eyes.

“Yes.” It’s pointed. “Forgive me if I sound harsh but I’m fairly certain they want me dead.”

“I’m sure there’s someone out there who’s willing to let bygones be bygones.”

He sputters out, “There were no bygones in the first place! I didn’t do anything but even the owner of my motel hates me. I swear she purposefully put those bugs underneath my blanket.”

Neil raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like you need somewhere else to stay,” he drawls.

“Like I said,” Bradley rolls his eyes, “I don’t have—”

He’s cut off by Neil, who lightly places his hand on Bradley’s shoulder. It’s oddly comforting. “Buddy. I’m the someone who’ll help you. Got an air mattress in the back. S’got your name on it.”

Bradley blinks at him several times, utterly confused. “You can’t be serious.”

“As serious as I’ve ever been.”

He believes Neil. Fully. It’s scary how much Bradley trusts him off the bat. What kind of witchcraft is this itty bitty fishing town hiding from the world?

“You’re not actually offering to room a complete stranger, are you?”

Neil shrugs, his shopping basket idly swinging. “So, what if I am? Son—”

“Again, my name is Bradley.” He’s mastered sounding both polite and dickish all the same time. It was a skill he looked back at fondly. Now, Bradley regrets how easily it comes to him.

“Fine. Bradley.” He likes the way Neil says his name. Like it means something.

“Let’s just get this out of the way. So you don’t find out in some rumor that’s got it all wrong.” Neil takes a deep breath. “The divorce was finalized not too long ago.” Nothing could prepare Bradley for that hot mess of a sentence. “My wife’s taking everything—including our little girl. I don’t think you could blame me for wanting some company, kid.”

He waits for the kicker, already convinced it’s too good to be true. Neil doesn’t continue, though. “That’s all you have to say?” Bradley squints at him. “Nothing else?”

“What else should I talk about?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He puts on a deeper voice. It’s again, pathetic. Seems like Max made even more of an impact than he realized. “Surprise, Bradley. My son, kiddo, dude. You get to stay at my house for one week, and in return I’ll slice your throat out when you’re asleep.”

Neil lets out a startled chuckle. “Sheesh. You’re dark, you know that?”

“It’s called being realistic,” Bradley snaps.

The man hardly reacts. Just another tender smile that’s making him lose his mind.

“How are you gonna eat those eggs?” Neil asks.

Um. “What?”

Bradley swears he misheard that drastically. But the man gestures to the carton in Bradley’s grocery basket, confirming those nonsensical words.

“Uh,” Bradley continues dumbly. “I figured I’d just chew or something.”

A hearty laugh releases into the air. It’s loud and obnoxious but Bradley can’t help but gravitate towards it. “No, silly. How do you like to prepare your eggs?”

“Oh. I don’t know, I was gonna figure it out later.” A part of him is embarrassed to admit he’s not well-versed in the realm of egg-prepping. He barely even knows how to use a pan. “Why?”

Neil grins, face scrunched up. Despite his wrinkles being so visible, it didn’t make him seem older. Just more… joyful. “Well, I cook up a mean omelet.”

Damn. That’s sure got his attention.

Before Bradley knows it, he’s moved in. It’s already been a week after he left Max’s hometown, and he can’t seem to shake what happened off. Therefore, it’s no surprise Bradley latches on to the first thing that offers him the light of day. Any distractions were welcome.

The first week was hell, absolutely. But the second…

Well, he found himself pleasantly surprised.

_________

Bradley’s lost track of time at this point. All he knows is he wakes up in the middle of the night, chest heaving and sweat trailing down his face. Because of course he’s plagued with nightmares left and right. There’s something about this town that makes him confront everything he’s run away from, from visions of burying his father’s body to Max’s shattered expression when he’d kissed him on the hand. There’s something about this town that makes Bradley really hate himself.

He takes deep breaths, careful not to make too much sound. Bradley doesn’t remember yelling by any means but based on how hoarse his throat feels, he certainly damaged his vocal cords somehow. Looking around his surroundings, he’s grateful for the open window, illuminating the room with moonlight. Though it’s still dark, Bradley can nonetheless tell he’s safe—resting on Neil’s pull-out couch in the quaint living room. It’s starting to feel familiar.

He slips away, abandoning his blanket and stuffed animal for a glass of water. It isn’t until Bradley steps into the kitchen that the lights suddenly turn on. The man recoils at the sudden brightness, nearly hissing. Whipping around, he realizes right behind him, finger on the light switch, is a very concerned Mister Neil.

“I heard you scream, Bradley. Is everything okay?”

For a moment, he feels the mask shift, the porcelain close to chipping. But then, Bradley gains back control of his persona. Thank god. “Everything’s fine, Neil,” he responds coolly. “Just a bad dream.”

“I know just the cure for that, son.”

“Uh. And what exactly is that, sir?”

Neil waves him off, chuckling. “You don’t need to call me sir. God knows I don’t deserve that.”

Bradley bites his lip, mostly to restrain himself from telling the truth: that he’s too used to saying it.

“Have you gone by the lake yet?” Neil continues.

He shakes his head. “I’m your errand boy,” Bradley reminds him. “Haven’t got the time.”

“Great!” The man claps his hand, excited. “Why don’t you fetch my fishing rods?”

“Wait. What?”

Neil grins, a sight he still can’t help but lean into. “Might as well catch a fish or two before they wake up.”

That’s how Bradley finds himself cowering in a tiny, wooden boat. It’s still dark, twinkles of white popping out every now and then in the night sky. Neil is right beside him, breathing in the misty air. He doesn’t realize it then, but admiration floods into his chest. How easy it was for the middle-aged man to live in the moment.

Maybe that could be him one day.

Bradley is distracted by the man casting his fishing rod. So distracted he almost misses the question.

“What was the nightmare about?” Neil asks.

He flinches immediately. Then turns away so Neil doesn’t notice how his face has gone aflame, red from embarrassment. “It’s stupid,” Bradley mutters, even though it hadn’t felt very stupid going through it. The dream felt so real. Horrifying, really.

“Kid.” Neil rests his hand on Bradley’s shoulder. For some reason, he doesn’t pull away. “I’ve lived a long time and I can confirm that whatever you think is stupid—isn’t that bad.”

“If I tell you, will you leave me alone?” Bradley deadpans. When he receives a nod, Bradley sighs, fidgeting with his thumbs. “Um. There’s this guy I like—liked, I mean. And I imagined myself, like. Killing him.” Instantly, he cringes at how awkward the words come out. “Sorry. I’ll be quiet.”

“Don’t be,” Neil reassures him. “That must’ve been scary.”

Bradley stares out into the lake, its midnight blue waves crashing onto the boat. It’s beautiful. “Yeah,” he whispers. “It really was.” His hands felt empty. But in the dream they’d been weighed down by the same silver blade used to murder his father, so. You win some, you lose some.

“I’m so scared of hurting him.” Bradley doesn’t stop. Why? Because he’s a fool, probably. “That’s why I came here. I mean, a part of why I’m here, anyway. It’s complicated.”

Neil nods, understanding. He’s felt seen, most particularly by Max, but this is different. Neil was wise beyond his years and to be known and respected by a man with such experience, it’d… well, it brought him just a tiny bit of joy. “We have all the time in the world,” he drawls. “If you want to share, of course.”

“Maybe one day,” he admits.

Silence engulfs their conversation. Bradley doesn’t know what to say, just watches the boat rock back and forth. Neil patiently waits, relaxing as he readjusts his grip on the rod. The quietness is nice, though. One he could really get used to.

“This guy,” Neil begins, soft. “His name doesn’t happen to be Max, is it?”

The world ends as he knows it. Bradley turns around in the span of one second, feeling his heart sink. This was just another dream, wasn’t it? Reality could never be this beautiful. Could it?

Bradley lowers his gaze. “How do you know that?”

“I’m friends with the county sheriff.” That doesn’t surprise him at all. “There’s been some talk of this… go-getter. Apparently, he’d been causing a scene, asking about this ‘Bradley.’”

He’s silent. “Where is he now?” Bradley asks, voice shaky.

“Probably in the temporary jail. I’m sure they’ll let him out soon.”

Bradley has so many thoughts running through his brain and not a certain one could be put into coherent words. He’s dealt with want before. But god, this is so much more different. Desire is flooding into each and every one of his senses; he feels Max’s breath on his, feels his hands and lips and smile and voice and everything else that Bradley has learned to love about him. Even though Max is out there, likely rotting in a makeshift prison cell, Max still manages to make himself present—even if that happens to be in the depths of Bradley’s fragile heart.

“He seems special,” Neil comments, breaking him free from his swarming mind.

His cheeks flush, warmth coming back all at once. “He is,” Bradley answers.

They’re back to the comfortable silence. “What’s stopping you?”

“What?” Bradley asks.

“From going to him.”

How could he possibly tell this, albeit well-meaning, stranger all his thoughts? They’re ravenous and torn at the same time, hungry for things that could never possibly mix. It’s complicated. It’s complicated, and Bradley wishes it wasn’t, but the world is ridiculously cruel. To be close to him would be heaven. To hurt him would hurt like fucking hell.

So, yeah. That’s definitely stopping him.

Bradley clears his throat, eyes steady at the sky. “I don’t think I could bear it.”

Neil smiles.

“Do you love him?”

That catches him off-guard to the point where he nearly tips over the boat. Bradley’s chest pounds, even though he knows full well he’s not in danger.

That’s a lie, his heart insists. (He tells it to shut the fuck up.)

Bradley turns away. He isn’t strong enough to face Neil and his gentle eyes. “It’s complicated,” he repeats himself and leaves it at that.

The older man laughs. “Go to him. Maybe then, it’ll clear everything up.”

Or, you know, make things worse.

Bradley doesn’t tell Neil that, though. He just looks at the midnight stars, takes it all in, and subconsciously… Bradley makes a plan.

_________

It’s been two weeks since Bradley last saw Max. Or maybe it’s closer to three. Or, if we really stretch time and its many possibilities, he’s spent an eternity away from Max.

It’s dramatic, he knows. But Bradley has always been a little over the top; it’s not something he’s necessarily proud of, but it happens. He’s especially feeling the effects of his personality when he sees Max sitting by himself, fidgeting with his sleeves, behind bars. It’s like the world stops spinning, just so Bradley can really soak the knight in.

He’s just as handsome as he remembers. Which, to be expected. But even then, Bradley finds himself peering into Max’s very soul—as if trying to memorize his features because he knows too well how fickle time can be. Their hours together were limited. It was better this way, to look from afar.

But then, Max flickers his eyes away from fabric, and suddenly Bradley is having a heart attack? Why? Well, easy. Max glances right at him, his eyes widening, and his mouth curls into such a relieved smile it kills a part of Bradley.

To be seen by Max with such love, it was a privilege. He didn’t think he deserved it.

They settle there for a moment—Max sitting there awe-struck, Bradley awkwardly waiting for the sheriff to unlock the cell doors. When there is nothing blocking them, yet again that familiar surge of fear eats at his chest. He hadn’t prepared himself to be close to Max. What would he do?

Max steps out. He walks forward, before stopping only a few inches from Bradley.

His eyes say everything. Bradley’s worried when he sees Max lean in. But then, before he knows it, Max wraps his arms around his waist and squeezes. A hug. Okay, that’s fine. Except Max does bury his head in the space between his neck and shoulder. So, maybe the world is ending.

It doesn’t seem like he’s leaving anytime soon. “I missed you.” Max’s voice is muffled out, words suffocated into Bradley’s dress shirt. The gesture makes him want to cry.

“I missed you, too,” Bradley quietly says.

Max immediately pulls away, nervous. He taps his foot while stammering out, “I’m sorry. I know you said in your letter to not visit yet but I wasn’t sure how long and frankly I was getting really tired of waiting—”

“When did you start traveling?”

The knight looks away, guilty. “The day after you left.” Quickly, he adds on, “Not because I don’t respect your wishes or anything; I’m a gentleman, we both know that. It’s just—” Max exhales, breathless. “I learned something really important.”

Something’s not right. “It took you two weeks to get here?” According to his calculations, that shouldn’t have happened.

Max flushes. Bradley missed the sight of that most of all, the pink in his cheeks addicting to look at. “I waited,” he whispers, “in a shitty motel room for a week.”

He swallows. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.” A sheepish smile twitches onto Max’s lips. “But I wanted to.” He sighs. “I didn’t want to lose you again. I was afraid you’d… run off. And that this was all for nothing.”

“I’m tired of running away, Max.”

He grins. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bradley admits, quietly. “I think I like it here.”

Shyly, he reaches over. Max blinks at him as if there’s something caught in his eye. His pupils seem to dilate when Bradley cups his face tenderly. “I’m glad,” Max murmurs.

“But it’s nothing compared to you.”

Bradley doesn’t realize the words have left his mouth until he notices the knight’s gaze. It’s full of wonder. He feels his face get hot. “Sorry,” Bradley mutters. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Max shrugs. “S’okay,” and with a playful smile, he adds, “I liked your letter by the way.”

His cheeks are bound to be blossoming red now. “Please don’t remind me.” It was meant to be a farewell. Yet here he was, standing right in front of Bradley. He didn’t want to confront his feelings for Max right now in-person. Or, well—ever.

“Why not?” Max laughs. “It was sweet.”

“That’s the point,” Bradley deadpans. “I can’t believe you let me act like that.”

The knight leans in, grinning. “Act like what? A lovesick fool? Because let’s face it…”

He rolls his eyes. “There’s something about the Goof household, I swear to god.”

“You make it sound like we’re parasitic or something.”

“Exactly. Some sort of disease spreading. Makes me completely uncouth.”

“So what?” Max raises an eyebrow. “Are you saying this isn’t your true self coming to light?”

Bradley sputters out, “Of course not!”

“You know, there’s no one here.” Except for the sheriff waiting in the corner. Even though they may be in their own world right now, it’s important to not forget that. “Who are you pretending for?”

He’s stunned. “Um. Is myself an answer?”

“You really are a dork,” Max snorts.

God, the way he’s looking at Bradley… It’s almost like he’s asking to be made out with. Max looks up at him through his eyelashes, half-lidded—appearing as though he’s in a daze. It’s ridiculously attractive.

He arches his back, lowering himself to meet Max’s eyes. “Is that bad?”

Bradley doesn’t realize it then, too caught up in the moment, but he just flirted with the knight. Thankfully, Max flirts back—something shifting within his features.

“Not at all.”

They’re so close, and when he whispers those words, thick with desire, Bradley feels Max’s breath on his ears. It’s like he’d said earlier: there was something parasitic about the Goofs. How drawn he was to them. The knight, especially. He steps forwards, not even thinking about consequences. The man is in his own world, one where the only thing that matters is them kissing passionately.

Before Bradley knows it, their lips touch—slotting together perfectly.

Their first kiss had been sweet and short but this? This is unlike any of it. Their bodies gravitate to one another, and Bradley finds himself clinging onto Max’s face, cupping it while he presses his lips onto Max’s harshly. Max’s back settles against the bars, but he doesn’t seem to mind being cornered too much—hands clinging onto Bradley’s waist.

The kiss is messy, desperate, and intense; Max’s tongue exploring the corners of his mouth and Bradley’s lips having a bit of a bite to them. It’s hot, even if Bradley sometimes nips at Max’s mouth and he winces. It’s super hot when their tongue meets too, even if it’s a little gross to think about saliva and all that shit being shared.

But honestly. He wouldn’t have it any way. If he was going to have Max, he might as well make the most of it. And that included a kiss for the ages. The type of kiss that leaves your chest gasping for air yet wanting more and more and more. The type of kiss that swallows you whole.

He never wants to leave Max’s side ever again.

The thought comes to him immediately. It scares him, sure, but mostly it surprises him. Bradley didn’t realize he could feel so… authentic about someone. Though, he supposes the letter was proof enough. Still: it’s like his feelings for Max have gone off the charts now. He’s still left craving.

As they’re engrossed in a heated make out session, a bang scares the shit out of them. The two jump away from one another, then glance over at the interruption. It’s the county sheriff who looks bored out of his mind.

“Take this outside,” the man grumbles, words slightly muted by his ridiculous, thick mustache. “I have a smoke break and I’m not leaving you two troublemakers alone in the office.”

Max exchanges a look at Bradley. It’s too bad Bradley’s too distracted over how red and swollen Max’s lips appear.

“Wait,” the knight says. “You’re letting me go?”

The sheriff’s eyes shift into slits. “If I still see you by the time I’m done with my cig, you bet your ass it’s in danger.” He pushes right past them, intentionally hitting Max with his shoulder blade. “Yes, I’m letting you go.”

“Thank you!” Max calls out but the man’s already out the door.

Normally, Bradley would be concerned over the threat of a stranger but god, it’s hard to be when Max is right there. Somehow, the knight stifles his laughter, with twinkling eyes and restrained smile that just cracks Bradley up. He’s all warmth now.

Perhaps being soft isn’t such a bad thing after all.

“Max,” Bradley starts, the dread already sinking in. “Why—why’d you come here?”

The younger man shrinks. “We can talk about it later,” Max insists.

“I want to know.”

He’s not just talking about Max’s presence. He’s talking about how confusing their entire relationship is. Bradley wants to know and the only way he can figure his way out of this mess is by talking to him. What are they? I want to know.

Max sighs. “If I tell you, then this moment ends. I don’t want to leave this.” Although he doesn’t continue, Bradley already senses the hidden implications. I don’t want to leave this. I don’t want to leave you. He senses the “Later” in Max’s tone.

And well, he didn’t know how to argue with that.

“Okay,” Bradley whispers. “What do you suppose we do now?”

Max shrugs. “Leave this smelly sheriff station?”

He rolls his eyes. “Obviously. I meant after.”

The knight pretends to think, his familiar and very kissable smirk growing at the sides.

“I was thinking maybe you’d just hold me,” Max finally answers.

And well, how could he argue with that?

They leave the station with their hands clasped together. Bradley knows he’s surely grossing Max out with his sweaty palms and tight squeeze. But he doesn’t seem to react. Just seems to soak in the moment. It reminds him of Neil, that kind, middle-aged man who’d taken him under his wing for a brief time.

He had so much to explain to Neil afterwards.

Bradley had gone through many arcs in his lifetime. He’d been the kingdom’s precious little boy, then the angsty teen prince surrounded by constant gossip, and most recently: a young man who’s finally learnt to navigate his own life. Whether that be via killing his father or falling in love with a commoner, that’s up to debate.

He thinks, maybe, this is his favorite arc. That this might be the happiest he’s ever been.

It’s a comforting thought.

Chapter Text

Although Max is not an early bird by any means, he ends up waking up right as the morning settles in, rays breaking through the flimsy blinds of their motel room. Yes, the sun’s made its way inside, but that’s not why he’s awake.

It’s because he’s grown too used to Bradley at his side, too used to the tender warmth that burns his skin. Max stares miserably at the spot where the prince had rested; he’d slept long enough to temporarily shape his bed in his own body. It made him all soft inside.

For a brief moment, he’s scared Bradley has left. For good.

But then, Max feels his tousled hair being played with, long, lanky fingers running through his dark strands. And all is well. “Good morning to you, too,” Max mumbles, still lazy from sleep.

“I’m heading out soon,” Bradley says.

That sure gets his attention; Max sits back up, nearly hitting himself on the headboard. He blinks, eyelashes fluttering, as he desperately tries to grasp his surroundings. When his vision is only mildly blurred, he realizes that Bradley stands in front of him in his typical royal attire. Today’s the day.

“I thought we were going together.” Max tries to stay calm but he can sense the whine coming through. Thankfully, he thinks the sleepiness in his voice is enough to distract Bradley. He thinks, anyway.

The prince gently smiles. “I don’t know what’s going to happen,” he quietly admits. “All I know is if anything bad happens, I’d rather you be…” Bradley chooses his words carefully, “safe.”

“That’s why I want to be there,” Max insists. “The Queen of the Uppercrust Kingdom wants to ‘have a friendly chat’ with you: a wanted criminal.”

“She’s still my mom.” But the words come out weak, unsure.

He sighs. “Bradley, please.”

As much as he doesn’t want to continue this conversation, Max knows how important it is. These past days have been fun, traveling alongside the guards—them sneaking around when the moment calls for it. But it’s been filled with banter, filled with avoidance of what their relationship has come to. They can’t just joke around anymore. Not when things are getting fucking serious.

It’s time for some good ol’ communication.

“You said you were tired of running away,” Maz whispers.

“I’m not running away.” The words feel hollow.

He takes a deep breath. “Then why does it feel like you always are?”

Bradley looks at him, gaze fragile. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I don’t say it often. I think I’d use it too much. Especially if I’m around you.” A beat. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be sorry enough.”

“That’s fine,” Max says before nuzzling his face in Bradley’s shoulder. “You can be sorry as much as you want. I just want you to be there.”

The prince is silent. For a moment, he’s seriously terrified he’s done something incredibly wrong. When Max pulls away, he’s assured by Bradley’s soft smile that everything is okay.

“I’m going to try.” Bradley’s eyes tell a story he’s only gotten the chance to see bits of. They’re wet, glistening in the morning sun. “I’m not perfect. I have never been and I won’t ever be. But I want to do better for you, Max. I want to be better.” He swallows. “So, I’ll try.”

Max doesn’t cry. But god, he never realized how much he needed Bradley to say that.

“Boyfriends?” Max asks. It’s not really a question. Yet his heart is pounding to know the answer.

Bradley wraps his arms around his waist. “Boyfriends.”

It’s a start. And he’ll take it.

_________

It’s strange being back in the Uppercrust Kingdom. Even so, Max didn’t predict he’d be escorted by the royal guards themselves. There they are, walking to their doom whilst white, pristine walls tower over them. Their little group consists of Bradley and Max holding hands while three men are up ahead. Most notably, Tank is the one leading them on with a flashy smirk and his gruff voice.

He feels small. which could totally be explained by how god damn giant these castle halls are. But Max knows himself. Knows that the truth is jealousy has crept into his chest and with each step, his breath struggles to stay contained. He’s painfully aware of how irrational he’s being, but also—he’s learnt quite quickly that Tank had been childhood friends with the prince. So, of course they’re on polite terms and of course the lead guard uses endearing pet names with Bradley.

Of course.

Trying to distract himself from his emotions, Max turns his focus to the art on the walls. Granted, there’s fancy sculptures here and that but the one that really does a number on him is a large painting, hung up right in the center of the hall as to gain the most attention. It’s a portrait, one by a man he despised even before his quite deserved death. The previous king of the Uppercrust Kingdom. The II. Bradley’s “old man.” Despite the fact it’s a literal drawing, it’s still able to bring a shiver down his spine. He gotta give props to the artist for that one—they were able to capture his mean glare quite well.

Those eyes. He remembers the day they’d met like it was yesterday.

Max was fifteen, newly filled with this excitement, one that only came after a big win. Dad had finally gotten his teaching credentials, he’d been gifted with a golden trophy, and he’d gotten to see Bradley’s smug smirk fade away within a snap. (That last part was the most important. Kidding. Sorta.) Unfortunately, that happiness all came to an end when he’d been approached by a man after school.

He was tall, rigid, and awfully familiar. So it didn’t take long for Max to connect the dots—what with his combed back cinnamon locks and intense blue eyes that made him audibly gulp. Back then, he’d assumed that Bradley had whined to his father due to his sore losery nature.

Now Max knows better. Now he understands Bradley’s dad is just a bitch.

He was fifteen when the king of the Uppercrust Kingdom had rammed his shoulder into the walls of his school, threatening to “use his power” if Max didn’t withdraw from his win. Which to this day is still crazy. Did Bradley’s father really expect for him to agree to these stupid terms? What was even the point? He’d already won. Bradley’s reputation was in shambles. Withdrawing meant nothing.

Except if you’re the Uppercrust king and you’re not used to getting what you want, he supposes.

The asshole unsurprisingly didn’t hurt him. But regardless, Max was a kid. And when the king had tightened his grip on his grasp, he totally thought he was about to die right then and there. It was a little embarrassing when Max started tearing up. Looking back on it now, the only embarrassing one was Bradley’s dad. The man was seething, eyes boiling from rage, over a stupid game his son had fucked up. No wonder Bradley resorted to cheating. Imagine all that pressure.

Max didn’t know what to do. To get the king off his back, he knew only one person that could help. After all, he wasn’t about to burden his friends and father with this encounter. They’d make it a huge deal. Which it was, but Max didn’t need additional strain on his mental state. The truth was, the only appropriate guy to call up was Bradley. He assumed that if anyone could get into that bastard’s head, it was his son. He didn’t realize they had a… complicated relationship, to say the least.

Still, Max approached the prince. He hadn’t been groveling on his knees or anything. Even so, it sorta felt like that. To look up at Bradley and his shit-eating grin and ask for his assistance. Although—ever since the aftermath of the Xavieth Games—he hardly wore that familiar smile. Instead, a scowl framed his face quite well. It’s not like Max preferred the way he went maniac, his features so exaggerated and cruel. His deepened frown gave him the creeps though. It was as if Bradley didn’t care about anything anymore. That was another type of terrifying.

Nonetheless, Max still pushed through his fears and asked if he could get the king off his back. Bradley hadn’t believed him at first. He looked more tired than ever. But as Max continued to recall the confrontation, getting more antsy and frantic as time went on—Bradley interrupted him. Dismissed his concerns with a wave. Said, I’ll talk to him. Max didn’t believe him either. Seemed like a commonality they shared back then, this distrust in the same air they breathed.

Except Bradley did talk to his father. He knows because the next day, he came to school with a black eye. When Max idiotically went up and asked him what happened, the only thing Bradley said was: You owe me.

Those were the last words said to him before Bradley moved schools. Not even a formal goodbye or anything. Though it’s not like they were close enough to say that. Still, Max never got to thank him.

Now he’s eighteen. He’s seen Bradley past the hypermaniac grin, past the narrowed eyes that could cut through flesh. The prince can wear an awfully pretty smile, too. There was more to him. Max is eternally grateful for his stupidity, for breaking into the Uppercrust Kingdom’s renowned gala.

He wonders how different his life would be if he hadn’t reunited with Bradley.

Max hears his name called. Shaking his head, he comes back to reality and pushes past the portrait of the king. The man doesn’t deserve that much time being admired.

They inch closer and closer to the throne room. Each step feels final.

_________

Bradley doesn’t miss this place. He’d rarely been allowed in the “king’s domain,” what with his father’s growing disdain for his son. However, when the time would come and he’d be forced to prop down next to the enormous throne, there was always something… sticking to his skin. (Ignoring the sweat, which would absolutely trail down his forehead in beads). He could never figure it out. Perhaps it was the way his father would stare when Bradley introduced himself, eyes hollowed and icy. Or the way his mother would brush her son away, her dismissing touch lingering on his arm.

Perhaps his own self was the reason he’d felt like this—melting in the light that crept from stained glass. He did not deserve to appear so beautiful those faithful days, the rays of sun now transformed into gorgeous different colors.

They’d replaced the stained glass, he learns quickly when he enters the throne room. They’d replaced a lot of things, actually. All the tiny details his father went rabid over are now gone. Instead, bits and pieces of his mother shone through. Whether that be with the velvet carpet leading to the throne or the sculptures lining her seat, it had the extravagant energy his dad ended up despising.

It felt youthful, Bradley realized. It made sense. She’d only been a girl when they’d gotten married. The curses of being sent off to a man of royal blood; they never seemed to care about innocence.

His mother was an interesting character. It’s apparent when she turns her head to the group, a smile that shimmers in the afternoon light. She looks younger than ever, blonde hair curled and brown eyes wrinkled from joy. Bradley wishes he appeared closer to her.

Then again, maybe that would’ve led to a world full of more hurt.

The three guards bow, and then run up to her sides. Bradley and Max bow, too, then stay put in a spot about a feet or two away from the queen. It’s strange, to be reduced to commoner status.

“Bradley!” she exclaims. “Oh, baby. I missed you so much.”

Did he hear that right? Um. “What?” Bradley eventually croaks out.

The knight, behind him, squeezes his hand. They haven’t left each other’s fingers once. He’s never felt so relieved over someone’s touch. Usually, it's the opposite feeling.

His mom pushes herself off the throne—she looked so small sitting there—and propels herself into Bradley’s arms. He lets go of Max, letting out a surprised squeak when the queen spins him around. When was the last time they hugged? Maybe when he’d been a child.

He still felt like a child. More so than ever when she pulls away, this hope sprawls into her features.

“I’m not mad,” she murmurs. “I hope you know that.”

Bradley doesn’t avoid his consequences. Not anymore. “Does everyone know?”

The queen smiles. “The people have their theories. But we can make that go away with a snap.”

“Seriously?” This seems too easy.

“Of course!” she giggles. For someone who’s in her late-30s, she’s seemingly reverting into her years of being a young woman. “Bradley, your father was gonna kick the bucket soon, anyway.” It’s a little insane how happy she sounds about this. “If the assassination wasn’t gonna work out, there was always gonna be a mutiny of some sort. And you know how your dad would’ve reacted to that.”

He’s receiving a lot of new information much too quickly. There’s no time to process.

“...Mother, I beg your pardon?” Bradley wonders how much his mom had been hiding from him. It’s not like they talked.

She tilts her head. “Oh dear,” the queen mutters under her breath. “Sorry, I’ve just been running off my mouth. Why don’t I get down to business?”

Bradley furrows his eyebrows. “What exactly is this business?”

“Well, I gotta welcome you back as my little prince, don’t I?”

Huh? He’s parted his lips to say this exact word but his body has not caught up to his thoughts. Instead, his mouth dumbly hangs open, too many questions forming in his mind. “I thought I would be in trouble, Mother,” Bradley finally blurts out. “This… doesn’t seem like a punishment.”

“I’m not executing one of my kin!” his mom shouts. “You came from my womb, baby.” Thanks for the reminder. “I’ll love you no matter what. Even if you’ve committed first-degree murder.” She pauses. “Actually, I think I love you more for killing your father. He really deserved it, didn’t he?”

His mouth feels too dry to answer. So, he ignores the question. Sorry, Mom.

Bradley clears his throat. “So,” he says, still struggling with his words. “I’m not a criminal anymore?”

She shakes her head. “Oh, sweetie,” the queen coos. “Tomorrow, we’re coming out with information about your father’s suicide. All this talk of ‘criminal activity’ is merely a bundle of rumors. The people’s minds love to run off with connections, you see.”

“Well, it is suspicious to run away right after your father’s gone missing.”

His mother laughs. “You know how strong the media is, darling. We can twist anything into whatever we want. That’s the joy of being royalty. You can get back that joy as soon as today.”

Suddenly, Bradley understands what’s going on. He is now faced with choices, stuck at a fork. The path has strayed into two. He’s looking at the first trail—eyes met with the queen’s. When he turns back, he glances over at the second trail, left breathless as always. There Max waits behind him, an indecipherable look woven into his features. It’s restrained, put up carefully.

Does he go back to what he’s known his entire life or leap into the unknown?

He hesitates. How could he not? To be a prince without his father’s presence looming over him; that was the dream. What an easy life that would be. Fed by the finest chefs, shaking hands with princesses and famous musicians and folks renowned everywhere. Even tucked into bed by servants; if he’d asked, he’s sure they’d tell him a story and kiss him on the forehead. Speaking of which.

“Don’t you want the power?” his mom asks after the brief moment of silence.

Power. Bradley thought that was all that mattered back when he was young. Now, older, he knows he spent nearly all of his childhood powerless. This was a chance to get that control back. Especially since Bradley was the only heir. He was practically bound into being a king. Loved, worshiped even, by those he ruled over. To live an easy life, that was the dream.

The dream. The dream, the dream, the dream.

What about the nightmare? What about Max?

It would be harder, that’s for sure. But maybe all he really needed was freedom. Maybe Bradley could live off waking up from gentle kisses pressed on the back of his neck.

That’s not just it, though. Bradley has grown to love Max—not just via appearance, though he can admit the knight’s ridiculously handsome—whether that be through his silly one-liners or undying loyalty or excruciatingly honest kindness. It’s a struggle because he knows full well that the history behind them is harsh and they certainly haven’t spent enough time to truly eradicate their relationship from it. But he’d like to. He’d like to get to know Max, like really know him. To see his deepest, darkest secrets and love him regardless. After all, hadn’t Max done the same to him?

Bradley senses his hand being squeezed again. When he turns around, Max looks at him with such a heartbroken expression it breaks him. The knight smiles, small and shy. “Don’t think about little ol’ me,” Max breathes out. “Do what you want.”

What if what I want is you? He almost asks. Instead, Bradley bites his lip and waits for his teeth to draw blood. Maybe it’d get his brain juices going. Maybe then, when the metallic taste rushes into his tongue, it’ll send a surge of enlightenment into him—it’ll tell him, stop thinking about Max. Be realistic.

The truth is, Bradley knew from the start what path he’d rather take. It was always going to be Max. No matter what. He’d spent so much time being a prince and even without his father, there was still a stifling sense intertwined with his duties. Yes, there was such privilege that went along with it. But Bradley never asked for it. He’d been born into it. Meanwhile, with Max, he’d outright searched for that bond with him. Went along with asking him for help while tears were trickling out of his eyes and blood seemed to stain each surface he touched.

He still wanted more time with Max. He wanted more time to be himself, too.

Yes, there was joy within his boyfriend. Always and forever. Regardless, he also found joy in being free, too. To live an easy life would be an insult to the times Bradley has spent looking at the sky and letting out a relieved sigh, his suffering dwindling away from his body.

He was more than a prince. Bradley had no idea what exactly he’d do without this role put down on him. But he would learn. Wasn’t that what life was about, anyway? To learn? And be better from it?

Bradley looks at his mother again, more determined. A look of understanding flooded into her. “You’ve made your decision,” she exhales, shaky. “Is there any way I can change your mind?”

He ignores the confused glance Max sends him. The knight’ll know soon enough. “No,” Bradley says. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

“It’s okay. Live your life,” she insists. The sincerity in those words strike his very core.

He’ll never be more guilty for abandoning his mom.

“You too,” Bradley responds, unsure if he should continue. But he does. Because he thinks she should know. “This is another start for you. You should make the most of it.”

“What?”

He coughs. Maybe this is a bad idea. “You’re interested in the archery instructor, aren’t you?”

She stares at him, mortified. “Bradley, how did you—?”

“And he’s interested in you, too.”

Silence. “What are you saying, baby?”

He looks down. His boots are smudged with mud, only bits of his reflection coming through. There’s a flush spread across the bridge of his nose. “Start a new family,” Bradley suggests. “Your shitty husband’s gone. Your shitty son’s heading off on his own. I think you’d be happy if you… y’know. Let yourself go after him.” A beat. “Besides, then you’d have another heir.”

But that’s not really the point. He’d just rather his mother move on from the disaster that is the Uppercrust lineage. Bradley, of course, has mixed feelings about his mom. He needed her all those years ago, and she’d distanced herself.

There’s always gonna be a part of him that wants to see her happy, though. And maybe Bradley will let that side of him show rather than the bitter child-like feelings sitting in his chest.

They will have their moment. For now, he looks into his mother’s surprised eyes and goes, “Think about it, okay?”

Tears start to trail down the queen’s cheeks. She chuckles, choked up. “I will.”

She steps forward and cups Bradley’s face with tender hands. They’re small and fragile.

“You’re always welcome to visit,” the queen whispers.

He nods. When she sits back on her throne, Bradley pulls something out of his pockets. Glasses. While he puts them back on, he tells her, “Thank you.”

That’s it. His final words. The guards escort them out immediately and back into the hall.

When they’ve left the throne room, that’s when Max speaks.

“Holy shit, Bradley.”

_________

They’re back in the motel room. Max didn’t trust himself to say another word. If they were going to have a conversation about the “stunt” Bradley pulled, he’d rather it be in the privacy of their room. He liked the way their rolled off his tongue. It wasn't “my” room or “his room.” It belonged to both of them. They shared it together. He hoped to share more with him as life moved on.

(…God, since when did he get this sappy? He has both his dad and Bradley to blame for this).

As soon as Bradley steps in, Max can’t wait any longer. His arms gravitate to the prince’s waist. He ends up pining Bradley straight to the door; the force is enough to close it automatically.

Bradley stares back at him, both bewildered and if Max’s predictions were correct, a little turned on. Before he can say anything though, Max’s mouth opens and he blubbers out, “Can I kiss you?”

Thank god Bradley desperately nods and leans in. Max totally thought his dignity was on the line.

Their lips meet. This time, the kiss settles into this sweet, long period of time. They take their time, letting each other do whatever they want. Bradley’s tongue lingers in his mouth, and he can feel it swipe against his teeth slowly and steady, and Max finds himself loving the sensation.

He also finds himself, later, straying away from Bradley’s lips. Instead, his kisses press themselves across his face—on the corner of his smile, then prince’s jawline, even on top of Bradley’s nose, to which Bradley sputters at. Max can’t help but laugh, the sound echoing in the tiny room.

Max even finds himself pulling away occasionally, just to whisper sweet comments into Bradley’s ear. It’s just plain fun to see a blush so easily make its way onto his perfect skin. The red gleams in the sunlight. Apparently, he takes too long the fourth time, Bradley squirming in his grasp.

“Can’t you just kiss me?” Bradley asks, voice already hoarse.

He pouts. In fact, their entire relationship is really fun. He likes who he is when with Bradley. “You’re being really inconsiderate, you know,” Max whispers, way too close for comfort. He additionally likes the way Bradley’s ears perk up when his breath hits them.

“Am I supposed to be sorry?” He rolls his eyes. It’s hypnotizing. “I’ve sacrificed a lot to be here.” In another universe, the words would come out in a rage, disappointed. But here, there’s a hint of a tease. Max doesn’t know how he got so lucky.

“Why do you think I’m kissing you?” Max’s grin widens when he sees how swollen Bradley’s lips have gotten. It’s outrageous how hot he looks right now. “We’re celebrating.”

“I thought you were just feeling really horny.”

A surprised laugh escapes Max. He didn’t realize how much he was missing. Now that Bradley’s practically left his role as prince, there was technically no mask he needed to wear. Here he was, letting his dorkish side shine. And Max loved every minute of it.

“That too,” he murmurs right before leaning back in.

They kiss. As Max pulls Bradley away from the door, they continue kissing. As he stumbles on Bradley’s feet, their lips are still intertwined. As they make their way onto the bed, they kiss and they kiss and they kiss and they kiss until they’re heaving, breath taken away way before they stopped, backs against the mattress.

It’s nice. This is really nice, Max thinks to himself, unable to tear his eyes away from Bradley. The prince stares at the ceiling, an astonished smile slowly revealing itself. He might be a little lovesick, it turns out.

“I’m glad you said no,” Max says. “It must’ve been hard.”

Bradley shakes his head, so quick it sends tingles down his spine. “The choice was clear from the start.” He sends Max such a grateful smile. That’s when the tears start pouring.

“I know I wasn’t the sole reason you left but—” Max sniffles.

“You were a part of it,” Bradley reassures him. “I meant everything I said in that letter.”

Shit. The letter. Max glances away, ashamed of what had happened that day. “I’m sorry.”

“About what?” Bradley asks, sounding genuinely confused.

“I didn’t answer you. When you asked me if I really loved you that day.”

“Oh. Right.”

Max sits up, cringing. “I don’t know what happened—” The words spill out of him, wet and heavy from guilt, “—I just, I froze up and it’s not because of you—it’s me, I’m the fucking coward—”

Bradley shuts him up. By pressing his lips onto Max’s for a brief second.

He lets out a tiny gasp, which makes his boyfriend laugh.

Shit, well Max has gotta start embarrassing himself more if that means he gets to hear the prince’s faint but adorable chuckle.

“It’s okay, Max. There were a lot of things happening at once.”

It helps to hear that. A little, yeah, but a little can go a long way. “Everything went so fast.”

There’s a pause. “It’s a good thing we have all the time in the world then, yeah?”

He’s right. They finally have the chance to take things slow. To kiss for however long they want. To talk about the underlying issues of their dynamic peeling away. To do whatever they want.

Wow. To do whatever they want. For as long as they need. What a future that laid ahead of them.

Max thinks it’s a good time to throw himself into his boyfriend’s arms. Bradley shrieks, obviously, and it’s hilarious. Despite his reaction, he lets Max in anyway, and before they know it, they’re cuddling. Max’s head is tucked into the crook of Bradley’s shoulder, their legs are interlocked, and hands hold one another.

It’s a good thing they’re atop their blankets right now, because otherwise it would’ve gotten way too hot way too fast. The warmth is overwhelming but nice.

Max is glad he gets this all to himself.

“Hey.”

He lifts his face away from Bradley’s chest. “Hm?”

“So. We’re aware of my mother excusing the murder of my father, right?”

“Uhhh. Yeah, why are you mentioning this?” Cut to the chase, dude.

Bradley inhales sharply. “I’m still a criminal, Max.”

“What?”

A bunch of evil imagery seeps into his brain. What kind of trouble did Bradley get himself into now? Does he kick dogs for a living or something?

He sounds somber. Max waits impatiently, antsy. “I stole something from you,” Bradley says.

Okay, never mind. This has to be some sort of stupid pick-up line. “My heart?”

“No. Your teddy bear.”

…Oh my god. He’s serious. He seriously can’t be serious. Can he?

Max thinks a lifetime with Bradley doesn’t sound so bad. Not when he’s suddenly choking up from laughter, the Hyuck within him stronger than ever. Not when Bradley’s distraught features slowly fade away, leaving a bemused expression in his stead. “You’re not mad?” Bradley asks.

“Of course not,” he mutters. “But you bet your ass I’m teasing you for this forever.”

Bradley hums. “I deserve that.”

They lie there together. If someone were to take a picture of them, Max would almost guarantee that they wouldn't be able to determine where Max starts and where Bradley ends—the two of them intertwined, making one shape in their bed. It’d be an intimate masterpiece.

Max could get used to a life like this.

Chapter Text

Darkness. Bradley shuts his eyes, red spots floating in his vision. The sun blares his unforgiving heat, sweat already beading on his forehead. “This better be worth it, Max,” he mutters under his breath.

Max laughs in front of him, tugging at his hand. “It is! You just have to trust me, Brad.”

As soon as he says that, Bradley is directly led to a stray branch. It bonks his head, not hard enough to draw blood but enough for him to back away. This makes him nearly trip on a root. Thankfully, Max’s quick—hand clasped to his waist before he could fall.

It’s a sweet gesture. But Bradley really isn’t in the mood to acknowledge it. “Of course,” Brad says dryly. “How could I not trust you? You’ve given me so many reasons.”

Max’s lips press themself on Bradley’s cheek. That makes him feel a little better. “Just a few more minutes, okay? We’re almost there.”

“This better be good,” Bradley huffs, following Max’s every move.

They’re quiet the rest of the way. A comfortable silence settles in between them. Bradley’s gotten used to these sorts of moments. It was strangely… nice? After all, he wasn’t required to do anything. All he needed to do was exist within Max’s proximity, and that was enough.

His presence was enough.

Finally, Max pokes his cheek. “You can open them now.”

Bradley’s eyes flutter open. Though he had the sneaking suspicion Max had brought him into the woods, it hadn’t prepared him for this spectacular view. Right in front of him is a quaint gingham picnic blanket, sprawled out for two people to reasonably fit. A basket lays in the middle. Not only is the whole set-up already gorgeous in itself but a waterfall’s on display behind it. It’s majestic, the way mist wraps around trees and rocks. Everything about today is beautiful, really.

His eyes wander everywhere, to the flower petals scattered about to even Max, who’s awkwardly shifting his weight between feet. That’s when his pupils stay put, concentrated on the sheepish smile stretched across Max’s features. Was he nervous Bradley wouldn’t like it? Nonsense.

“Happy birthday,” Max offers.

He stares at the knight for a moment. Too many thoughts run around in his mind, all varying degrees of insanity woven into them. How could Bradley possibly express how grateful he was for Max? How much love he held in his heart? How he felt so at peace here, this sense of belonging so foreign but right? Well, he thinks to himself. Actions do speak louder than words.

Bradley tackles Max onto the picnic blanket. It’s a complete accident, his intense hug surprising his boyfriend to the point of collapse. Thankfully, no one’s too hurt—they both land on their sides, snickering their butts off. That’s when Bradley’s plan is set in action: he cups Max’s face with tender hands and leans in.

Max follows suit, pulling himself closer way faster than anticipated. Their lips meet.

It’s been many months since both their lives had been turned upside down. Now that they’ve fallen into this sort of normalcy, let’s just say they’ve kissed—a lot. Each time their mouths find each other, there’s always something new to it, though. Even when it’s just a simple kiss on the forehead, too, it sends sparks right through his bones. There’s something so exciting about the mundane. Perhaps because Bradley was never allowed to experience such moments.

Each time they kiss, he savors it. He knows that this is dumb, that anxiety’s pricked at his mind far too often. But Bradley can’t help but wonder when it’ll end, when Max finally gets the clue that Bradley isn’t all that he thought he was. He can imagine so vividly the knight leaving.

Max senses this shift in Bradley and pulls away. God, he can’t believe he’s being a bummer on his own birthday. “I’m fine,” he blurts out before Max can ask what’s wrong.

His eyebrows furrow. “I know you,” Max reminds him.

Shit. It’s true. Though he’s constantly afraid he’ll show his “true colors,” the problem is Max knows. Max has seen him through so many stages of his life; he’s seen Bradley drunk and madly in love and outraged, to the point of killing his father. And he’s loved him regardless.

Still, Bradley feels like he’s gonna mess things up. It certainly wouldn’t be much of a shocker.

“Don’t you think you deserve better?” Bradley asks softly. Max stares at him, confused. “I mean,” he stammers out. “This is the spot you were talking about, right? You and your friends used to play with bugs here.”

His eyes seem to glisten. “You remembered?”

“‘Course I remembered,” he snorts. “That’s the bare minimum.”

Before Max can disagree, Bradley continues.

“I’m just… me, Max,” he whispers. “This is something so dear to you. Why share it with me?” Bradley looks away, dreading what he’s about to say. “I’m a terrible person. You know that, right?”

Silence.

He can’t take it anymore. Bradley glances back, only to see Max has sat up, stiff. His features have twisted into pure disbelief. The knight looks at him, eyes squinted. “What?”

“Never mind,” he blurts out. “Sorry, that was stupid—”

“Yes!” Max shouts. Then, realizes his mistake. “I mean, your feelings are one-hundred percent valid, that’s not what I’m talking about,” he starts to ramble, “it’s just—god, how could you say that?”

Bradley blinks in reply. Max softens, laces their hands together. “You gave up a life of royalty for me,” he explains. “Even before that, I’d fallen for you. I know you’ve got your flaws. But god, don’t we all?” the knight chuckles. “Besides. You’re fun to be around.”

He wets his lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Max murmurs. “I like talking to you. No matter what it’s about. You can be teeth-rotting levels of sweetness. But you can also be the most dramatic person I know.” A beat, hesitant. “And you can get sad. You can get really sad. But I’ll still love you all the same. Nothing will change that.”

There’s a question adrift in the air. He pushes down his fear and asks, anyway.

“What if that doesn’t last?” he exhales. “What if—?”

The words are stuck in his throat. But Max gets the memo. What if we don’t last?

He sends Bradley a gentle smile. There’s sorrow beneath it. “I don’t know what will happen,” Max answers. “All I know is I want you in my life. Maybe that’ll change but for now…”

The knight offers his hand to Bradley. He takes it, and Max helps him sit up. There’s a meticulous plan behind it—all so Max can lean his head onto Bradley’s chest. How evil.

“…let’s just try our best, yeah?”

Bradley nods. For the first time in a while, he lets himself enjoy that sweet sentiment without constraints. Rather freeing, it turns out. To be loved and not feel guilty over it.

Max changes the topic. “I have gifts.”

Gifts were never quite Bradley’s strongest love language.

After all, growing up as royalty meant he’d gotten used to whatever riches were thrown his way. Yes, it was nice, sometimes. To be seen by the kingdom followers with such awe. They’d go down on their knees, head dipped in respect, and hand him whatever they deemed valuable.

Except, to him, it really wasn’t.

It was the thought that counted. That’s what he’d reminded himself as he tired of this boring routine, of the jewelry and crowns and fabrics piling up in his room. This was an honor.

Gifts were an honor.

Here, though. Bradley does not have to pretend to be happy. Rather, when Max pulls several envelopes out of his backpack, his eyes automatically light up. These were not just gifts of decor. Max had brought letters devoted to him. These were papers that had words written in mind for him. There was writing dedicated specifically for Bradley.

It’s a simple gesture. One that chokes him up a little bit. He’s not ashamed of it, though. It’s taken Bradley a while to unlearn all of his father’s abuse. To the point where he’s still recovering to this day, and to the point where he might spend his entire life healing.

It can be frustrating. Sometimes, Bradley finds himself so adamant that he’s back to square one—that none of this “therapy” has worked—that he is still the same person, rotten to the core.

But then, sometimes he goes days without thinking about his dad. Then, there are days where Bradley feels like he’s on the top of the world. There are days where he realizes this is the happiest he’s ever been. In a long, long time.

He swallows a sob back and gingerly takes the envelopes. There’s too many.

The first is a card from both Goofy and Sylvia. The handwriting is funny-looking, but that just adds to the charm. Happy 21st Birthday, Bradley! Like his son, Goofy is a sweetheart, perhaps even moreso, less conscious of social etiquette. You make my little Maxie so happy. Thank you. Bradley rubs his thumb on the last section. If you ever need anything, you have a home here. Love, Goofy and Sylvia. He snorts at the difference in writing, Sylvia’s signature so pristine, inked in neat cursive. Bradley doesn’t know if he can take anymore sweet comments.

The next one is by Bobby, PJ, and Mocha. It’s a simple happy birthday card. The only text is Bobby, PJ’s signatures, and a stupidly complicated poem by Mocha. He decides if he’s feeling particularly smart tonight, he’ll try to decipher it all.

This one’s short. Just a piece of scrunched up notebook paper. In the middle the words Congratulations on 21 are hastily written with permanent marker. Much to his dismay, it’s signed by Valerie out of all people. You know, his ex-girlfriend. But more importantly, potential terrorist. When pushing Max for answers, Bradley is told that he woke up this morning with the letter on his dresser. That’s not exactly reassuring but the courtesy is… nice, he supposes. It’s a good thing their housing is temporary.

A scroll. When Bradley unravels it, the sheet nearly goes down to his feet. After skimming it, he quickly learns it’s both a gushy message from his mother as well as life updates—which happens to include gossip about the latest princesses. He makes a mental note to read it back later and send a letter of his own. Perhaps he’ll talk about Max in it.

The second to last one. His heart stops when he realizes it’s from Neil. They’d been exchanging letters over the past couple months but this is different, somehow. Bradley’s grip on the paper tightens, the edges crumpling up. As he scans it, one sentence strikes his eye. I cannot wait to see you again. My daughter’s excited to meet you. It scares him. But in a good way.

When he finishes reading Neil’s letter, he pauses. The last envelope rests in his hands, only two words scribbled on it. From Max. He doesn’t care about how messy it appears. It’s his boyfriend’s handwriting, and thus he’s gonna cherish it.

“Wait.” Bradley’s hands start to tremble. “I need to tell you something.”

He’s been delaying the inevitable. It wasn’t a huge secret by any means, he just thought Max deserved to know. Especially before Bradley opened his birthday gift. After all… what if those feelings engraved in this envelope change after he shares the news?

Max tilts his head. It’s adorable. “What’s up?”

Bradley lets out a big, long sigh. The deed must be done. It’s only fair. “I got an apartment.”

He can’t bear to look Max in the eye. “What?”

“There’s this nice neighborhood out in the South,” Bradley reveals. “It’s—it’s in between um, the fishing town and this small kingdom, I think it’s called the Cree Castles, which has this super cool apprenticeship, by the way.” He’s at this point going twenty miles an hour, words flying out to avoid any sort of silence. “I’m sorta—maybe, um—trying to ask you if you were interested in… coming with me?”

Max doesn’t say anything. He takes this as an invitation to ramble his heart out.

“Neil and I have been exchanging letters, wait—I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, you already know.” To himself, he mutters, “Holy shit, get it together, Bradley.”

He hears a quiet chuckle from Max. That’s when Bradley whips around, heart skipping a beat when he sees the knight. There’s only curiosity in his eyes. It’s reassuring.

“Basically,” Bradley takes a deep breath. “When I was staying at that fishing town, I met Neil and became his errand boy. He’s getting old—even though he won’t admit it—and he’s been struggling with living alone. So, I dunno. I guess I offered to take on the role.”

He coughs into his sleeve. “Let’s face it. I’m definitely not the spitting image of a servant but I think Neil, y’know,” Bradley helplessly shrugs, “he needs me.”

That’s not the full truth. Neil might be one of his only friends. And Bradley’s slowly learning that having people to rely on isn’t weak. It’s just a part of being human. Well, an emotionally developed human, anyway. In actuality, Bradley’s pretty sure he needs Neil more than the other way around.

Max smiles. “That’s sweet, Bradley. I’m happy for you.”

“Wait,” he says. “I’m not done. Cree Castles, it’s most known for their knights, right? I know you love your dad and all but I feel like you’ve been moping around the house a lot and I thought it’d be nice if you—” Bradley swallows, “you know. Got out there. Put your skills to the test.”

The knight’s curiosity shifts into recognition. “You did not.”

Bradley nods. “I sent out a letter and they got back to me relatively quickly.”

“Is that why you insisted on handling the mail for a week?”

He rolls his eyes. “No, I was just doing that for my own amusement,” Bradley deadpans. “Yes, Max.”

“Cool.” The words are wispy, as if he’s breathless. “So…” Max trails off.

“So, they’re interested in you,” Bradley blurts out. “I should’ve told you earlier. And I should’ve asked in the first place if you were comfortable. But—”

“But what?”

“I wanted to surprise you,” he sighs. “A bad idea in hindsight. If you’re not interested, that’s okay—”

Max leans in, caressing Bradley’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Bradley’s stunned, almost, the only words that pop into his head concerning how beautiful his boyfriend is. He doesn’t say a word.

“So, what I’m getting at is you’re asking me to move in with you?” Max asks after the long pause.

God, he makes it sound so simple. “...Pretty much.”

Max grins. “I’d be honored to.” The knight inches forward and gently takes the envelope in his hand. Bradley watches, lovesick, as he tears it open. “Is it okay if I read this letter out loud?”

“Always.” He learned early on that he can’t quite say no to Max. This is no exception.

The way he begins is unbelievably soft. It’s reminiscent of a distant memory, of servants reading bedtime stories. There’s this cadence he brings to the table, to the point where it feels like the words are straight out of a fairytale. Or at least, that’s how unreal the whole experience is for Bradley. A happy ending never felt quite in his grasp… until today, he supposes.

He’d never been a “music person.” But Max’s letter carries a sense of melody. Bradley finds himself listening too keenly, listening like he’d been singing. In a way, he was.

When Max finishes, he sets the paper down and offers a meek smile. It’s absurd how casual he is about the whole thing. For Christ's sake, he’s shaken Bradley’s world down to its core.

“I love you, too.” Bradley’s voice is only a whisper.

Then, because he’s not a hypocrite, he doesn’t just say the words out loud. Bradley shows his love with actions, too. That is, by resting his hands on Max’s waist and leaning in with his lips slightly parted. When his eyes shut, Max’s already there, his mouth wet and addictive.

This is what the stories meant. When they talked about endings full of rainbows and unicorns. Bradley had always believed they were full of bullshit, even at a young age. After all, he’d seen reality in the form of his parents. Those big, ol’ eyes couldn’t pull away from the anger that his father wielded like a weapon—when actually, it’d been his weakness the whole time. Nor could little Bradley divert his stare from his mother’s sorrow.

She’d spent most of her days in a state of mourning. It took him a while to realize she’d been grieving what her life would've been. All the possibilities his mom never got to reach.

(In her letter, she asked him for baby name suggestions. He hopes his future brother will like him.)

He didn’t realize there was more. More to the royalty, more to the privilege.

Bradley lets out a breathy sigh inside Max’s mouth.

When he’d met Max at sixteen, he was a stupid teenage boy who only thought the only important event in his future was coronation as king. At twenty-one, he knows better.

At twenty-one, he kisses Max and knows there is more to his life than ever before. Though yes, his beautiful boyfriend is included in that “more,” it’s not just him. Bradley has the chance to finally explore his identity outside of the Uppercrust Kingdom. He’s finally obtained friends rather than the classmates who’d grovel at his feet. He doesn’t need to look up to his father anymore; Bradley has better examples to pay attention to, like Goofy and Neil.

He doesn’t need to do anything he doesn’t want to, he realizes. Bradley really is free.

With this freedom, he kisses Max. He kisses Max until they’re shaking and breathless and sore. He kisses Max like this is the only time he’ll ever have to taste just a smidgen of heaven. Because that’s what the knight, is it not? Ethereal paradise wrapped inside a young, handsome man?

When their lips are much too swollen, they collapse onto the blanket and lie there for a long time, just chatting and watching the clouds slowly drift away. Bradley points out shapes in the skies, and Max gives them all silly names.

And they all live happily ever after. The end.