Chapter Text
"Your Royal Highness, we will be landing shortly. Please fasten your seatbelt," the flight attendant announced.
"Thank you," Max replied, immediately obeying the instruction.
He was, admittedly, the Prince of Orange, heir to the throne of the Kingdom of the Netherlands. At this precise moment, however, he was first and foremost a passenger, obligated—just like anyone else—to follow the crew's directives. Besides, he had embarked on this journey strictly incognito.
Resting on his lap was the latest issue of Majesty: The Quality Royal Magazine. Smiling up at readers from the cover was Prince Charles of Monaco—the undisputed sensation of the latest social season. And the one before that. And at least three seasons prior to those.
Charles of Monaco... The younger brother of Prince Lorenzo, the ruler of that tiny principality. Arguably the biggest playboy among the members of Europe’s royal families, and bound to be the most famous royal among Europe’s playboys. Entangled in countless high-profile affairs with models, actresses, singers, businesswomen, and mafia heiresses... Universally dubbed Europe’s most eligible bachelor.
Max wondered if there was anyone else on Earth (aside from his own father, perhaps) who irritated him more. Prince Charles was the absolute antithesis of everything Max stood for, yet simultaneously... the embodiment of every trait Max wished he possessed.
Max envied Charles terribly for having an older brother, meaning he would likely never ascend the throne. He could reap all the privileges of belonging to a reigning house while saddled with a fraction of the duties. Furthermore, Max couldn't deny that he wanted his looks, his effortless charm, and... his sexual orientation.
Yes, Max desperately wished he could fall in love with a woman, but—so far—he simply couldn’t. While Charles swapped partners like a pair of gloves, Max tried frantically to spark an interest in even a single girl. Needless to say, it was a lost cause.
Granted, Dutch law had recently made it possible for him to marry a man without forfeiting his right to the throne. Nonetheless, neither Max nor his immediate family were convinced that such a path would be optimal for the interests of the monarchy. From childhood, it had been drilled into Max that a future king must perpetuate the dynasty, ensure the proper upbringing of his successor, and, at the right moment, "pass the torch." Being gay threw a wrench into fulfilling those duties.
Naturally, Charles faced no such dilemmas. He was having a blast at the expense of his country's wealthy taxpayers, living life to the absolute fullest, and when he finally sowed his wild oats, he would settle down to start a happy family, and everyone would sing his praises all over again. Max, on the other hand, would be perceived as a dismal, boring monarch, consumed by meaningless tasks (like cutting ribbons, unveiling plaques, shaking hands with ambassadors, or delivering speeches penned by someone else), trapped in a failed marriage he would almost certainly be forced into sooner or later.
Max sighed heavily and tossed the magazine onto the side table. There was no point in agonizing over it now. By some miracle, he had begged his father for a few days of "leave," and with the utmost discretion, he had rented a villa in a secluded spot on the Mediterranean coast. He intended to recharge his batteries here in complete solitude. For the duration of his stay, at least, he needed to give his mind a break from these toxic thoughts.
Suddenly, the flight attendant reappeared at the door of the aircraft's private cabin.
"Would Your Royal Highness care to take a call?" she asked.
"Yes, thank you," Max murmured, reluctantly reaching for the satellite phone receiver handed to him. Who dared disturb his peace? Whatever it was, he didn't expect any good news.
Unfortunately, Max's intuition didn't fail him. His vacation plans had just gotten a little more complicated...
How could they have let this happen?
Charles had put down serious money, asking for very little in return. He simply needed a hideout where he could vanish from the face of the earth and nurse his broken heart.
Instead, due to someone's gross oversight, he was going to have to share his quarters with some pompous prick! Who cared if the guy was arriving with no entourage? Who cared if he was allegedly "in the business" too (meaning blue blood ran through his veins as well) and only wanted a quiet place to rest? His unwanted presence just on the other side of the wall was entirely enough to completely derail Charles’s already frayed nerves.
Noble birth could be a blessing or a curse. In Charles’s case, it was overwhelmingly the latter. Despite his princely title and a regular, massive influx of cash (effectively for doing nothing), he saw little meaning in life. No matter what he accomplished, he would always be seen as "the second"—the second son in the family, second in line to the throne, second during official introductions, second in the royal box at the Monaco Grand Prix and the Monte Carlo Circus Festival.
Charles was well aware that billions of people were in far worse positions than him, but he wouldn't hide the fact that he bitterly envied a few individuals for things he would never have. Naturally, his older brother made the list, but Lorenzo was by no means number one. Ever since Charles found out that the Dutch permitted their heirs to enter into same-sex marriages, he had looked with an envious eye first and foremost at Max, the Prince of Orange.
What a lucky break that boy had been handed by fate! Except he probably didn't need it at all and would never have to use it. Unlike Charles, who would have traded everything in a heartbeat for such an opportunity.
Then, his life would have taken a completely different turn. He would never have had to choose between his family and his own happiness, nor would he have to hide who he was any longer. He wouldn't have to fabricate wild legends for the hounding journalists about what a massive ladies' man he was, nor would he have to bankroll all the "beards" he allowed himself to be photographed with in supposedly private settings. Finally, he wouldn't have to live a lie that ultimately proved unbearable for his other half...
Perhaps if he possessed the options available to the Dutch prince, instead of grieving alone over Carlos’s marriage to another man, he would be embarking on a honeymoon in his company right now.
The moment Charles thought of Carlos, tears instantly welled in his eyes.
He shook himself out of it quickly. Carlos wasn't going to knock on his door ever again. Charles needed to forget him as fast as possible, stop living in the past, pull himself together...
But how on earth was he supposed to do that?
The villa where Max was accommodated was a bright, spacious, two-story structure perched on the crest of a hill, offering a sweeping view of the sea. Unfortunately, Max couldn't fully enjoy all the amenities it had to offer, because a squatter occupied part of the building.
Granted, the term "squatter" wasn't entirely accurate, since this person—much like Max—had entered into an agreement with the property owner and paid for the stay. Unfortunately, an error had been made somewhere along the line, and two tenants, Max included, had been booked for the exact same dates.
The scatterbrained owner had noticed the mistake too late. The only options he could offer (short of a full refund) were either dividing the villa into two non-overlapping sections and hosting both guests at once, or moving one of them to the presidential suite at the most expensive hotel in the nearby resort.
The second option was out of the question from the start—it ruled out anonymity, which was a far greater priority for Max than losing access to a few rooms. Besides, he likely wouldn't have set foot in most of those rooms anyway. Max’s vacation roommate had apparently reached the same conclusion, and in the end, both agreed to the clueless host’s proposal.
The estate did indeed prove large enough for Max and the other vacationer to avoid crossing paths all day. Subconsciously, however, Max felt the other person's presence, and with each passing hour, it made him feel increasingly self-conscious.
He couldn't stop wondering about the identity of the mysterious "tourist" stationed behind the wall. He had been given only the most basic details: his subtenant came from high society, had arrived alone, and like Max, guarded his privacy fiercely.
As the day drew to a close, Max repeatedly caught himself trying to sneak a peek at what was happening on the other, inaccessible side of the complex. Eventually, his efforts paid off. Leaning heavily over the railing of the terrace designated for his exclusive use, he caught sight of the silhouette of a man sipping a drink on a lounge chair.
He wasn’t surprised that he didn't immediately recognize who he was dealing with. Effectively, he could only see his neighbor's hair. He had to admit, it was immaculately groomed. Max would have loved nothing more than to run his hands through it... Had he seen that exact hairstyle somewhere before?
Before Max could formulate an answer, an unexpected twist occurred.
The guy sharing the house suddenly turned in his direction. Max finally got a clear look at his face, and to his utter horror, realized it was deeply familiar. On the contrary—though he had never seen it in person, he knew it incredibly well...
Charles was gradually adjusting to the idea that he wasn't alone, but when someone is neither seen nor heard, it’s quite easy to pretend they simply don’t exist. Consequently, he spent the day entirely on his own terms and didn't feel self-conscious in the slightest.
His thoughts kept drifting back to Carlos, who at this very moment—alongside his newlywed husband—was heading to Thailand to spend their honeymoon.
Was his beloved happy? Without a doubt. Had he been happy with Charles? In the beginning, he was... And later?
"Charlie, I can't be with someone who is ashamed of me..." he had heard from Carlos at the climax of their final conversation, which took place several months ago.
"Sweetheart, it's not what you think..." Charles had clumsily tried to explain.
"Then what is it? Explain to me, please, why do we still have to hide?"
"Don't forget who I am..."
"Exactly! Other people manage to turn their lives upside down when something actually matters to them. It's only you aristocrats who expect everyone to adapt to you, while you never adapt to anyone! Because it wouldn't look right!"
"Did your father poison your mind against me?" Charles knew he was drowning, so he was ready to grasp at any straw. Carlos's father was a left-wing politician, a fierce opponent of the monarchy and all hereditary privileges.
"I didn't need my father's help to see that you don't respect me, Charles!" The tears streaming down Carlos's cheeks left no doubt that his words were entirely sincere. "As long as you are a prince, they will never let you build a life with me on normal terms. And you will never give up being a prince, let's not delude ourselves. You should find someone like you. From your own circles."
"I don't want anyone else! I want you..." Charles had pleaded desperately.
"Oh, I know!" the unyielding Carlos pressed on. "I read recently that the Netherlands made it possible for heirs to the throne to marry people of the same sex. Maybe you should take a shot at Prince Max? Sure, you'll lose your title in Monaco, but as his husband, you'll probably get a new and better one: royal. Either way, forget about me. Goodbye! I'm not cut out to be a lover in His Serene Highness’s secret service."
Carlos had been right. Charles simply lacked the courage to renounce his title in the name of love. Stories like that only happen in the movies. In real life, the highborn in these situations usually grit their teeth, sacrifice their personal happiness, and carry on, whatever that entails...
Be that as it may, ever since then, Charles had harbored a deep resentment toward the Dutch heir, despite never having met him face-to-face and the fact that the guy had never done anything to him. Max simply possessed the options whose absence had cost Charles his boyfriend. If Max were ever in his shoes, he wouldn't face such a dilemma. He could reach for both the crown and the choice of his heart.
Nonetheless, since his arrival, Charles had done everything in his power to unwind and relax. Towards evening, he settled onto a lounger with a glass of his favorite mojito, determined to watch the sunset. The rich, vibrant palette of colors accompanying the view and the rhythmic crashing of ocean waves against the rocks exerted a soothing influence on him.
Soon, however, Charles sensed that something was off. He was overcome by an unsettling conviction that he was being watched. He turned his head to verify his suspicions and discovered his intuition hadn't lied.
His neighbor had set up an observation post on the terrace across the villa and, leaning past the railing, was staring right at him.
Naturally, Charles felt cheated by the owner, who had repeatedly assured him that despite the inconvenience, he and the other occupant of the villa would definitely stay out of each other's way. For the moment, though, that issue faded into the background.
Either Charles's eyes were playing tricks on him, or he was currently being spied on by Max, the Prince of Orange—the very man who had been the object of an obsession plaguing him since the day he broke up with Carlos.
Discovering who was sharing the villa threw Max into a state that was a blend of permanent shock and utter numbness. Despite the gorgeous weather outside, he spent almost the entire following day in bed, pulling the duvet nearly up to his nose.
He had come here primarily to forget that people like Prince Charles existed. In peace and quiet, he wanted to find the strength to accept the dismal truth that he would never be like that, would never meet the expectations of his father, his nation, or the glossy tabloids, and would likely never know happiness in love.
Instead, a spiteful twist of fate had placed a man just a few meters away who embodied all of Max’s unfulfilled ambitions and irritated him by the mere fact of his existence. Furthermore, to his horror, Max realized something else.
The Monégasque prince was drop-dead gorgeous. He aroused an almost primal desire within him.
Max couldn't resist the temptation to dwell on his beautiful, perfectly symmetrical face, his charming Hollywood smile, and a youthful vitality that infused his every movement.
Max saw no point in lying to himself. Cupid's arrow had pierced him through and through. Even more than wanting to be Charles, he wanted to be with Charles...
Truly, nothing worse could have happened. He had fallen for a straight guy—and a highborn one at that, with a reputation for being a notorious womanizer.
The luxury estate had unexpectedly become a prison for Max—a stifling, hostile place from which he desperately needed to break free. He no longer cared if someone recognized him or if he invited some other danger upon himself. Driven by pure instinct, he bolted downstairs, climbed into the car he had rented at the airport, and drove off into the unknown.
He covered a few kilometers along an exceptionally scenic route, yet he remained entirely numb to the beauty of the surrounding nature. He was also so profoundly unfocused on his surroundings that it was a miracle the car he was driving stayed on the road. Ultimately, Max did the most irresponsible thing he could have done in that situation: he pulled over in the middle of the road, cut the engine, slumped his head against the steering wheel, and let his emotions give way, bursting into tears.
He didn't even notice another vehicle pulling up beside him...
Charles tried to pretend nothing was wrong, but Max had been triggering far too many emotions in him lately for him to remain indifferent to his presence just across the wall.
For most of the day, he couldn't find peace anywhere, until he finally concluded he urgently needed a change of scenery and decided to head out for a brief drive.
If only Carlos hadn't carelessly thrown Max's name out during their disastrous fight, Charles probably wouldn't have given the Dutchman's appearance a second thought. Unfortunately, given the circumstances, the sight of him made Charles's blood boil.
What an arrogant prick! Here was Charles, still unable to find solace from the pain of his breakup with Carlos, finding joy in absolutely nothing, while just a stone's throw away, Max—who would never comprehend his dilemmas or his suffering because he was fortunate enough to be born in a country with more progressive legislation—was enjoying a carefree holiday. And to top it off, out of sheer boredom (since he clearly had no real problems!), he was peeping at him from the terrace!
Before falling asleep, Charles had spent a long time searching the web for information about Max, arriving at increasingly unsettling conclusions. Above all, he noticed certain symptoms of... a fascination with Max. He scrolled through photo after photo and was forced to admit that in practically every setting, Max carried himself like a true prince. That refinement of his, those noble features, that intelligent gaze... Even at a family barbecue, Max radiated majesty. Charles desperately wanted an image like that. Instead of the "covert" snapshots featuring empty-headed bimbos he paid to help conceal his orientation from the world, just once in his life, he wanted to see himself in the kind of photographs Max had in abundance.
All his thoughts up to this point terrified him, but Charles was only truly spooked when it hit him that he wasn't dreaming of being captured as a refined, stylish, and elegant aristocrat like Max. In reality, he was fantasizing about posing for those photos... in the company of someone like him.
Until now, Charles had held onto the belief that when Carlos suggested he should pursue someone like Prince Max, he was simply upset and didn't quite know what he was saying. Now, however, it seemed entirely possible that his words were far more calculated than they appeared on the surface, holding a great deal of truth.
Charles tried every possible way to block that thought out, but every sign in heaven and on earth indicated that Max simply turned him on.
How fortunate that he had come up with the idea for a drive! For at least half an hour, he would be forced to focus on navigating the road, granting himself a reprieve from obsessing over Max, Carlos, and the entire trainwreck his life had become lately.
What on earth...?
An unexpected obstacle loomed ahead on Charles's path. Some idiot had parked dead center in the lane and hadn't even bothered to justify the stop by turning on his hazard lights. You moron, who gave you a license?!
Charles pulled closer and... immediately regretted not trying to steer around the obstructing vehicle to drive onward unnoticed.
Since he had already stopped, however, he decided not to let the opportunity slip away...
"Are you alright?"
Hearing the question, Max immediately composed himself and stopped sobbing. He also remembered where he was, and it dawned on him that he had committed a terrible blunder by abandoning the safety of the villa and exposing himself to the public in this pathetic state.
He timidly lifted his gaze toward the source of the speaker's voice. He saw who was sitting in the car beside him and instantly knew his tear-filled eyes were merely the tip of the iceberg he had just crashed into—after an encounter like this, he was facing the very real threat of a wet dream tonight...
"I'm fine, thank you," he replied, pretending that his current, bizarre situation (weeping in a vehicle "parked" in the middle of a lane) was perfectly natural, and that his interlocutor was just some random stranger, rather than His Royal Highness Prince Charles of Monaco.
"I don't think you are," Charles said, his expression souring. "Someone who is fine doesn't park their car in the middle of a roadway with a cliff face on one side and a sheer drop on the other."
"Oh, really?" Max asked defiantly. "I assure you my state of mind is excellent, and yet, as you can see, I did just that."
"And I suppose you were crying tears of joy?" Charles scrutinized him intently. Max, for his part, began to panic that if the man didn't stop staring right now, he was going to start blushing...
"None of your business," he snapped. Why the hell had he even engaged in this pointless conversation? He could have started the car and driven off at any moment without offering any unnecessary explanations.
"Don't try to play the bad boy," Charles smiled mischievously. "It doesn't suit you."
"Is that so? And what do you know about me?" Max’s combative mood didn't waver. He didn't have the slightest doubt that Charles had flawlessly recognized who he was dealing with, and that his provocative behavior wasn't accidental. At the same time, he had absolutely no clue what the Monégasque was playing at.
"True, not much," Charles conceded. "But one look at you is enough. It's immediately obvious that you're a good boy."
"Is it written on my forehead or something?" Max genuinely didn't view himself as a rebel, but he had no intention of agreeing with Charles, even if the man happened to be right for the moment.
"Want to race?" Charles blurted out unexpectedly.
"What?" Max didn't have to fake his bewilderment. Charles's proposition, whatever it was meant to imply, caught him completely off guard.
"Since you insist you're not as gentle as you look..." Charles turned the key in the ignition and threw Max a telling glance.
The absolute last thing Max wanted was a race along a winding, unfamiliar road that, to make matters worse, traced the edge of a cliff. Weakness, however, was a luxury he could not afford in the presence of this...
Precisely, who?
Max would have to sort that out with himself later. For now, following Charles’s lead, he fired up his car's ignition, sending a clear signal that the challenge was accepted.
Good Lord, what am I doing...?
"Where is the finish line?" he asked, barely managing to keep his voice from trembling.
"Back at the villa," Charles proposed. "About a kilometer from here, there's a roundabout where we can make a U-turn."
Max nodded in agreement. That left one final detail to settle.
"Which lane are you taking?"
It was obvious that one of them would have to drive against traffic. Max chivalrously yielded the choice of sides to his competitor. Once again, he didn't quite know why he did it. Was the blood of his noble ancestors asserting itself?
"The right side," Charles decided.
It was a good thing Max was sitting down; otherwise, his knees would have buckled from sheer terror.
All that was left was to pray that nothing would be heading their way from the opposite direction...
You've lost your mind, Charles!
You were supposed to stop for a brief second, get a close look at Max, convince yourself that you were obsessing over him for nothing, and drive on.
Instead, what did you do? You just orchestrated an illegal street race on a public road.
What possessed you, you idiot? Do you want to kill yourself? Or maybe you want to kill...?
Charles shuddered. He felt physically sick at the mere thought that some tragedy might befall Max because of him. Naturally, he simply didn't want anyone's life on his conscience; it certainly wasn't about anything more than that...
When the insane idea popped into his head, he had been entirely convinced that Max would decline to participate in the stunt. Frankly, he had only wanted to mock the Dutchman, to prove he was better than him at something, to give the guy a reason to feel envious for once. Unfortunately, he had miscalculated. Max turned out to be far braver and much less responsible than he anticipated.
Up until the very last second, he had harbored a quiet hope that Max would chicken out. That was precisely why he had claimed the right lane for himself. Once again, he had been proven wrong.
"Fine," Max accepted his choice without betraying any emotion. "Ready?"
Charles did his best to maintain a confident facade. Not for a single second did he step out of his role as an adrenaline junkie thrilled by the impending rivalry. In reality, he was frightened to death of the events about to unfold and their potential fallout. At best, they would redline their engines, violate a handful (or a dozen) traffic laws, and break into a heavy sweat. At worst... Charles didn't even want to contemplate it.
"Never been readier," he declared, while discreetly crossing his middle finger over his index. Yes, he could lie to Max, but he couldn't deceive himself.
"Then let's begin," Max calmly maneuvered his car into the left lane, waited until Charles’s vehicle pulled even with his own, and commenced the countdown. "Three... Two... One..."
They floored it.