Prince

Chanel, the little white applehead Chihuahua, was fast asleep in a designer tote bag nestled in Sam’s lap, his small head resting on a folded silk scarf. Sam stroked the soft fur behind his ears with his thumb, his other hand wrapped around a glass of soda water with lime. He had bleached his hair platinum since the last time he walked the halls of Bullworth Academy, the color a stark, icy contrast to his dark eyebrows and the heavy eyeliner he’d learned to apply with precision. His shirt was blue silk brocade. He felt good. He felt expensive in a room full of cheap thrills.

The emcee, a guy with a handlebar mustache and a vest that had seen better decades, announced the next act. "Alright, settle down ya animals. Put your hands together for the man with the voice like velvet and the moves like a panther. Give it up for Prince!"

Sam’s grip on his glass tightened. He knew that name. He knew that voice.

Prince walked onto the stage. He looked older, harder around the edges, but the swagger was identical. He wore his auburn hair pulled back into that signature pompadour with the swirl, the curls catching the harsh stage lights. His skin was still a warm tan, glowing under the heat of the lamps, and his amber eyes scanned the crowd with a practiced, predatory laziness. He wore a dark purple button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that looked stronger than Sam remembered, and his nose was still perfectly crooked.

The familiar opening chords of a rockabilly number started, and Prince grabbed the mic stand, leaning into it like a lover. When he sang, his voice was a gravelly smooth baritone that cut through the noise of the bar, rich with emotion and a soulful ache that made the hairs on Sam’s arms stand up. He moved with an easy grace, swaying his hips, pointing at people in the crowd, working the room with a confidence that made it hard to look away.

Sam watched him, his heart doing a complicated rhythm against his ribs. Three years. It had been three years since graduation, since Prince had vanished to escape the shadow of his brother Raphael. Three years since Sam had sat in his dorm room, crushing hopelessly on a guy who had flirted with him constantly but never seemed to realize the effect he had. Sam had changed so much since then. He wasn't the shy, unconfident, fragile boy hiding behind bandages and oversized sweaters anymore. He was an art student, a business heir in training, a man who knew exactly what he wanted.

And looking at Prince now, Sam realized he still wanted the same thing.

Prince finished the song to a scattering of applause and a few rowdy whistles. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and signaled to the band for a break. He hopped off the stage, grabbing a bottle of water from a cooler near the back, and started heading toward the bar, which was fortunately situated right past Sam’s table.

Sam took a breath, checking his reflection in the compact mirror he kept in his bag. His hair was perfect, his eyeliner sharp. He adjusted the collar of his shirt. "Chanel, wake up, darling," he whispered to the dog. "We're about to see a ghost."

Prince was chugging the water, his Adam's apple bobbing, when he passed the table. He didn't look up immediately, his eyes focused on the floor as he navigated the crowd. Sam cleared his throat, a deliberate, sharp sound.

"Long time no see, darling."

Prince stopped dead in his tracks. He froze, the water bottle halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he turned, his eyes widening as they landed on Sam. For a second, he looked confused, his gaze darting over the platinum hair, the earrings, the tattoos peeking out from under Sam’s sleeves, before settling on the wheelchair. A slow, incredulous grin spread across his face, transforming his features from the weary performer into the boy Sam used to know.

"No fuckin' way," Prince breathed, walking over and ignoring the empty chair across from Sam to lean right against the table, invading Sam's space in that way he always used to. "Socs? Is that actually you?"

Sam smiled, tilting his head back to look up at him. "In the flesh."

"Holy shit," Prince laughed, setting the water bottle down and crossing his arms. "Look at you! You look... damn, Sam. You look like a rock star." He reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before he decided to hell with it and gently touched the platinum strands of Sam's hair. "Blonde? And the earrings?"

Sam leaned slightly into the touch before pulling back with a playful shrug. "Figured if I was going to be stuck in my chair most of the time, I might as well be fabulous while doing it. Nice to see you haven't changed a bit, though. Singing for your supper in dives?"

Prince laughed, a loud, boisterous sound that made a few heads turn. "Hey, a gig is a gig. Pays the rent, keeps me away from home. I'm surprised to see you in a place like this. Last I heard, you were off learnin' how to run a car empire or somethin'."

"Art empire, actually," Sam said, gesturing to the bar around them. "But even future art dealers need inspiration. And I like the ambiance. It's gritty. Real." He looked down at his lap where Chanel was starting to stir, poking his nose out of the bag.

Prince followed his gaze and did a double take. "Is that... is that a rat?"

"It's a dog, darling," Sam scolded gently, lifting the little white dog slightly. "This is Chanel. And he has better manners than half the people in this room. Say hello, Chanel."

The dog let out a tiny, high-pitched bark.

Prince cracked up, crouching down so he was eye-level with the dog. He offered a finger for him to sniff. "Of course that's what ya named him. Hey there, Chanel. Nice to meet ya. I'm Prince. Don't let the name fool ya, I ain't royalty." Chanel sniffed his finger and proceeded to lick his hand enthusiastically. Prince chuckled, scratching him behind the ears. "Alright, he likes me. That's a good sign. Usually dogs hate me."

"He has good taste," Sam quipped, watching Prince interact with the dog. It was strange how easy this was. The years seemed to melt away, leaving only the comfortable banter they used to share. "So, are you sticking around town? Or just passing through to break a few hearts and leave?"

Prince stood up, wiping his hand on his jeans. He leaned back against the table, his posture relaxed but his eyes holding a hint of something guarded. "Stickin' around for a bit. Got a few gigs lined up at the Boxing Gym bar and maybe the Ten Pins. Needed a break from the city. Too much noise, you know? Figured Bullworth was as good a place as any to hide out. Might swing by and help Hal at the autoshop a bit."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Hide out? From what?"

"Life," Prince said vaguely, waving a hand dismissively. "Raphael's still an asshole, if that's what you're asking. Hopefully he's busy terrorizing someone else for a while." He looked Sam over again, his expression softening. "I'm glad you're doing okay, Sam. Really. You look... happy. Stronger."

"I am," Sam said firmly. He tapped the armrest of his chair. "This chair doesn't define me, Prince. It just gets me from A to B so I can save my energy for the things that matter." He paused, letting his eyes linger on Prince’s face, tracing the line of his jaw. "Like catching up with old friends who are too dense to realize they were being flirted with in high school."

Prince blinked, then a sheepish look crossed his face. He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit Sam remembered well. "Yeah, well. You know me. I ain't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. I thought you were just bein' nice. You were always buyin' me stuff, helpin' me with my homework... I figured you just felt sorry for the poor greaser with the bad grades."

"I never felt sorry for you, darling." Sam said, his voice dropping an octave, losing some of its playful edge. "I thought you were beautiful. And I liked that you weren't afraid of me. Most people looked at the wheelchair and saw a project or a tragedy. You looked at me and saw Sam."

Prince stared at him, the noise of the bar fading into the background for a moment. His amber eyes searched Sam's face, and for the first time, the easy-going facade slipped, revealing something rawer underneath. "I saw you," Prince said quietly. "I always saw you, Sam. I just didn't think I was allowed to want what I saw. You were way out of my league. The rich pretty boy and the grease monkey? That ain't a movie that ends happy."

Sam felt a flush rise up his neck. He hadn't expected Prince to be so honest, so vulnerable. It was a side of him he had only glimpsed a few times, late at night in the dorms, or during one of their ill-advised ghost hunts in the basement. "Well," Sam said, his voice slightly breathless, "it's 2011, Prince. The genre rules have changed. And I'm done letting other people write my script."

The emcee’s voice crackled over the speakers, breaking the tension. "Alright, break time's over! Let's hear it for Prince one more time!"

Prince straightened up, the mask sliding back into place, though his smile was warmer now, more genuine. He looked back at the stage, then back at Sam. "I gotta go. They'll riot if I don't get back up there."

"Go," Sam shooed him. "Knock 'em dead."

Prince started to turn away, then stopped. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He held them out to Sam. "You smoke?"

Sam looked at the pack, then at Prince. He took the pack, but instead of taking one, he tucked it into his own jacket pocket. "I don't smoke. But I'll hold onto these for you. As collateral."

Prince laughed, shaking his head. "Collateral for what?"

"For a promise to get a drink with me after your set," Sam said, his heart hammering against his ribs. "A real drink. Not water."

Prince looked at him for a long moment, his eyes twinkling with that familiar mix of mischief and something deeper. He leaned down, resting his hands on the arms of Sam's wheelchair, bringing his face close enough that Sam could smell the cologne and the faint scent of stage sweat.

"You got yourself a deal, Hot Rod," Prince murmured, his voice low and rough. "Don't leave without me."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Sam replied, holding his gaze.

Prince grinned and turned, bounding back toward the stage with a renewed energy. He grabbed the mic, shouting something to the crowd that made them cheer, and counted off the next song.

Sam sat back in his chair, his hand resting over the pocket where he’d put the cigarettes. Chanel settled back into his lap, sighing contentedly. Sam watched Prince move under the lights, the way his body swayed to the rhythm, the way he commanded the attention of everyone in the room. It was incredible. For three years, Sam had wondered what it would be like to see him again. He had built up fantasies in his head, conversations that never happened.

But this? This was better. Prince was still Prince— oblivious, charming, and completely unaware of the effect he had— but he was also something more now.