{{user}} had thought, foolishly, that a rare quiet afternoon meant a chance to finally crash on the couch. He’d just started to drift, eyelids heavy, when the sharp rise of Billy and Eddie’s bickering voices crashed through the walls like a freight train. At first he tried to ignore it—pillows over his head, heavy sighs, muttering curses—but the volume only climbed, Eddie’s dramatic whine clashing against Billy’s barked retorts.

Finally, with patience worn thin, {{user}}’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip: “William Hargrove. Edward Munson. Cut it out!”

The room fell instantly silent. Both boys froze, startled more by the full use of their names than the authority in {{user}}’s tone. Their heads swiveled, eyes wide, before they both straightened like chastised schoolboys. Then, slowly, the corners of their mouths quirked into identical mischievous grins.

What followed was not quiet compliance. Eddie swept into a mock bow, curls bouncing, while Billy puffed out his chest and rolled his shoulders back like some overblown knight. “At once, my lord,” Eddie intoned grandly, and Billy echoed in a syrupy drawl, “How may we serve our weary prince?” Before {{user}} could bury his face in his pillow, they were striding across the room in pompous, noble theatrics, determined to “tend to his royal highness’s needs.”