Princes of the Universe (Maylor AU)

Chapter 10

"What the hell was that back there?" Roger growled at John, shoving him forward as the two of them and Tim entered the quarters that Freddie had prepared for them. He'd been itching to do it ever since a nameless attendant was summoned to guide them to the room after their meal had reached its painfully awkward conclusion.

Not long after Brian tried to make amends, his right-hand man stood abruptly from his chair and stormed off without explanation, leaving the three men alone with the prince whose face had reddened with embarrassment. Dessert was promptly delivered to the table, but every dish went untouched. No one had much of an appetite with the tragic story weighing on their minds, nor were they so inclined to continue the conversation or even attempt to start a new one.

When enough had been enough, the Prince of Rhye dismissed them all and ordered for someone to bring his guests to their room, proposing that they make themselves comfortable while waiting for the community-wide celebration that was set to happen later that day in honor of his engagement.

"After all," Brian had explained while rising up from the table himself and pushing his chair in, "it must've been a long journey you boys took to come all the way here. I'm sure you could use some rest."

As soon as the last word slipped past his lips, he pivoted on his heel and exited the dining hall, refusing to entertain any disagreement that the three men might've had. The group of three was led out of the room shortly after, and not a word was spoken until the attendant bid them farewell and reminded them of the call bell attached to the wall beside the door. "In case you need anything between now and the celebration," they tacked on dutifully. For having as many advancements as Rhye had, it seemed ironic that the bell was an actual, literal bell, polished nicely and its gold finish gleaming brightly in the sunlight breaking through the large, stained glass window parallel to it.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the younger of the two responded to the older one calmly, regaining his disturbed balance and turning around to face his attacker.

"Your stupid story," Roger sneered, standing toe-to-toe with his enemy and jamming a sharp finger into the center of his sternum. "You and I both know you didn't just pull it out of your arse."

Tim—the first to enter the room and perched quietly on the foot of one of the four beds squeezed into the room, two on each wall and spaced evenly apart so as to create an empty plus between them—watched intently, waiting for his moment to intervene. John maintained his composure, though, wrapping his free hand around Roger's—the other still holding onto the disguised tool kit he had yet to put away—and plucking it away from his chest.

"I'd keep my voice down if I were you," he muttered with a clenched jaw, throwing the prince's hand down to his side and turning his back to him.

"That wasn't what happened," Roger argued, following his enemy to the bed beside Tim's, where the latter took a seat on the edge—facing away from Tim—and placed the unicorn head down on the floor. When John failed to respond, leaning forward and untying the thin ropes that supported the itchy, glittery, silver knee-high stockings he wore, the blonde kicked the tool kit over, its contents spilling out on the floor in front of John's feet. The younger of the two slowly lifted his head and met the prince's fiery gaze with furrowed brows.

"It's exactly what happened," he corrected him bitterly, straightening his back and crossing his arms. "Besides, who are you to say what happened and what didn't? You were so fucked up back then, I'm surprised your mother didn't have you killed."

"You fucking prick," the blonde growled, jumping at his enemy and hooking his arm around his neck.

The pair tumbled to the floor with a loud thud, Roger locking John in an unforgiving choke hold. The latter's fingers were pinched between the prince's arm and his own strained neck in a pathetic attempt to create some space to breathe. Tim shot up from the foot of his bed and quickly threw himself into the ring, trying to pry the pair apart by wedging himself between them. After receiving a sharp blow to the abdomen from Roger's elbow, a kick in the side from John, and a slap in the face from either of them—he couldn't tell who, the three-way tiff ending nearly as soon as it began—the brunette tore them apart.

The boys were splayed across the floor under the window that painted the otherwise dull room in a bright array of colors. Their vengeful eyes flickered amongst one another, and their chests inflated and deflated with each heavy breath they drew.

"It's not true," Roger grumbled, breaking the silence that permeated the air. "Your story." He propped himself up on his elbows with a slight grunt. "I might've killed your parents—"

"Not might've," John interjected. "You did. You killed my parents."

"Okay, so I killed them!" the blonde snapped, his face flushing red with frustration and his fingers curling into the palm of his hand—all but his index which he pointed at his enemy, "But I didn't do half shit you talked about. There was no shooting them in front of you, or hunting you down afterwards to make you my—"

"I made that up to account for us being siblings," he interrupted bitingly, the red in the prince's face intensifying. "I know it didn't happen."

Roger scoffed, planting his hands on the floor and using his arms to sit himself up. "Look, John," the name rolled off his tongue with years of harbored hatred, "the point I'm trying to make is the way you remember what did happen isn't the way it happened. Because you weren't there. And you know how I know? Because I looked for you. I may not remember a lot from that day, or any day for that matter, but I do remember ripping apart that whole goddamn house trying to find you, and you were nowhere to be found." The corner of his lip pricked up. "Hell, maybe if you were there, your parents wouldn't be dead."

"Oh, you fucking—" John started to say, lunging with hands extended outward for the blonde's throat when a knock rattled on the open door. The three men froze, directing their attention to the threshold where none other than the timid Prince of Rhye stood tall.

"I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?" he questioned softly, John drawing back as he stepped into the tense room. The boys shook their heads in unison. "Oh, good. I just, I feel so terrible about my friend's behavior today." He parked himself at the foot of the bed closest to the group of foreigners. It creaked as he crossed his legs and folded his hands atop his knee. His face, free of imperfections, glistened in the colored sunlight. "You see, he's always been protective of me, perhaps a bit too protective. I honestly don't know what came over him today; he's been quite on edge ever since we announced the engagement."

"Maybe he fancies you," Roger thought aloud, unfiltered, earning a swift, reprimanding smack on the leg from Tim. The undercover prince hissed in pain, pulling his leg into his chest and glaring at the brunette. His furrowed brows softened, though, when a subdued laugh hit his ear. He looked up at his target and noticed the smirk on his lips.

"I've often wondered that myself," Brian confessed, meeting Roger's gaze. His smirk grew into a charming grin, and his eyes sparkled in the warm rays of light shining through the window. The blonde's throat swelled, and a light sweat broke out across his forehead.

The Rhyian prince cleared his throat, the smile he flashed at his fiancé's brother vanishing behind the fist he brought to his lips. "Anyways, I just wanted to apologize again for how Freddie acted. I hope his actions don't discourage you from attending the celebration tonight."

"We wouldn't miss it for anything," John cut in, attracting the curly-haired prince's attention. Another grin formed on his pink lips, and before the boys could change their mind, Brian picked himself up from the bed and left the room. Roger, John, and Tim shared a sigh of relief, their cover left unblown thanks to the prince's guilty conscience that prevented him from noticing the scattered tools or bruises forming on their skin.

"That was close," the guard whispered, peering over his shoulder at the empty doorway, holding back his comment until the echo of footsteps faded away.

"Too close," John mumbled, reaching for his tools and the unusual container he kept them in. "We were lucky this time." He began to clean up the mess. "We might not be so lucky the next."

"Do you think their parties are anything like ours?" Roger blurted out, the other two glaring almost instantly at him and his irrelevant remark. "What? I just want to know what to expect."

"Expect the unexpected," John advised coldly, scooping in the last of his tools and reattaching the unicorn's horn to its head. "And Rhye doesn't have parties, Roger; they have celebrations. I talked about that on the way here. Get it right." He picked up the toolkit and rose to his feet, stepping over the prince and guard to get to the opposite side of the room—leaving Roger and Tim to claim the other—where they would all stay the remainder of the evening until the festivities began, going over the plan for tonight.

The bell never sounded once.