Charles loved many things about being a prince—like getting first dibs on desserts at state dinners—but royal etiquette lessons? Not so much. In fact, if he could have faked his death to avoid his next session, he probably would’ve.
But alas, here he was, sitting stiffly in a grand, overly polished ballroom, with Madame Dupont, the palace’s terrifyingly strict etiquette instructor, watching him like a hawk.
“Prince Charles, your posture is horrendous,” she snapped, her sharp French accent slicing through the air. “Sit up straight, or you’ll look like a wilted flower.”
“I like flowers,” Charles mumbled under his breath as he adjusted himself in the chair. His back was already protesting from being forced into a position that felt anything but natural.
Max, leaning casually against the doorframe with his arms crossed, looked like he was thoroughly enjoying the show. He didn’t have to say anything—his amused smirk said it all.
Charles glared at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be guarding me, not watching me suffer?”
“I’m multitasking,” Max replied, still smirking. “Besides, this is highly entertaining.”
“Prince Charles!” Madame Dupont barked, her eyes narrowing. “You will not slouch! You are representing the royal family, and you must maintain poise and dignity at all times.”
Charles let out an exaggerated sigh but obeyed, straightening himself so rigidly he looked like a human ruler.
Madame Dupont wasn’t satisfied. “And your fork! You’re holding it like it’s a garden tool.”
“Well, maybe I want to dig a hole and hide in it,” Charles muttered, earning another sharp glance from Dupont.
Max’s smirk widened.
After what felt like an eternity of being corrected on every single thing—how to hold a wine glass (“That’s not a shovel!”), how to dab at his mouth with a napkin (“Not like you’re wiping your nose, Prince Charles!”), and the correct angle at which to sit (“You are not on a beach lounge chair!”)—Charles was ready to throw in the towel.
But just when he thought it couldn’t get worse, it did.
Madame Dupont pulled out a long, thin book from her handbag and held it up as if it were a sacred text. “Now, we shall practice the royal wave.”
Charles stared at her blankly. “The what?”
“The royal wave,” she repeated with a serious expression. “It is a delicate art. The wrist must be fluid, not too rigid, and it must convey grace, warmth, and authority all at once. It is essential for public appearances.”
Charles blinked. “You want me to… wave?”
“Yes,” she said, her eyes narrowing as though daring him to argue.
Charles glanced over at Max, who looked like he was barely containing his laughter. Of all the things he had to endure today, this was going to be the hardest.
“Fine,” Charles said, lifting his hand with an exaggerated flourish and giving the stiffest, most awkward wave imaginable.
Madame Dupont gasped in horror. “No, no, no! You look like you’re trying to hail a taxi! It must be more… refined!”
Charles dropped his hand with a groan. “It’s a wave. How is there a wrong way to wave?”
Max finally lost it. A small laugh escaped him, and Charles shot him a deadly glare. “You think this is funny?”
Max raised his hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just… well, yes, it’s funny. You look ridiculous.”
Charles opened his mouth to retort, but Madame Dupont wasn’t having any more of his sass. “Prince Charles, if you do not take this seriously, how will you ever present yourself with the dignity befitting a prince?”
“Maybe I’ll just never wave again,” Charles said, half-serious.
“Absolutely unacceptable,” Dupont declared, shaking her head. “Now, try again. But this time, imagine you are a swan gliding across a serene lake.”
“A swan?” Charles repeated, his voice dripping with disbelief.
“Yes! A swan is elegant, calm, and graceful. You must channel that energy.”
Charles glanced at Max again, as if hoping for a rescue. But Max just shrugged, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “You heard the lady. Be the swan.”
Charles let out another groan, raised his hand, and gave his best attempt at a “swan-like” wave. It felt ridiculous. He was pretty sure he looked ridiculous too.
Madame Dupont, however, gave a small, approving nod. “Better. Much better. Though still not perfect.”
Charles dropped his hand, exhausted. “Well, perfection is overrated.”
Madame Dupont pursed her lips. “Prince Charles, I will not give up until you can wave properly. The public expects it.”
Charles was about to argue when suddenly Max stepped forward. “Why don’t we take a break?” he suggested smoothly, stepping in between Charles and Madame Dupont like a buffer. “It’s been a long lesson.”
Madame Dupont eyed Max warily. “A break?”
“Yes, I think a short break would help Charles… reflect on the importance of poise,” Max said, flashing her a polite smile.
Charles shot Max a look of pure gratitude, already halfway out of his chair. “Yes, definitely. Reflection is key. I need time to, uh… process everything.”
Dupont hesitated, then sighed dramatically. “Fine. A break. But we will resume in fifteen minutes, and I expect full commitment.”
“Of course,” Charles said, practically bolting for the door before she could change her mind.
Max followed after him, and as soon as they were out of the ballroom and far enough down the hall, Charles let out a huge, exaggerated sigh of relief.
“I owe you,” Charles said, glancing at Max with a grateful grin. “I was about two seconds away from waving her out of a window.”
Max chuckled. “You were really struggling back there.”
“Struggling? That was pure torture. How can anyone care that much about waving?” Charles threw his hands up in exasperation. “I mean, I get that I’m supposed to be dignified and all, but come on!”
Max smirked, clearly entertained by Charles’ rant. “You’re not exactly known for being dignified.”
“Exactly!” Charles agreed, throwing his hands in the air. “So why even bother? I should just make my own wave. The ‘Charles Wave.’ You know, something cool. Like a peace sign or—”
“Please don’t,” Max interrupted, his voice dry but his eyes full of amusement.
Charles laughed, feeling lighter now that they were out of Dupont’s clutches. “You have to admit, you were impressed by my swan wave.”
“Impressed isn’t the word I’d use,” Max replied, raising an eyebrow. “Amused, maybe.”
Charles shoved him playfully. “You’re just jealous that I can pull off a swan.”
Max snorted. “Yeah, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Charles grinned at him, and for a brief moment, it was just the two of them, standing there, laughing at the absurdity of royal life.
“You’re not so bad at this whole bodyguard thing,” Charles said, his tone light but sincere. “I mean, you’re saving me from etiquette disasters now. That’s above and beyond the call of duty.”
Max shrugged, his smile small but genuine. “Someone’s got to keep you from becoming a complete disaster.”
Charles grinned. “Good luck with that.”
And as they walked back down the palace corridor, Charles couldn’t help but feel that, despite everything, Max made all the ridiculousness of royal life a little more bearable. Even if he did laugh at his swan wave.
YOU ARE READING
𝑅𝑂𝑌𝐴𝐿 𝑆𝑇𝐴𝑁𝐷𝐴𝑅𝐷𝑆 ~𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑛
Fanfiction"but I don't have royal blood..." he spoke "for fuck sake just kiss me" A lestappen story :)
