Princes of the Universe (Maylor AU)

Chapter 2

"What? No!" the prince cried, stepping forward only to be yanked back by the guard. Catching himself before he fell backwards, Roger narrowed his eyes at the man who had reverted to his sedentary state, almost as if he hadn't moved in the first place. The blonde rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to his mother, stressing, "Mum, you know he and I don't get along. Not after I—"

"The arrangement is strictly professional, Roger," the heiress muttered, unamused by her son's reaction. After all, he was in no place to argue. "He's just going to be there to make sure you do what you're supposed to," she lied, purposefully neglecting to inform him of the other man's true purpose of tagging along. "You do that, and you'll barely have to interact with him. It'll be fine."

"I'd rather die," he growled, his nails digging into his palms.

Winifred pouted in mock pity. "Oh, if only you had a choice, dear. But it's this or execution, and I can't do that if I want to gain the respect of the universe, now can I?"

The blonde gritted his teeth, resentful of the powerless position he found himself in.

The heiress sunk back into the throne and shifted her attention to the statuesque guard beside her son, ordering, "Take him to preparation for me, Tim, and make sure John gets there too."

The enlivened guard nodded his head and tugged at the chains securing the blonde's wrists and ankles, guiding him out of the chambers without a word. Roger stole one last, bitter look at his mother, his hate for her growing along with the distance between them. Had he known this would be his punishment, he would've fought harder when Tim discovered him in hiding. He might have even killed him, but instead, he followed blindly and found himself tasked with killing the prince of Rhye, completely unaware that he was really only a distraction.

*****

"I look ridiculous," Roger grumbled as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, the tailor his mother had appointed for the preparation adjusting the thick, ruffled collar around his neck.

"You're supposed to," John retorted from the couch across the room, his eyes glued to the pages of the magazine in his lap but his ears picking up every complaint that slipped past the contentious blonde's lips. He even felt the short-lived glare Roger had thrown his way, but when the prince failed to achieve the rise he desired out of his new partner in crime, he surrendered and returned his attention to the man looking back at him.

"I can't breathe in this thing," the blonde groaned, tugging at the collar that topped off the outfit that was typical of Rhye. It consisted of a pair of black leggings, which hugged the prince's legs a little too much for comfort, and a black, diamond-patterned jacket with large, white, pleated cuffs and gold buttons sewn down the middle, along with several of the diamonds ornately embroidered in shimmery, gold thread. The garments had been snagged from the rival planet months ago, years after the birth of the heiress's devious plan.

In fact, much of Winifred's plan was already in motion. The ploy she had roped her son into was something new; something the heiress came up with when word got back that suspicions had started to form in the enemy planet. All she needed was someone to execute it, and when Roger was shoved into her chambers that morning, shackled with another misdemeanor up his sleeve, she'd found her man.

Roger's mother knew he wouldn't be able to see the task through, but that's what she wanted. She wanted him to get caught so that her initial plan could resume undetected. It was practically a suicide mission she was sending him on, and while a small part of her felt guilty about putting her son in such a position, she knew there was no better man for the job.

"Please stop moving, Your Highness," the tailor pleaded, delicate hands ready to fix the accessory.

"You hear that?" Roger asked, looking back at John in a second attempt to rile up the man who was only a year younger than the prince. "He called me 'Your Highness.'"

"The only time you've ever been high was when you were on that killing spree of yours," he muttered, flipping to the next page in the magazine and finally meeting the blonde's gaze. With a straight face and a flat tone, he added, "Which, by the way, seems like only yesterday, huh?"

The prince grimaced. "Sure does."

"Alright, you're all set," the tailor chimed in, taking a step back to admire his work and denying the two men the argument that was bound to ensue. It wasn't often that Nevermore got the opportunity to be as expressive in their wardrobe as the citizens of Rhye, with their all-black outfits lacking any and all traces of color and individuality. Men and women were dressed alike, in suits designed specifically to help them navigate their barren, desert planet. There were no dresses or skirts, no frilly collars, no embroidery—nothing impractical.

Roger raised an eyebrow at the tear that streamed down the tailor's cheek and was promptly swept away before he called John over.

Tim, who had been standing patiently by the door, approached the prince and resecured the shackles that had been removed for the fitting around his wrists and ankles. The blonde narrowed his eyes at the guard who paid him no attention, standing up from his crouched position and tipping his head toward the couch that John had gotten up from. With an irritated sigh, the prince started to drag himself in the direction he was told to go in, but the seemingly easy transition hit a bump in the road when the two men brushed shoulders in passing, the younger man's harder shove knocking the prince to the ground.