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The Hague was waking up lazily. In the courtyard of Huis ten Bosch Palace—the residence of the Dutch royal family—the muffled sounds of the changing of the guard could be heard: the scraping of hooves and the rhythmic strike of boots against the cobblestones. The pale light of dawn reflected in the windows, and in one of them—the one overlooking the gardens—Charles’s face appeared.
He stood leaning against the windowsill in his bathrobe, a mug of coffee in his hand, wearing the expression of a man who knows perfectly well that he is about to break at least a few rules of royal etiquette.
A soft cough sounded behind his back.
"Let me guess," Max said, stretching and yawning at the same time. "Plotting something illegal since dawn?"
Charles turned to him with an innocent smile.
"Not illegal. Just... unconventional."
Max rubbed his face with his hand, then looked at him through half-closed eyelids.
"Charles, please, do not start the day with the sentence: 'I have a plan.'"
"I have a plan," Charles repeated with a twinkle in his eye, completely ignoring the warning. "Tell me, when was the last time we were alone somewhere?"
Max burst out laughing.
"Alone? On our honeymoon. Do you remember when you tried to do the laundry by yourself in the suite and flooded half the building?"
"I still maintain that the washing machine had a malicious personality," Charles replied with a seriousness that only deepened the absurdity of the statement.
"I have two hours until my meeting with the Prime Minister," Max muttered, reaching for his phone.
"The meeting has been rescheduled," Charles interjected casually.
"By whom?"
"By me."
A silence fell.
"That qualifies as an abuse of power, you know that?"
"Indeed. And I intend to abuse it further," Charles said with unsettling confidence. "Max, today we are escaping the palace."
Max blinked.
"Escaping?"
"For one day. Just you and me. No security, no limousine, no plan."
"Charles, you are the queen... I mean, the king consort of the Netherlands," Max corrected himself. "And I am the King of the Netherlands. We cannot just... walk out."
"We can," Charles cut him off. "We have legs, jackets, and caps. That’s enough."
"And security?" Max watched him with a mixture of amusement and horror.
"Security thinks today is our rest day."
"And my secretary?"
"She was given the day off."
"And the Prime Minister?"
"He believes we are meditating in silence."
"Is that actually what you told him to say?"
Charles shrugged carelessly.
"Exactly that."
For a moment Max remained silent, staring at him in disbelief. And then he laughed—softly, genuinely, the way only he could.
"You know what?" he said, stepping up to his husband and wrapping his arms around his waist. "If I ever lose the crown, it will be because of you."
"I promise you it will be worth it," Charles replied with a smile.
The situation they found themselves in seemed both ridiculous and perfect. The King of the Netherlands and his consort plotting a spontaneous escape like teenagers from a boarding school.
Charles set his mug on the windowsill and looked at Max.
"I’ve always wanted to see what the world looks like when no one bows to me."
Max smiled faintly.
"And I’ve wanted to buy fries without having to consult the press office."
"You see!" Charles clapped his hands. "I knew you’d agree!"
And so, before the clock on the mantelpiece struck nine, the two most important men in the country were preparing for the most hazardous mission in the history of the Dutch court: to be ordinary people for a single day.
"Is this really necessary?" Max muttered, pulling a baseball cap over his head. "I look like I'm eighteen and heading out for a kebab after a party."
"That is exactly the point," Charles replied with a smile, adjusting his sunglasses. "The perfect camouflage. The paparazzi never suspect people in baseball caps."
Max looked at him from under the brim.
"Maybe we should bring security? Just in case."
Charles shook his head solemnly.
"Then it wouldn’t be an escape; it would be a royal visit. I want to be anonymous. Ordinary. I want to buy you fries without it being written about in the media."
"And if someone recognizes us?" Max pushed further, though amusement was already audible in his voice.
"Then we’ll pretend to be our own lookalikes."
Max sighed and opened the door leading to the royal garage.
Among the gleaming limousines and cars with tinted windows stood an unassuming, somewhat dusty electric hatchback. Its matte gray paint and slightly scratched door made it look like the car of any average citizen.
"Fred," Charles raised an eyebrow. "Did you really name it that?"
"Yes. A king should have his trusty steed," Max replied proudly, patting the car's hood. "And Fred always gets me where I want to go: in silence, with zero CO₂ emissions, and without complaints."
"Today, he will drive us to freedom," Charles declared, getting into the passenger seat.
Max rolled his eyes but didn't comment. He pressed the start button. The engine responded with a quiet click.
"My husband, freedom, and Fred," he summarized. "The perfect trio."
The road from The Hague to Amsterdam was almost empty. On a chilly autumn morning, only those who absolutely had to were traveling. Charles, leaning back comfortably in his seat, pulled out his phone and started scrolling through a playlist.
"Alright. We are alone. Now the question is: what kind of music do you play during a royal escape?"
"Simple," Max said, tapping the screen. "Techno. Nothing says 'freedom' like solid beats."
A powerful wave of bass blasted from the speakers, making Fred shudder slightly and causing Charles to jump in his seat.
"Techno?" he protested, wincing. "That’s not an escape; that’s an invasion of sound! You know what would be better? ABBA. A classic. 'Take a Chance on Me' is the perfect anthem for our trip."
"No way," Max burst out laughing. "I am not driving to Amsterdam with disco music playing in the background. I have a reputation as a driver, not a dancer."
"And I have a reputation as a man of taste," Charles shot back. "ABBA is timeless. It doesn't need speed to deliver emotion."
"The most emotion you get is when you sing 'Mamma Mia' in the shower," Max grumbled, but his tone was more affectionate than mocking.
After a brief exchange of glances, both burst into laughter.
"Alright, let's compromise," Charles suggested.
"Meaning?"
"Local radio. There’s always something interesting happening there."
Max tuned into the first available station. Instead of music, the calm voice of a female presenter came through:
"And now the weather for tomorrow, followed by the recipe for the best stroopwafels according to Grandma Tina."
Charles smiled with satisfaction.
"You see? Wonderful. Zero arguments, zero bass, just Grandma Tina and the sweetness of life."
As they passed the "Amsterdam 30 km" sign, their hands—as if by chance—found each other on the center armrest. The steady hum of the road and the smell of sea air coming through the cracked window made the outside world cease to exist for a moment.
Just them. Three kings—Max, Charles, and Fred—each free in his own way.
The sun slipped between the clouds, spilling golden light onto the cobblestone streets of Amsterdam. The city lived at its own rhythm—tourists mingled with locals, and the sounds of trams interwoven with the scent of coffee, waffles, and the moisture rising from the canals.
In all this bustle, two figures in jeans and baseball caps looked completely ordinary.
Or at least, they tried to.
"You are trying very hard not to look like a king," Charles whispered, adjusting Max's sunglasses, which he had put on upside down.
"That is called style, darling," Max replied with a broad smile. "I saw it in some Netflix series."
"Which one? Kings of the Street?" Charles snorted.
Crossing a bridge over a canal, they stopped for a moment to look at their reflection in the water. Two men in ordinary clothes. No uniforms, no cameras, no advisors reminding them of their next duties.
"You know, I haven't just walked like this in years," Max said softly. "Always someone nearby, always a microphone, a camera, every gesture rehearsed to perfection..."
"And immaculately styled hair," Charles added, taking off Max's cap and looking at his tousled hair with fondness. "Today, you finally look like a human being."
"Finally you look like a human being," Max repeated, lost in thought. "Sounds like a song title."
"Or advice from your most important image consultant. Meaning me."
Before Max could respond, their attention was caught by a scent. Fries—hot, golden, crispy. On the corner stood a small blue-and-white kiosk with the sign Patat Koning.
"That’s a bit ironic, isn’t it?" Charles noted. "Koning means 'king'."
"Destiny rather, Charlie," Max wore the expression of a man who had just had a revelation. "Come on, we have to try it."
They bought two portions, the largest ones, of course. When the vendor asked about the sauce, Max chose mayonnaise without hesitation. And asked for "a lot."
Too much.
Charles watched with growing horror as his spouse's fries literally drowned in a white avalanche.
"Mon Dieu! Max! Those aren't fries, that's an environmental disaster!"
"It’s tradition," Max protested with full conviction, proudly holding up the paper cone. "That’s how we do it in the Netherlands."
"Possibly, but you are about to press that fat bomb against my jacket!"
"Oh, stop being dramatic," Max popped a fry into his mouth with an expression of blissful contentment. "Try it."
Charles cautiously took a fry from his cone, carefully avoiding the ocean of mayonnaise.
"Alright. I admit it. It’s not the worst thing I've ever eaten."
"You see!" Max rejoiced. "Maybe later you'll try herring in a bun."
"No, no, stop. I prefer to discover Dutch cuisine through baby steps. The goal isn't for me to love it quickly, but permanently, right?"
They walked further until they reached Dam Square, in the middle of which a group of street musicians had set up—two violinists, a drummer, and a female vocalist in a red coat. They played vibrantly, something between a folk rhythm and jazz improvisation.
Max stopped.
"Listen," a spark flashed in his eyes. "Now that sounds like freedom."
Charles knew that was a bad sign.
"Max, please. Don't do it."
"Do what?" Max asked with an innocent face.
"What you are thinking right now."
But it was already too late. Max wove into the crowd, clapping to the beat of the music, and a moment later caught Charles by the hand.
"Come on!"
"No, no, no! Max!" Charles tried to pull away. "You cannot dance in the main square in Amsterdam!"
"Yes, I can! I am not a king today!"
"You are always a king, even in jeans!"
"No. Today I am just a guy who wants to dance with his husband."
People standing nearby laughed and applauded as Max spun Charles around his axis. Despite his protests, Charles couldn't stop himself from smiling. The melody—light, infectious, wild—swept them both up.
Charles finally let go.
He laughed—loudly, genuinely, without fear of anyone seeing. Max lifted him in a half-turn, and the music filled the space between them. At that moment, the world truly belonged only to the two of them.
The crowd gathered around applauded, a few passersby started filming them, but nothing indicated they had been recognized. Just two dancing men, in love with each other.
When the song ended, Max and Charles stood in the middle of the circle, breathless, their cheeks red from the exertion.
"It really is possible to live without a crown," Max stated.
"For at least one day," Charles answered.
Max pulled him closer and kissed his forehead.
The musicians started another song. The vocalist sang:
I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word
Max squeezed Charles's hand.
"Did you hear that? It's about us."
"About us? Maybe about you. After all, I am only the queen... I mean: the king consort."
Max laughed softly.
"In that case," he said, leaning into his ear, "your king in jeans is going to buy another portion of fries right now."
Before Charles could protest, Max was already running toward the kiosk, and the echo of his laughter blended with the music and the bustle of the city—the capital of a country that, today of all days, could not count on either of its kings.
The sun was slowly setting, and the lights of Amsterdam were beginning to shimmer on the surface of the water. Max and Charles sat on the embankment, their legs dangling over the canal. The scent of fried potatoes and freshly baked waffles lingered around them, and somewhere in the distance, a street musician plucked the strings of a guitar melancholically.
Charles rested his elbows on his knees and stared into the sheet of water, which reflected the red lanterns of the bridge.
"I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like to be... an ordinary person," he murmured.
"I thought that’s what we were doing," Max said in surprise, swinging his legs so hard that a few drops of water splashed his jeans.
"No. That’s not what I mean," Charles took a deep breath. "I would like to know what it’s like not to be someone people watch. Whom they judge. What it’s like to just... live. To be able to be late. To be able to disappear for a moment. Not to explain to anyone that you put on a jacket that's too big, or that fries with mayonnaise are not a sufficiently royal meal."
Max chuckled.
"We checked off the last point. Did you see the look on that vendor's face when I asked for a 'royal portion' of sauce?"
"Yes. I thought he was going to faint."
They dipped their feet deeper toward the water. Silence reigned around them. Occasionally someone walked across the bridge above them, completely oblivious to their presence.
Max placed his hand on Charles's knee.
"I, on the other hand, have always known that it is only with you that I can be a human being."
Charles looked at him, and all their years together reflected in his eyes—both the moments spent in hiding and those lived in the blinding glare of flashbulbs.
"Does that mean I am your key to freedom?" he asked half-jokingly.
"No," Max shook his head. "You are my freedom."
A silence fell, in which only the splash of water and the distant sound of the guitar could be heard. Sparks of light floated over the canal, and in their glow, the two kings looked like ordinary people—perhaps only slightly too well-dressed, but too happy for anyone to pay attention to that.
Charles looked at the patch of mayonnaise on Max's jacket and laughed out loud.
"I think I will never stop laughing at the fact that the King of the Netherlands has sauce from a food stand on his clothes."
"Good," Max leaned against him. "Let history remember that at least once in my life, I tasted like my subjects."
They were walking slowly back toward the parked car when an elderly woman in a patterned scarf stepped out of a small flower shop. Her gaze locked onto Max. She narrowed her eyes, clearly trying to match his face, hidden behind tinted lenses, to some memory.
"Don't I know you from somewhere?" she asked, stepping closer.
Charles instantly froze. In his mind, he frantically analyzed all possible scenarios for a quick evacuation: running down a side street, Max pretending to be a foreigner, or, as a last resort, simulating a sudden coughing fit.
Max, however, didn't even flinch. He smiled gently at the old woman and reached for a bouquet of tulips standing near the entrance.
"It’s possible, ma'am," he said calmly. "But I assure you, I am no one important. Just a guy buying flowers for his husband."
The woman raised her eyebrows, then smiled as well.
"Those tulips are indeed very lovely. Have a good evening, gentlemen."
She accepted the money from Max and walked away, leaving behind a silence that lasted a few seconds longer than it should have.
Charles let the air out of his lungs, as if he had only just remembered to breathe.
"I thought that woman was going to have a heart attack," he whispered. "Or me."
"Fortunately, you are both safe and sound," Max replied with amusement. "You see? Maybe people don't need kings in crowns at all. Maybe it's enough for them that their royal couple holds hands and buys each other tulips."
"They are beautiful. Just like you," Charles noted, taking the bouquet from him.
Passing by shop windows, they looked at their reflection once more: two men in jeans, holding flowers and a paper cone of unfinished fries. No one would say that a few hours earlier they had left the royal palace in secrecy from the team of people watching over their safety.
At dawn, they returned to The Hague. The city was just waking up to life, and a light mist hovered over the canals. The guards at the main entrance to the palace opened the gate without a word, though one of them couldn't help a faint smile.
"You know, that was the best diplomatic trip of my life," Charles said as they crossed the threshold of the suite.
Max laughed, unzipping his jacket.
"And probably the shortest. Barely sixty kilometers one way."
Charles hung the jeans in the closet next to the neatly arranged suits. They looked a bit like a joke there, and a bit like a memory of their dream of freedom.
"Do you think anyone noticed our absence?"
"If they did, they probably thought we were at some important meeting," Max shrugged. "After all, we were discussing matters of the highest importance."
Charles smiled and stepped closer.
"What kind?"
Max looked into his eyes.
"About us."
Charles wrapped his arms around his neck and kissed him.
"Because a king in jeans is still a king," he said, snuggling into him.
"And the queen... excuse me: the king consort..."
"...also likes mayonnaise sometimes," Charles finished, and they both burst into laughter that filled the entire chamber.
Outside the window, the bells began to strike seven. The day was just beginning, but for them, it was the end of a small, wonderful escape.