Alex's life with John—the probably-immortal roommate who treated centuries-old artifacts like thrift-store finds—was already a circus of suspicion, denial, and lasagna-fueled complacency.
Merlin's visit had left Alex's 1% of doubt on life support. But when John waltzed in wearing an actual Victorian crown and called it a "cheap Renaissance fair prop," Alex's brain short-circuited.
This wasn't just weird. It was a new tier of insane.
The Crown Incident
It was a muggy Thursday evening. Alex was nursing a beer, still recovering from the mental image of Merlin and John reenacting a medieval love ballad in the next room.
He was scrolling through Sarah's latest texts—grainy photos of cuneiform tablets and a rant about John's "props"—when the front door swung open. In strolled John, looking like his usual flannel-clad self, except for one detail: perched on his head was a gleaming, silver-and-gem-encrusted crown.
Rubies the size of Alex's thumb winked in the light.
Alex choked on his beer, spraying it across the coffee table. "Dude," he sputtered, pointing at John's head. "What the hell is that?"
John, kicking off his sneakers, glanced up as if he'd forgotten he was wearing a royal heirloom. "Oh, this?" he said, tapping the crown. "Just a cheap thing from a Renaissance fair. Thought it'd be funny for game night."
Game night? Alex's brain did a backflip. This wasn't a prop you'd find next to a foam sword. This was the kind of crown that got its own security detail.
"Cheap?" Alex croaked. "That looks like it belongs in a museum!"
John just shrugged, plopping onto the couch and grabbing a bag of chips. "Nah, it's just shiny metal. Probably tin. Want some Doritos?"
Alex stared, mouth agape, as John adjusted the crown like it was a baseball cap and started scrolling through Netflix.
The Historical Blasphemy
Alex couldn't let this slide. He texted Sarah: "JOHN'S WEARING A CROWN. LIKE A LEGIT SILVERY CROWN. HELP."
Sarah, who was probably halfway through a thesis on ancient Sumerian trade routes, replied with a single emoji: ??. Then: "Send pics. NOW."
Alex snapped a blurry photo while John was engrossed in The Witcher. The crown gleamed even in the grainy image.
Sarah's response was a voice memo of her screaming, "ALEX, THAT'S A ROMANOV CROWN OR A DAMN GOOD COPY. GET IT OFF HIS HEAD AND CALL THE HERMITAGE MUSEUM."
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Alex googled it and nearly dropped his phone. John's "cheap prop" was a dead ringer for a crown that vanished during the Russian Revolution.
Emboldened by Sarah's panic, Alex confronted John during a commercial break. "Okay, level with me. That's not from a Renaissance fair. It's got actual jewels. Where'd you get it?"
John didn't even look up from his chips. "Told you, estate sale. Some old lady was selling costume jewelry. Thought it'd be fun to wear ironically."
Ironically? Alex wanted to scream. Nobody wears a crown that could buy a yacht ironically.
But John just crunched a Dorito and asked, "You want Lord of the Rings or Stranger Things next?"
The Casual Crown Chaos
The crown wasn't a one-night stunt. John started wearing it all the time. He'd cook pancakes with it tilted rakishly on his head. He'd wear it to take out the trash, waving at neighbors who did double-takes.
The real insanity came when Merlin popped by again. She saw the crown, smirked, and said, "Still wearing the Tsarina's old hat, huh?"
The Tsarina? Alex's heart skipped a beat. John just laughed and said, "Yeah, it's got good vibes."
Merlin rolled her eyes, kissed his forehead right under the crown, and started helping with dinner.
Alex, clutching his phone with Sarah's increasingly unhinged texts ("STEAL THE CROWN. I NEED TO CARBON-DATE IT"), felt like he was living in a historical drama with no script.
Then came the kicker. During a chaotic game night, John—still wearing the crown—accidentally knocked a beer bottle off the table. It shattered, and a shard sliced his hand.
Alex braced for the usual: no blood, instant healing. But this time, John overdid the act, clutching his hand and yelping, "Oh no, my mortal flesh!" with all the sincerity of a community theater reject. Merlin snorted so hard she nearly choked on her wine.
The cut was already gone. John, realizing he'd oversold it, muttered, "Just kidding," and adjusted the crown like nothing happened. Alex wanted to scream into a pillow.
The Snooping Escalation
Alex couldn't take it anymore. While John and Merlin were out, he called Sarah for backup.
She showed up with a magnifying glass and a notebook labeled "Operation Immortal Roommate."
They crept into John's room. The crown sat on his dresser, waiting for a coronation.
Sarah examined it, muttering about "Fabergé-era goldsmith techniques" and "diamond cuts consistent with 19th-century Russian mines." She found a tiny inscription: "A.L. 1885."
"This is the real deal," Sarah whispered, eyes wide. "Your roommate's either a time traveler or he mugged the Romanovs."
They dug through John's closet, finding more "props": a scepter, a faded letter addressed to "Sir John" from someone named Disraeli, and a photo of John and Merlin at the Romanov Tercentenary celebrations in 1913, both looking exactly the same.
Alex's 1% of doubt was officially dead.
The Non-Confrontation
When John and Merlin returned, catching Alex and Sarah red-handed with the crown, John didn't even blink.
"You guys throwing a costume party?" he asked, tossing his keys onto the counter.
Sarah, braver than Alex, held up the crown. "This is a Romanov crown. Like, actually imperial Russian. Explain."
John grinned, that infuriatingly calm grin. "Told you, Ren fair. They make good fakes."
Merlin, smirking behind him, added, "He's got a thing for shiny hats. Let it go."
She handed Alex a plate of fresh-baked cookies, and his resolve crumbled like the shortbread. Sarah left, vowing to call her professor, but Alex stayed. The rent was cheap, the cookies were still warm, and John was already researching taco recipes on his phone like a man with nothing to hide."
Alex was 100% sure John and Merlin were immortal. But he wasn't ready to blow up his life over a crown. Not yet.
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