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The walls of the Palace are closing in on him. Wilhelm can't even breathe properly — it's too hot in his rooms, the stuffy furniture that's been there for centuries making it difficult for him to focus.

He’ll die in here, and nobody will ever know.

He's been back home for only two days. It's not enough time for his anxiety to flare up this badly at not even ten in the morning, but Wilhelm is aware that he can't control this. He's been living with anxiety long enough to understand that he's never going to win this war — he can break the streak of bad luck a few times and feel like he's conquered this crippling feeling building inside of him, but it's not an everyday occurrence.

He rubs his chest over his sweater as he stares at himself in the mirror, his pale reflection staring back at him with a tired gaze. He tries inhaling deeply through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, and that seems to do the trick.

His heart rate slows down, and the small black spots clouding his vision start to disappear.

"Sir," Malin says from the other side of the closed door to his room, after politely knocking. "Sir, may I remind you the press will be arriving for the traditional cookie baking in less than half an hour."

"Thanks, Malin," he calls out, the words bringing him the memories of another moment, another morning not so long ago, when he was happy and carefree and in love.

Many of those feelings have changed — he's been forced to bury them deep down in his soul — but not the latter. Wilhelm doesn’t think he'll ever fall out of love with Simon.

And yet, he's shattered all hope with just one line. Just a string of words broadcast worldwide for everyone to be fed a lie that’s now grown so much that it's a fucking snowball in a path of destruction. Wilhelm shakes his head as he grabs the navy blue jacket that matches with the trousers he's wearing. He has no time now to dwell on his mistakes.

There's a country waiting for him to step into Erik’s shoes and fill them.

As if that is anywhere close to possible.

He casts one last glance at his reflection on the mirror before hastily exiting his rooms. Malin’s waiting for him outside, dressed in her usual black suit and crisp white shirt, and she sets in motion just about the moment he closes the door forcefully, as though to cast away the ghosts of the thoughts he’s been having as of lately. The walk to the kitchen isn’t a long one; Wilhelm knows every corner and nook of this place — he grew up here. He knows how many steps he needs to take between his bedroom and the space where the Royal Family allows the press to film their yearly tradition of baking Christmas cookies that he’s never even tasted. Wilhelm doesn’t doubt someone will have the cookies, at some point — he hopes they don’t throw away perfectly fine food — but he’s never eaten a single of the cookies baked in front of the cameras. He isn’t sure what’s the reason for that; he just knows that he isn’t allowed to bite down on any of the goodies they cook the day before Christmas Eve.

Wilhelm steps into the kitchen at the same time as his parents do, through the door opposite to where he’s entering the place. He can’t help but notice the way his mother leans into his father’s arms, as though she’s veering for support. Wilhelm shakes the unease that creeps up his spine; he’s never seen his mother needing help to do anything, she’s always been strong and capable and brave.

Surely she doesn’t need anyone now.

“Wilhelm,” she greets him, her voice soft despite everything they’ve been through. He knows his mother should be angry at him, at the Prince starring in all the scandals, at the spare that will never be good enough to fit Erik’s shadow. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, Mamma,” he replies in what he hopes is an even voice. He needs to be brave today. He needs to look the part of the Crown Prince who has everything. “It’s going to be weird, though. Without Erik.”

His mother sighs, his father squeezes her tighter and shoots a worried glance in Wilhelm’s way. “It will be,” she confirms. “But we’ll make the most of it. For him.”

Wilhelm nods his head. Everything he’s been doing lately has been for Erik — going to Hillerska because his brother convinced him so, vowing to become a better Crown Prince to honor his memory, denying it was him in that video to keep the monarchy from collapsing so Erik’s legacy wouldn’t be tainted. Even trying to salvage whatever relationship he had with Simon after that fateful interview and offering to keep it a secret had been fueled by this ingrained idea that he can’t be a Crown Prince — he can’t be a King — if he allows himself to love another boy. Erik always told him to just be himself, but Wilhelm doesn’t think he’d be honoring his brother’s legacy if he were to defy the whole country, even if it’d be for love.

The monarchy would survive him loving a commoner. Surely, the Spanish Crown is strong with her Queen having been born a simple girl to a simple family, meeting the then Crown Prince while working as a journalist. There wasn’t even much fuss about it, because the current Queen was — is — one of them. Wilhelm knows there wouldn’t be a scandal if he was to date someone with no wealthy background whatsoever, so long as they come from a good family. Probably not from Bjärstad.

And definitely not a boy.

Wilhelm sighs. There’s no point in dwelling now on what’s already damaged. He made a choice when he said that it wasn’t him in the video, leaving Simon to fend for himself in an arena full of lions. He made a choice when he showed up in Bjärstad and asked Simon to become his secret. He made a choice when he hugged Simon in front of the whole school and said he loved him.

He was also saying goodbye.

“Your Highness,” one of the young women running around with clipboards interrupts his train of thought. “We need you to relocate to the other side of the table. Right there,” she commands as he allows her to manhandle him and position him in the exact spot she wants him to be. “Better.”

Wilhelm notices that he’s standing where Erik used to, centered for the official shoots, as though he’s the most important person in the room. It’s a sad realization, acknowledging that he gets to experience this much attention on himself — unrequited attention, at that — because his brother died in an accident. His beloved brother, who was the first one to be aware of Wilhelm’s crush, and who supported him even without knowing the identity of the lucky person. His beloved brother, whom Wilhelm will never see again. His last words to Erik had been you’re so annoying. There’s no way he can take them back and tell Erik that he loves him. There’s not a single universe where Wilhelm will be able to deal with his brother not being there.

Suddenly breathing becomes such a hardship that the whole world spins out of control when he tries to pick one of the cookie cutters from the kitchen worktop. His hand’s trembling, and the cutter falls to the floor with a clinking sound that reverberates throughout the whole sterile room. He tries to rein in his breathing, but it’s proving to be very difficult when he’s aware of the people around him — his parents, the PR team, the press crew trickling inside — and he just can’t bear it any longer. He feels he’ll faint if he stays here.

“Sorry, I need—excuse me,” he mumbles, veering for the door through which his parents entered the kitchen, fumbling with the words as he makes his way outside. He thinks his mother says something, but there’s a ringing in his ears that prevents him from listening to anything that’s not his own blood pulsing through his veins, chanting you’re not enough, you’re not enough, yourenotenough.

He finds a bathroom — he isn’t sure which one out of the many that the Palace holds just in this wing — and storms inside. He thinks he hears footsteps following him; he knows Malin should be close because that’s her job. She hasn’t left his side since Erik’s accident, even though he managed to ditch her the night he was admitted to the Society. The night he confessed his feelings to Simon. The night that marked the beginning of the end.

He thinks he hears the door creaking open, the sounds filling the void that surrounds him. Maybe it’s Malin; she seems to have vowed to never let him out of her watch, after everything that’s happened. It doesn’t matter to Wilhelm — he’s too busy trying not to die from suffocation as his throat closes up.

He retches.

“Sir,” he hears distantly. “Sir, you need to breathe. Sir—”

He gasps, his breathing coming out erratically as he tumbles down, stumbling upon his own feet, hitting the hard floors with both knees. His chest feels as though it might explode any time now, his heart beating wildly, and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe.

A hand shoots up and lands on his chest, rubbing circles in the same soothing way he’s always attempting to hide when in public. He frantically shakes his head, unable to form words, feeling like he’s dying.

“Follow my lead,” the same voice keeps talking, soft and low, soothing in a way nothing’s ever been. “In through your nose, c’mon, sir, in through your nose—”

He can’t. He’s going to die here, he doesn’t remember how to breathe and his lungs will collapse.

“Dammit, Wille, please follow my lead,” the voice says, an edge of panic in it, and Wilhelm has to focus now, because nobody in this Palace ever calls him by his nickname, not since Erik’s been gone. He tries. “Now, good, good, keep the air inside. I’ll count to three, okay? And on three, you exhale through your mouth. One, two, three, out through your mouth. Good boy, great job. C’mon, let’s do it again.”

Wilhelm is shaking. He tries to mimic the words he's hearing, shuddering and fighting for air. The voice, sounding eerily similar to Malin’s, keeps talking. "You're doing so good. Keep it up."

"I can’t—I'm—I can't—I'm dying—" he says incoherently, breathless and terrified.

"Believe me," the voice says, arms surrounding him and squeezing him tight against soft fabric. "I would die before letting anything happen to you."

The words sink deep in his soul, encompassed by the steady beating of another heart, and he begins breathing slowly.

It takes several tries for him to calm down enough to settle on the floor, sitting with his back against the tiled wall. When he looks up, following the hand that’s still on his chest, he finds Malin staring down at him with a concerned frown as she kneels in front of him. “Are you feeling better?” she asks.

“I—I am,” he replies shakily. “Malin—”

But she’s abruptly standing up, straightening her shirt and clearing her throat as she offers her hand. “Sir, you should get up. You’re needed in the kitchen. The filming can’t start without you.”

“You’re right,” he says, slowly getting to his feet. He schools his features until he can feel his Crown Prince mask is set in place, and he follows Malin outside. They don’t speak about the scene they’ve both shared in the bathroom, and Wilhelm is thankful for that.

He steps back into the kitchen, apologizing profusely for what — he says — might have been a bad reaction to breakfast, and takes his place in the center of the picture, his mother at his left and his father at his right, the Erik-shaped void wedging a rift between him and reality. He ignores his mother’s worried stares and his father’s concerned squeeze as he leans forward into the countertop and grabs the same cutter that was the trigger of this panic attack. He needs to power through his grief, or else Erik’s death will be meaningless.

When the cameras start rolling, he plasters a fake smile on and drills on the rehearsed words he hasn’t written. He reminds himself what he’s doing for Erik — the cookie baking, the cameras, the solitude.

Everything’s to honor Erik’s memory.

Christmas Eve is always full of mirth at the Eriksson household. Despite everything that’s happened to them as a family — Micke's abuse and the divorce and the times they couldn't even afford heating — Simon doesn’t remember being ever sad during Christmas.

He guesses there's a first time for everything.

His mother is already cooking breakfast by the time he saunters into the kitchen, way too early for him on a day when he doesn’t need to go to school. He couldn't stay in bed any longer; between the nightmares that don't allow him to rest anymore and the memories that assault him every time he lies down on his bed, Simon doesn’t think he'll ever be able to relax in his own bedroom.

Wherever he looks, there's something that reminds him of Wille. They only spent one evening together, but Simon remembers it as one of the happiest moments in his whole life. The easy banter, the flirting, the way Wille had taken care of him reverently — Simon shudders just thinking about it. Even feeding his three fish, named in the spur of the moment after a curious question by the Prince himself, takes Simon back to the second when he realized he was completely gone for Wilhelm.

He sighs.

"Simme," his mother greets him as he sits on a stool, reaching out to grab a tangerine. "I'm making pancakes. Why don't you save the satsuma for later?"

He does as told. "Sorry, mamá. I didn't realize you were making a special breakfast."

"It's Christmas Eve, hijo," his mother explains. "Are you okay? Have you gotten any sleep?"

Her inquisitive eyes bore into his soul, but he lowers his gaze to avoid her. Simon isn't ready to admit that he still has feelings for the Prince who denied him once on national television; Wille’s parting words the last day before Christmas break still ring in Simon’s ears, echoing in the chambers of his memory.

I love you.

He wants to smack himself, but for the sake of appearances he doesn’t. His mother can't see him suffering because of this — she's already gone through so much for him; he won't wound her by sharing his grief over something that was born to be prematurely dead.

"I'm fine, mamá," he reassures her, plastering a fake smile on his face. "I was so excited about today that I couldn’t sleep a wink."

"Me alegro tanto de que tengas ganas de Navidad este año, Simme," she smiles. "I was afraid that—but no. We won't go there today," she cuts herself off, reaching out to caress his cheek. "Let's wait for Sara to wake up so we can put the final touches to our pesebre this year."

Simon hums noncommittally. He isn't up for small talk today, but he can't bring himself to contradict his mother. Not on one of her favorite days of the year, not when she's always planning big things for their pesebre and choosing the songs they'll sing for their aguinaldos before opening one present each.

"Whose turn is it to open a present first this year?" she asks nonchalantly. "Sara’s?"

"It's Simon’s," Sara intervenes from the doorway. When Simon turns to greet her, he notices she's still wearing striped pajama pants and a loose t-shirt, very different from the image she's been projecting lately — the one of a stuck-up white rich girl like the ones with whom she's been surrounding herself at Hillerska.

He mentally scolds himself. Sara's friends with Felice, and Felice can be a rich girl but she's neither stuck-up nor white. If anything, Felice has proved to Simon, without even trying to, that she knows what it's like to be an outsider — the daughter of a powerful couple but never enough for anyone. Certainly not enough to be liked for herself, Simon has noticed, because the two girls who usually follow her around have been trying to get in her good graces after knowing how her connections could help them. Even he, in the beginning, had thought Felice mistreated Sara. And in the end, he'd been mistaken.

Simon's been mistaken about a lot of things as of lately.

"Is it, Simon?" His mother’s hand lands on his wrist where he's been resting his hands on the counter, startling him out of his thoughts. "Honey, are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes, I am," he insists in a low voice. "You can have my turn this year, Sara," he offers. "I'll go shower before breakfast is ready."

He leaves the kitchen, ignoring his motherʼs pitying glances and Sara's confused looks as he slides past her. He isn't ready to talk, not yet. And he's grateful that at least the women in his life are respectful of his need to keep his feelings to himself. Simon already knows what kind of havoc showing how he feels can bring upon the people he loves.

The water runs cold before he sets foot outside of the stall.

When he walks back to the kitchen, curls still damp, t-shirt still clinging to his chest, he finds Sara and their mother already sitting at their table, chatting away as they wait for him.

"You should have started without me," he chides them. His mother shakes his head. "For real, mamá."

"It's tradition," Sara says in her monotone voice. Simon suspects that she's still trying to make sense of how to behave around him after having seen him at his lowest. He guesses that she might feel a bit lost, because he's always been there for her when their parents couldn't. "You can't just forego tradition, Simon."

"You're right," he acquiesces. "I'm sorry. Please, pass me the pancakes."

They have breakfast while their mother asks them about their plans for the holidays, wanting to know if they're going to attend Ayub's New Year’s Eve party or if they have too much homework. She skirts around the most pressing issue, never mentioning Wilhelm or questioning how that last goodbye went. It's like she knows about Simon’s inner turmoil and she doesn’t want to stir it.

The day goes about exactly the way Simon had thought it would. It doesn't feel happy for him anymore; he helps around with putting some figurines on the pesebre and helps Sara with reading the lyrics to the new aguinaldo their mother has chosen. Simon sits down to watch the two most important people in his life puttering around the house, giving him space until it's time for them to gather in front of the pesebre and sing. He even avoids getting back into his room to play video games, instead remaining on their couch and leafing through his History and Politics books. Sara flops down beside him at some point, handing him a satsuma when he refuses to have lunch.

"I'm not hungry," he protests, sounding like a broken record. Sara doesn't back down; she presses the tangerine into his palm and forces his fingers to curl around the fruit. "Sara—"

"You need to eat," she whispers. "Mamá is worried enough as it is. I am worried enough about you. Please eat the tangerine."

"It's a satsuma," he corrects her. Simon can't believe that his perfectionist sister has miscalled something they're so used to having around.

"I know," she retaliates. "I just wanted to see if I could make you smile."

Simon can't help the crooked smile that finds its way to his mouth. "Tack, Sara," he mutters.

"Don't forget to smile, Simon. It's a good look on you."

He peels the satsuma and tears a wedge to plop into his mouth. The citrus scent fills his nostrils and he feels instantly comforted. There's a warmth that he associates with satsumas — it’s his favorite fruit in the world, the only one he ate while growing up. They will forever hold a special place in his heart.

His fingers still on the wedge as the memories assault him. He sees himself within his mind's eye, sharing a satsuma with Wille during workies and snickering whenever any of August's minions tried to catch Wille’s attention. Simon doesn't want to remember when Wille’s focus was solely on him. It felt like heaven. It felt like being the only person in the whole world.

He craves that feeling with his whole being.

"Turn the TV on," Sara pleads with their mother, an indefinite amount of time later. Simon lost track of time after the second bite of satsuma, too tangled in his memories to notice anything else.

"Creo que este año podemos pasar sin—"

"Mamá, es la tradición," Sara protests in Spanish.

Simon bites back a snarky reply — growing up, Sara used to reply in Spanish, but ever since starting at Hillerska, it feels like she’s ashamed of the language they were raised in. He doesn’t think he’s heard her speak Spanish for months, and it pains him more than he can admit. Hearing her using Spanish to her own benefit now makes something inside of him twist — he wants to tell her that she can’t use Spanish whenever she sees fit, brandishing it as a weapon to win their mother over. He doesn’t say anything, though.

Simon knows that their mother will cave in; she always does when Sara uses Spanish to talk to her. His sister has become more and more adamant in using Swedish for their daily conversations, and it's nearly impossible to get her to talk in Spanish. They both were raised among Venezuelan traditions, but Sara has deviated from them all except the Christmas ones.

"It's fine," he reassures their mother. "I'll be fine."

But it turns out he isn't.

The Royal Christmas message is on when Sara turns up the screen. She sits beside him, a hand protectively on his knee; Simon knows that she doesn’t mean harm when she insists in doing things that could potentially damage him. Sara's just wired like that. Simon's accepted it a long time ago.

Maybe it's his protective side.

On-screen, Queen Kristina is saying some nonsense about celebrating the family and staying together through the adversities life throws people's way. Simon tunes her out, focusing back on his Politics book, but the memory of his first interaction with Wilhelm at Hillerska keeps shredding to pieces his schooled features.

As if on cue, on the TV he can hear Wille speaking, a stilted speech that Simon knows he hasn’t written himself. Simon's eyes are drawn to the screen where the first person he's allowed himself to fall in love with is trying his best to keep his composure. Simon can tell the signals that scream anxiety — the slight bouncing of Wille’s leg in the lower part of the screen, the itch in his fingers as he can’t help running them through his hair, the wild way Wille's eyes keep roaming around, never focusing on a single spot.

They might have spent very few happy moments together, but Simon knows Wille inside out. And this cardboard clone on the TV isn't his Wille — this person is not a teenager anymore.

Simon's watching the Crown Prince unravel. And he isn’t sure he likes it.

"Simon, we can turn it off," his mother offers. "It—"

"This isn't him," Simon mutters. "I know him, mamá, and this isn't him. This isn't Wille."

"Oh, honey," his mother coos.

"I guess it wasn't the Wille I thought I knew when he gave that speech," Simon continues. He doesn't need to clarify; the flinch in his mother's demeanor when she sits down across them is enough.

"Or maybe that's the real Wilhelm and he was acting when he hugged you in front of the whole school."

"Sara," Simon hisses. It's supposed to be their secret; their mother didn't need to know about Simon’s weakest moment, when he hugged Wille back and clung to him.

"What? It's true!"

Simon huffs. He looks everywhere but at his mother, who simply sighs and says nothing. Simon's thankful that she's understanding, but he also knows that there's a conversation coming his way. He'll have to explain to her about what Wille told him — the apology and the love declaration, and how much of a fool Simon made of himself.

But not today. Today his mother allows him to mourn the relationship that wasn't and cheerleads him into opening his gift from Sara, a new headset for gaming. It almost does the trick, but Simon’s aware that it's just a band-aid over a bleeding wound.

He can't forget the impersonal tone in Wille’s voice, or the way his eyes seem completely vacant during his first Christmas speech as Crown Prince barely two months after his brother's accident.

Wilhelm is staring outside the window on the morning of New Year. The party the night before was wild at times, but he managed to steer away from the alcohol. He hadn't thought his mother would allow him to remain after ringing in the new year, right when everyone except the younger guests had retreated to their various residences. But the Queen had walked up to him and she'd told him in a whisper that he could stay. "Granted, you won't get into another scandal," she'd muttered.

Wilhelm doesn't blame her. He truly doesn't. If he'd been in her shoes, he would have behaved the same way. It's not every day that the Crown Prince of Sweden has to deny being at the center of a sexual scandal because his second cousin had filmed him having sex with another boy.

The party, Wilhelm reminisces, had been wild, but he hadn't had anyone to kiss at midnight. He'd been on his own despite the efforts of the Spanish and the Dutch Crown Princesses — both his age — to force him to mingle with the rest of the guests. The heirs to Swedish nobility and the richest people on Earth aren't the kind of people Wilhelm wanted to be with one he first night of the year. Also, after spotting a particular mop of curly hair expertly gelled back across the ballroom, Wilhelm hadn't had the heart to even move.

This situation has fucked him so badly that it would be hilarious if it weren't so sad — brotherless, mourning and heartbroken. He sounds like the description of the main character in a bad rom-com.

There's a soft knock on his door. It's so gentle that he almost misses it; he knows it's probably meant not to startle him. He doesn't say anything, wishing that whoever it is will go away if he doesn't reply.

It's just his luck that the knocking comes back, a little more persistent.

"Sir," comes Malin’s voice through the thick wood of the door. "Sir, Her Majesty has asked for you to join her for brunch today."

"I'm not—not feeling well," he counters, raising his voice so Malin can hear him from the outside.

"Permission to enter, Sir."

Wilhelm sighs. It's not unusual for Malin to ask such a thing, and it's not unusual for Wilhelm to grant that permission. But not today — today he doesn't want to face the world, and certainly not his bodyguards. He swears Malin can read his soul with just a glance.

"Sir?" Malin’s voice sounds frayed through the layers of wood. "Please. I need to make sure you're alright."

He scoffs. He certainly isn't alright, but he also knows Malin won't give up. "You can enter, Malin," he concedes.

Being Royalty might be a privilege, but Wilhelm feels it's a punishment. One of the many disadvantages that he finds in being constantly watched, both by his guards and by the public eye, is that he has no privacy. That means there aren't any locks in his rooms — not on his door and most definitely not in his bathroom. He can’t lock himself up anywhere, since it's a matter of national security. It's also a matter of trust between the different members of this house of cards he's living in; his bodyguards won't enter unless he gives them permission or they feel like he's in danger. Same with his mother, although she's known for barging in whenever she feels like it.

There are no boundaries in Wilhelm’s life.

Malin pushes the door open and steps silently into the room. Wilhelm turns to face her, and he's greeted with her eyes scanning every freckle in his skin, looking for a sign of distress. She's in for a surprise, though — Wilhelm's been working on his poker face for the past few days. He's managed to fool his mother. Maybe he can fool Malin as well.

"You're definitely not looking all that dandy," Malin shakes her head. "Too much partying last night?"

"I wish," he mutters. Wilhelm’s willing to let Malin’s forwardness slip, because it's refreshing to think she feels enough at ease with him to drop her act of professionalism around him. It makes him wonder if she behaved like that around Erik.

"Sir?"

"You've called me out on looking like the dead," he chides her. "You might as well call me Wille."

"I'm not allowed to do that, Sir," she tells him, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

"But you're allowed to tell me I look like shit."

"It's in my job description to look after you."

Wilhelm groans. She's stubborn as all hell, but she's also right. Last time he checked on a mirror, a couple of hours before sunrise, his face was so pale he could be mistaken for a ghost. He hasn't slept ever since, so he's probably looking worse for wear.

"August was there. Last night," he clarifies. "I understand that he was invited to keep up appearances but—"

"Did he try to approach you?" Malin asks aggressively.

Wilhelm frowns at her, confused. Bodyguards hadn't been needed at the party, the place had been vetted and secured beforehand, but Malin sounds like she regrets not having crashed the party and stayed by his side the whole time, protecting him. Wilhelm didn't think he needed protection. He hadn't felt unsafe until—

Until he'd seen August.

Malin grunts. "I'm sorry, Sir. I should have kept him away from you."

"You couldn't have known," he whispers. "You weren't even allowed inside the ballroom. Plus, I should get used to seeing him. It’s not like he's going to be banned from official functions anytime soon. The Queen has made sure of that."

"That doesn't mean it's right," Malin mumbles. "Sorry, Sir. I shouldn't have—"

"It's okay," he reassures her. "You're allowed to have opinions. You're allowed to voice them. I know you did so. With Erik."

At the mention of his brother, Malin flinched. She takes a step backwards from, putting even more distance between them, and brings her hands behind her back. "It wasn't professional of me back then. And it isn’t professional of me, now."

It hits Wilhelm all at once, that he isn't the only one yearning for what ifs. He's seen how Erik’s accident had affected his family — how his father has even become more quiet, a shadow of himself; how his mother has only cried once, that night when Wilhelm pointed out that everyone already compared him to his brother, and ever since she's just been a shell of a person, more Queen and less mother. Not that she was any different, before.

But now he's facing the fact that Malin lost someone dear to her, too. Erik was Malin’s charge, and he died on her watch. He asked her to drive in the car behind the red Ferrari, following his tail lights into the woods as he sped towards his death. Wilhelm is now realizing that Malin must have seen the accident from the passenger’s seat of a black car, a red bullet of metal and gas colliding against a tree. Suddenly, the words she whispered against his skin when she held him on Christmas Eve, while he went through the worst panic attack to date, sting in a hurtful way.

She swore to protect Erik. She took an oath. And fate forced her to break her promise, rendering her word completely useless.

"Sir, we need to move now. You don’t want to be late," she says all of a sudden, demeanor stiff once again.

"Only if you call me Wille," he tells her. He crosses his arms over his chest, fingers resting on top of the blue cotton of his sweater.

"I'll wait for you outside," Malin explains as she walks to the door. "Her Majesty has specifically asked for you to be punctual." Before stepping out of the room, she adds, "Wille."

He snickers when she leaves him to gather his thoughts and get mentally ready to face his mother. It's only when the anxiety settles back in his chest, oppressing his heart and his lungs until he feels like he can't breathe, that he realizes that Malin’s one of the few people he feels safe to be around.

His heart sinks when he thinks that Simon used to be the other one.

He steers himself, pushing through his irrational fear as he walks out of the room and into the corridor. Malin and Joakim, his other bodyguard, fall into step with him as they navigate the Palace. They reach his parents' quarters way sooner than Wilhelm would have liked, the bodyguards standing behind him as he inhales deeply. He chances a quick glance towards Malin, who moves her head encouragingly, before knocking on the ornate door.

"Come on in, Wilhelm," his mother’s voice carries through.

He isn't ready for whatever his mother wants to say — be it a new meeting he needs to attend or a different rule to abide by — but he has to look the part. He needs to be the perfect Crown Prince. Everyone around him has already lost the one who was destined to rule. He can't disappoint them all.

It's only him he's losing in the process. He'll survive.

He needs to.

The first day of the new term sneaks upon Simon. Christmas break flies by, the days after ringing in the new year blending together as he tries his best to finish his homework and learn new songs for the choir.

His mother sits him down the day before, and asks him about his feelings regarding coming back to school. Sara's been adamant about attending Hillerska, and Simon’s given in. That doesn’t mean his mother isn't worried about him. As he told her how Wille had hugged him in front of the whole school and apologized — he keeps Wille’s love declaration to himself, too precious to be shared, not yet — Simon can feel his soul unsettling, all the feelings he's managed to bottle up resurfacing. His mother holds him as he cries salty tears of disappointment and anger.

"It's okay to be sad or angry," she tells him in a soft, steady voice. "It's okay to not want to see Prince Wilhelm ever again."

"That's the problem," he sobs into his mother’s chest as she holds him close to her heart. "The only thing I can think of is to see him and make sure he's okay. Mamá, I know he—I know he isn't doing all that well."

His mother rocks them both on the couch, letting him cry himself to sleep. When he wakes up, he’s covered with a blanket, his neck already aching from the weird angle. He checks the clock and notices he still has a few more hours of sleep. He slowly rises to his feet and moves to his bedroom, hoping that he’ll catch some rest before his alarm blasts off.

He doesn't fall back asleep.

The bus ride to Hillerska is silent. Sara is staring out the window, hugging her backpack against her chest. Ayub and Rosh are sitting a row behind them; Simon is grateful for them not being too talkative. They've been over and over everything that happened before break, and Simon knows they support him no matter what. He just doesn't feel strong enough to look them in the eye and see the pity reflected there.

He enters the halls among whispers of classmates who still remember the hug Wille sneaked upon him after the choir’s last performance. Sara walks to her locker, leaving him alone to fight his padlock. Simon struggles to keep his composure when he turns around to a suddenly silent corridor only to see Wille at the other end. The realization that this will be their new normal now — the air around him heavy with regret — hits Simon like a freight train.

It doesn't feel like they're going to move past the awkwardness of their last interaction, Simon realizes as he sits down on a free chair at his Politics class and Wille walks past him to occupy a seat next to Felice. His face shows no emotion, just a mask like the one Simon knows Wille puts up to become the Crown Prince when he's needed to make a public appearance.

It hurts so much that Simon thinks he might pass out from the pain seeping through the invisible wounds of his soul.

He can’t focus on the class. Not even when Henry leans in and points out that they should be working together on an assignment; Simon blinks and wonders when the other boy sat down beside him. He's been too engrossed in trying to survive heartbreak that he hasn’t been paying attention to his surroundings.

He can’t breathe. It’s a foreign feeling, something he’s not used to, and it’s crippling in a way Simon has never experienced before. It feels like he’s walking on a tightrope and he’s about to fall to the abyss.

"Simon," Sara calls out as he tries to flee after the bell rings. "Simon, where are you going? We have English next!"

"I need air," he mumbles. He finds his way outside, his mind fogged. He still doesn’t understand what's going on until a steady hand finds his arm, pinning him to the spot. "I—what—"

"Breathe," Wille says. At least Simon thinks it's Wille’s voice but he can't be sure. He can't even see, the world is swimming before his eyes. "I know it's hard, but you need to breathe. Focus on that. Focus on me."

Simon heaves.

"You can do it. I know you can. C’mon, Simon, in through the nose, out through the mouth."

It takes him several false starts before he can shakily match the exaggerated breathing cadence of the Prince. He's lost track of time; his mind supplies a memory of Sara questioning how that's even possible, because she doesn't quite grasp the concept of hyperboles. It's the normalcy of that scene that still lives fondly in his heart what tethers him to the ground long enough for Simon to come back to his senses.

"There you are," Wille says, fingers still around Simon’s forearm keeping him in place. "You've done great."

"What are you doing?" Simon asks faintly. He can't bring himself to look Wille in the eye. He knows that, if he did, there'd be no running back — he'd be falling again. Not that he's even fallen out of love with Wille. Not that he's acknowledged that he feels the same as the Prince either.

"You were having a panic attack," Wille replies, unsure. "I just thought—" He cuts himself off abruptly, as though he’s thought better of his words, but his fingers don’t leave Simon’s arm and they’re burning a handprint on his skin.

It reminds Simon of what he gave up on that Sunday after Wille’s statement on the sex tape — it reminds him of what ifs and missed opportunities, of a love so big that it’s forever seared on the edges of his heart. But he can’t have it now, he won’t have it ever again.

He needs to let go.

"Thanks," Simon mumbles. "But I can take care of myself. We shouldn't be seen together in public," he adds viciously, yearning for those fingers to stop touching him and yet to never stop. "That much was clear."

Wille moves away from him so fast that it almost leaves Simon dizzy. He misses the warmth of Wille’s hand instantly.

"I'm sorry, Simon. I will leave now," he apologizes, stumbling over the words in the same way that he had when he came to Bjärstad to trade a public statement for a secret relationship.

Wille turns around — not before Simon catches the gleam of a tear rolling down his freckled face — and practically runs inside.

Simon has never seen anyone retreating faster than Prince Wilhelm; not Wille, but the persona he becomes when there are cameras rolling. Prince Wilhelm ran away at horror movie night; Prince Wilhelm asked him to delete their messages; Prince Wilhelm demanded to have a secret relationship. Simon knows it's not healthy, the way Wille dissociates whenever he needs to. Because it wasn't Prince Wilhelm who kissed Simon by the window. It wasn't Prince Wilhelm who cheered on Rosh's team. It wasn't Prince Wilhelm who called in the middle of the night high as a fucking kite.

It was Wille who said I love you.

Simon’s gaze follows Wille as he flees, and in doing so, his eyes halt at a peculiar scene by the marble stairs. He's still feeling unsteady, his mind trying to wrap itself around the fact that he's had his first panic attack and Wille has helped him through it, so it takes him a second to understand what's going on.

Sara is trying to move past August, but the second cousin of the Prince is blocking every one of her attempts. Felice and Maddie are saying something, and from the way Maddie’s face is reddening, August is infuriating them.

"Let me get inside."

"Not until you admit that—"

Simon gets nearer, ready to punch August again when he sees the third-year reach out to grab Sara's arm.

"Let go of me."

"August—" Felice begins.

"I've told you. It was just that one time," Sara says, not making any sense to Simon’s ears. "You helped me apply for the grant. I thanked you."

"What?" Felice cries out. "What do you mean?"

“Let go of her,” Simon barks at the same time, but neither August nor Sara pays any attention to them.

"You're a fucking sociopath," August spits in a bout of rage. Simon can see a vein pulsing in August’s neck as he squeezes Sara’s arm tighter.

"Let me go," Sara hisses, finally freeing herself from August's grip and sneering at him.

"Sara—" Simon starts, but before he has the chance to intervene, she’s already fighting for herself.

"I'm not mental," she tells August. "I just have Aspergers, but that doesn't mean I can't be nor—"

"You're incapable of love," August shrieks, making some of the students turn their heads towards them.

That's when Simon noticed something switching off in Sara's demeanor; he knows his sister well enough to understand that she's detaching from a situation she doesn't fully understand.

"So are you," she says calmly, inspecting her manicure the same way Simon’s sure she's seen Felice and Maddie do. "And nobody's calling you a sociopath, August."

Simon watches as his sister walks past August, back inside the building, and frowns.

He can't help but wonder where this hell of an interaction has stemmed from.

Rowing practice is a nightmare even though August smoothly ignores him, making believe that it's August's choice to detach himself from Wilhelm, and not the other way around. Wilhelm doesn’t care that the rest of the team think August is punishing him for one thing or another, or that the members of the Society believe that it's because Wilhelm exposed August's financial struggles.

Either way, Wilhelm knows the truth. He knows August knows the truth — he can see it in the way his second cousin averts his gaze whenever they're forced to lock eyes.

He's been isolating himself. If he's not with the team for practice, Wilhelm spends his time in his room or at the library. He has a lot to catch up on; he's still behind some classes and he's definitely not on par with what a Crown Prince should know. Erik had twenty-three years to learn; Wilhelm has only been burdened with the title for a couple of months.

Erik’s death looms over everything Wilhelm does. Wherever he goes, whatever he does, it all reminds him of his brother — of how much of an extrovert he was, of how bright his smile was, of how perfect Erik was. Wilhelm will never become half the man his brother was. He should start accepting that now. Instead, he buries himself in his textbooks and his genealogy trees — he needs to learn about trigonometry and also the names of the modern nobility who are usually invited to the Palace. He doesn't want to rely on anyone, and just thinking of August's offer the night Wilhelm got so high he almost soared before crashing makes his skin crawl.

Who cares if he isn't getting enough sleep every night? Who cares if he sports blue shadows under his eyes? He's still alone in his room, and it's not Joakim's job to babysit him into sleeping. Malin, though — Malin’s taken it upon herself to check in on him at random times, including the wee hours of the night. Wilhelm is starting to worry that she is sleeping just as little as he is.

He goes about his days without much talking, which isn't that different from before. Before Si—before last term, Wilhelm didn't really have friends. He had people who wanted to please him. It's back to that, these days.

So he doesn't really interact with anyone, choosing to be on his own for the most part. There are times when he can't help Felice sitting next to him at the library to work on their assignment, or Maddie trying to exercise his demons, or Henry being overly chatty.

Today is one of those days, apparently, as he's sitting at a table during workies, lost in his own thoughts.

"Are you okay, Wilhelm?"

He snaps back to reality when Henry taps the surface he's been staring at for an indefinite amount of time. "Uh, yeah, yeah."

"If you say so," Henry tells him, not sounding at all convinced. "How are you and Felice doing with that Politics assignment?"

"Given that I'm not allowed to talk about politics, as well as it was expected," he tells Henry truthfully. In the eleven days since they have been given the assignment, he's avoided touching any topic but the assignment's subject with Felice; in fact, he's managed to ignore the girl’s attempts at doing anything besides working together. He doesn't feel strong enough to focus on anything else these days.

Wake up. Go through the motions. Read. Study. Go to bed. Blank night after blank night.

Rinse and repeat.

"I'm sorry," Henry says. "Simon and I haven't started on it either."

Wilhelm straightens at the mention of Simon. He can’t help it. He hums noncommittally.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Henry insists. "You look about to fall over."

"I'm fine," he confirms. A yawn contradicts him, his hand shooting up to cover his mouth in embarrassment. A Prince shouldn't be seen like this.

"Sure you are."

"Wilhelm—I mean, Your Highness," the Headmistress's voice cuts the air. Wilhelm turns to see her standing in the open doorway beside the lockers, her hair tied up in her unmistakable bun. "May I have a word?"

Wilhelm can't really refuse, so he hastily gathers his things. "Yes. Yes, of course."

"Leave that there," the Headmistress commands. "You can pick your things afterwards."

"Of course," Wilhelm mutters, fingers loose around his notebooks. He follows the Headmistress through the corridors until she's welcoming him to her office. There, he realizes they're not alone.

The Queen is there, sitting on a chair with her face turned away from the door. Wilhelm stops dead in his tracks. The last time he was summoned to this office, the Queen had called to announce that the Crown Prince had died in a car accident. Wilhelm can't help but wonder what could be worse than that, what could guarantee her presence when the death of her first born hadn't done the trick.

"Wilhelm," the Headmistress says softly. "Please, take a seat. I would love to talk to you and to your mother."

Wilhelm does as told. He doesn't look at his mother; he stares straight ahead, boring a hole on the wall behind the Headmistress's desk.

"It's been brought to our attention that you're, uh, struggling," the Headmistress begins. "If I may say so."

"Who—I'm not struggling!" he complains, earning himself a scoff from his mother. "What? I'm not!"

"Apparently you're not focusing during classes," the Headmistress continues, blatantly ignoring his splutters. "Several of your teachers have raised their worries about this situation. And upon a bit of research I have been able to gather information on how your sleeping patterns have changed, probably affecting your performance in class."

"Wilhelm," his mother says, turning to look at him. He can feel the heat of her gaze scorching his temple, but he remains undaunted. "Wilhelm, son, what's going on?"

He thinks about how everyone seems to worry about him now that he can tell how his flaws can be seen through the cracks of the façade he's trying to build for himself. He thinks about how he's only worthy of attention when there's something to fix in his behavior — be it his sleeping patterns or his posture in front of a camera.

"Who's been spreading these lies?" he mutters through gritted teeth.

"Malin can't lie when asked," his mother explains.

"Felice has also come to me about this," the Headmistress adds. "You have a great support system, Wilhelm. You have friends here, people who care about you."

"I don't have friends, I have fans. Nobody really cares about me. You all only care about who I'm supposed to be."

"That's not—" His mother stutters and stops, clearing her throat. "I would like to take this issue to my son's room. This is a discussion to be had in private."

"Of course, of course, Your Majesty. Wilhelm, you're dismissed from classes for the next three days. You need to rest."

"I can—"

"Wilhelm," his mother commands. "Let's go."

His upbringing kicks in, and he stands up. He nods his head towards the Headmistress, thanking her for her concern, and he follows his mother outside. He shares a quick glance with Malin, who has the decency to look ashamed, as she falls into step with them. They march through the halls, the crowds splitting up as they find their way to his room. His mother waits for him to open the door, a basic manner that makes Wilhelm feel on edge.

He thinks he's about to be scolded.

He lets his eyes roam around the space, gaze spotting his books and notebooks neatly piled up on his desk. He wonders who's the one in charge of tidying up after the Crown Prince.

"Wilhelm. Please sit down." His mother sighs as she ungracefully flops down the bed he's not using, and if her tone hadn't been a warning sign, the sole gesture of her being anything but perfect on the outside might have broken him.

But he isn't Wilhelm anymore; he isn't a scared teenager anymore. He's now a Crown Prince. He should play the part even when his mother isn't.

His hand shoots up to his chest, rubbing it through the fabric of his sweater. He needs to fight this; he needs to breathe nice and slow, reigning in his emotions. He's the Crown Prince.

He should be making Erik proud.

"Erik would be so proud of you," his mother says, and it's then that Wilhelm realizes he's spoken out loud. "And for the record, so is your father. And so am I."

"I'm sorry," he says, ignoring her words that sting in a different way today, bringing up memories of all the times she should have said them and chose not to. "I'll be better next time. I can—"

"You're running yourself ragged with this attitude, Wille." The use of the nickname that his brother had bestowed upon him when he'd been too young to pronounce his whole name properly makes him stutter. "You don't need to be perfect all the time."

"Erik was perfect!" he explodes, hand leaving his chest and raising up to the sky. "He was everything you could have hoped for and I just need to—I can—I should be—" Unable to continue, he drops on his bed, unmade and messy, and runs his hand through his hair.

"You should be mourning your brother," his mother whispers. Wilhelm can hear the tears in her voice; she's only cried for Erik once, the night after the burial. The Queen needs to look strong and unwavering, even in the face of losing her first born, her heir.

"I don’t—"

"Could you just please listen to me?" His mother snaps at him and it's like time stills. There's a silence around them that grows in the wake of her outburst. As if on cue, she sighs and whispers. "Sorry, son. Please, just listen to me, okay? We're really worried about you. This isn't you. This hasn't been you in a long time."

"You don't know me," he tells her. "You don't have a fucking clue about who I am."

"You're a teenager who's lost his brother. And I thought I was protecting you. I really wasn't. Or maybe I was, when I sent you here. But I definitely wasn't protecting you as my son when the video—when I chose to keep quiet about August's role in the whole scandal. Or when I asked you to step in as the Crown Prince without mourning your brother. Or when I ordered you to stop seeing—when I made you believe you didn't have a choice."

Wilhelm thinks this is the longest he's heard his mother speaking ever since his early childhood, when he carelessly asked for yet another bedtime story. And it seems the Queen isn't done yet; she inhales and steadies herself, back ramrod straight as Wilhelm witnesses the moment the Queen gives way to the mother.

"I was wrong. And I'm sorry that my choices have hurt you. It wasn't my intention."

"You hurt me anyway," he mumbles, aiming not to be heard. From the way his mother flinched, he knows she's heard.

"I hope you can forgive me, with time. That's all I'm asking."

"That, and that I sleep, right?"

"I'd say those could be doctor’s orders," she says sternly. "You're too skinny. You're barely awake as it is. Please, Wilhelm."

"Because I'm the Crown Prince and I should be nothing short of perfect," he scoffs.

"No," she says as she stands up and sits down beside him on his bed. "Because you're my son and I'm worried you're going to end up sick if you don't take care of yourself."

She surrounds him with her arms, an awkward angle for a hug that's reminiscent of the one she gave him the morning after the video was leaked. Wilhelm allows himself to be held, and although it's over sooner than he'd have liked it to be and his mother is leaving his room in a huff of air, he feels comforted. He doesn't cry — not in front of his mother, never in front of the Queen — but it's a start.

He glances at the books on his desktop, and decides against picking any of them up. He's feeling too exhausted to read anyway. He lies down on his bed, covers himself with the sheet, not even bothering to change into his pajamas, and he's out like a candle before his head hits the pillow.

He dreams of Erik, and his brother is laughing.

“You’ve been doing what?” Simon screeches, his voice rising up. He sees Sara recoiling against the lockers, and he remembers about the very public entourage they’re in. “Sara, please tell me it’s a joke,” he continues in a lower voice.

“You weren’t supposed to find out like this,” Sara tells him, looking at her feet.

“Or maybe at all,” he replies bitterly. He grabs his backpack with one hand and Sara’s arm with the other, and drags her down the hall to an empty classroom. “Why have you done it? August isn’t good, Sara. I don’t understand why you’d want to date him.”

“Because that way I’d fit in! And he’s helping me get in here as a resident!” she exclaims, getting rid of his touch and stepping back a few feet. “I want to be just like them! I want to be like Felice!”

“So you decided to sleep with Felice’s ex-boyfriend, whom she dumped after he tried to kiss you back in the stables? How does it make any sense, Sara? August won’t really help you become a boarder here. He’ll use you and then—”

“August will help me,” she says confidently. “I made sure of that.”

“How can you be so sure, Sara?”

“Because I,” Sara looks away, as though she’s ashamed, and Simon wants to hold her close and tell her she doesn’t have to be ashamed of anything, when she continues, “I have leverage against him.”

He doesn’t even know what to make out of that. He is hit by her words like he’s been run over by a bus — it hurts and burns and makes sense, all at the same time. He still doesn’t understand, but before he can say anything Sara’s sliding outside the classroom and he’s stumbling behind her in an attempt to catch her.

She runs away, leaving him empty-handed and with a heavy soul.

The music room is empty when Simon sets foot in it, looking for some quiet. He flops down on the piano bench, letting his backpack drop on the ground by his feet, and he leans in, elbows hitting the keys in a dissonance of noise that fills the whole space with mismatched notes. He flinches at the cacophony, but he doesn’t move.

He wonders, not for the first time since starting at Hillerska back at the end of last summer, how come his life has become part of the plot of one of those Venezuelan soap operas his mother loves watching on the weekends she doesn’t have to work.

It’s already been a fortnight since the beginning of the new term. Simon isn’t sure where time has flown to, because he could swear it was only yesterday that he’d been sitting at Politics with Henry before experiencing his first panic attack in years. It surely feels like no time has passed at all — it’s like time stalls whenever he’s at school, and simply speeds up on his bus ride back home. Simon groans; he doesn’t particularly want to dwell on why he has these feelings whenever he’s at Hillerska.

All of a sudden, everything he’s been witnessing the past fourteen days make sense. Simon has seen the confused glances Felice throws Sara whenever they are across a room; it’s really noticeable how Sara has withdrawn from her little group of friends ever since the beginning of term. Simon can’t help but worry, now that he has a much clearer image of the situation his sister has gotten herself into. Things started off quite well at Hillerska, but he knows that they can go downhill in a nanosecond — that’s how everything went to hell at Marieberg. Despite everything Simon has lived through these past months, he still believes Hillerska is a better option for them right now; despite the stuck-up white rich kids and the general air of pretend that goes around wherever he looks, Hillerska is their best chance at escaping Bjärstad and the hell of a life his father put them through.

The situation with Micke is another topic they haven’t discussed, but now Simon doesn’t think he’s got enough energy to go through that conversation. After Sara’s panicked outburst at Lucia, and their fight in the aftermath of the video, Simon hasn’t brought it up, and Sara hasn’t mentioned it either. She’s been way too focused on getting her grant to board at school through, and she’s succeeding if the bits and pieces Simon has picked up are anything to go by — and now the haste in all arrangements makes sense, if August is behind everything. Simon shakes his head to clear it; learning that his sister is sleeping with August to get a chance of staying in HIllerska makes Simon’s stomach turn.
He lets go of his face and doubles in on himself until his forehead is pressing the black and white keys. The cacophony restarts, echoing across the room. He hears a chuckle that makes him startle.

“Sounds like you could use a friend right now.”

It’s Felice, Simon realizes when he straightens up, ready to tell the intruder to just fuck off. He can’t say those words to her anyway; Simon respects Felice a lot even though she’s part of the system that tears people like him apart. She’s always been nice to him and to Sara, and up until their fallout — for which Simon has now a reason why — Felice had been ready to include Sara, and Simon by extension, in every single school function that was beyond their curriculum.

“What made you think that?” he questions rhetorically. He slides on the bench when he sees Felice walking up to him. Unceremoniously, she drops down by his side. He can’t help but notice that her usually straight hair is curling up at the end. “Looks like you could use a friend, too.”

“That’s true,” she tells him in a low voice. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

“About Sara, I guess,” he says. The curt nod from Felice is all the confirmation he needs. “Listen, Felice, I don’t know what’s—”

“And about Wille, as well,” she interrupts him. Simon recoils at her words as if she’d slapped him. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed—”

“I don’t think we should be talking about people who aren’t here to defend themselves.”

“But you were ready to talk about your sister,” she reminds him when he trails off, blushing at her words. It’s true; Simon has never had any qualms about defending his sister even when she hadn’t been around — especially then — but he doesn’t feel comfortable talking about Wille. The wound is still open and it bleeds a pool of pain and regret in his soul. He doesn’t need the poking and the prodding.

Simon knows that everyone at Hillerska knows it was Wille in that video. Everyone knew the layout of the rooms, and it wasn’t a secret which one of the rooms in the first floor was Wille’s. Simon suspects that most of the boarding students have tried to get into Wille’s room at least once ever since the Prince transferred from his public school to Hillerska. It’s no surprise that Felice knows.

What comes as a surprise to Simon is that nobody has gone up to the paparazzi and spilled the beans. It surely would earn them a big chunk of money — not that any of these filthy rich kids need the booster anyway — but not a single soul has disclosed the truth. Simon can understand the reasoning behind August covering it up — he’s always been a suck-up, ass-kissing son of a bitch, and he’s also Wille’s second cousin. But the behavior from the rest of the students still escapes him.

“I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable,” Felice offers when he remains silent for the longest time. He’s staring ahead of him at the tiny stand where the music sheet should be on top of the piano. It brings him back memories of the Monday after the first kiss he stole from Wille, how the Prince had tried so hard to teach him, how he’d managed to break Simon’s heart and mend it at the same time.

“That’s not an option anymore,” Simon whispers. “But I think you care for Sara, and you seem to care for Wilhelm as well.” It pains him to say the name in its fullest form — he’s always been just Wille to Simon, a separation of the Prince from the teenager, even if Wille introduced himself as Wilhelm during their first real interaction after Simon’s spiel against the Royal Family. “Go ahead.”

Felice wrings her hands together on her lap, suddenly shy. Simon isn’t about to start this conversation for her; she’s the one who’s chased him down to an empty music room. Simon’s going to let her do all the work.

“I’m sure you have noticed Wille’s not been in class today,” she begins.

Simon shakes his head. Of course he’s noticed — there’s not a single universe in which he wouldn’t have — but he thought it might have something to do with some Royal duties. Simon’s never paid attention to the Royal Family before meeting Wille, and he surely isn’t going to start now when he’s got his heart broken because of them, but he at least has learned the basics from what Wille had told him.

“What’s that to do with me anymore? He’s probably out for some function or the other, Felice,” he almost barks. “If you’re here to gossip—”

“No, I’m not,” she says forcefully. Her hand shoots up all of a sudden and grabs Simon’s, pinning his fingers to the keys. “And he isn’t. At a Royal event or whatever. I figured you'd like to know, since you and he—I, you know I—I know for sure,” she insists when Simon gazes up at her in disbelief. “He’s currently resting in his room. He’s not allowed to go to class or to take up any more Royal duties until he—”

“So now they’re holding him hostage in his own room,” Simon huffs.

“I told his mother that he wasn’t doing all that fine, Simon,” Felice tells him. “I’m sure you’ve noticed how he looked so pale, he seemed so stressed, and he even lost weight! It wasn’t healthy!”

Simon stares at her, dumbfounded. "You did what now?" he almost screeches. "You called the—the Queen of Sweden and told her that his son wasn't—wasn't doing all that fine? You gave her ammunition to sequester him!"

Felice shakes her head. It seems to Simon that she's trying to find the right words to say without hurting him. "I did what I had to do. Wille has been off for a long, long time. He needed someone with enough power over him to steer him in the right direction."

"His mother was the one who convinced him to—know what? I'm not interested," he mumbles. He tries to get up, but Felice’s hand on his keeps him in place. "Felice—"

"I'm sorry," she blurts out. "I'm sorry for not having noticed. I'm sorry for not being a good friend. I'm sorry for not having supported you. And I'm really, really sorry for not having stepped up when it happened. I know you had Sara and your mom, but the situation wasn't ideal and I should've checked in on you."

Simon scoffs. "We're not friends, Felice. We're just choir members who happen to share a person in common," he adds, because it's true. Felice is punishing herself for something Simon isn't holding a grudge against her anymore.

"I wish it was different," she tells him. "If you guys had known the support you really have—how many of us don't care—"

"It wouldn't have changed anything, Felice." Simon speaks slowly, trying to convey his feelings. "I thought you'd have known that. The Crown would have won anyway. It doesn’t matter."

Simon can’t help the chuckle that escapes his mouth. He’s never heard Felice Ehrenchrona sounding less than perfect and articulate at all times, probably a consequence of her uptight upbringing, so this is refreshing.

“Sara’s told me that she’s seeing August,” he offers, looking back down to his hands. “I’m so sorry. I know you broke up with him because he tried to kiss Sara.”

“It’s—let’s say it’s surprising,” Felice mutters. “It makes sense, though, after—well, after we all saw them together and how they were acting.”

“I admit, that shocked me,” Simon says slowly.

“I still don’t know how she can hang out with him, after what he did to you guys.”

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t she tell you?” Felice sends him a confused look. When Simon shakes his head, she barges on, “It was August who filmed and leaked the video. I found out and told Wille, and Sara told me she knew when I went to her so she could tell you. That’s why I don’t understand—she always seemed so loyal to you, why would she betray you like this?”

Simon freezes. It pains him almost physically to learn who had been behind the worst moment of his life, but it revolts him to no end to know that his sister had known and she hadn’t told him. Worse, she’d known and still she’d chosen to let August help her with her grant; but her words had haunted Simon ever since — I thanked you.

His stomach flips.

“Simon?”

“I think—I think I need air.”

“I’ll go with you,” Felice says determinedly, helping him stand up and stumbling outside with him.

“No,” he stops her as he’s almost out the door. “I need—I need to be alone.”

“But, Simon—”

He shakes his head and offers a small smile. “I’ll be fine. Talk to you tomorrow?”

She nods, defeated. “But, please, know you don’t have to be alone. I’m right here.”

“I know,” he says softly. And it’s true. He somehow knows he can count on her — on the people hurt by August and Wille — having his back. “Thank you, Felice.”

And before she can say anything else, he steps out of the music room and makes his way towards the lake.

The faint last rays of the sun are shining on the water when Wilhelm reaches the lake, by the end of the fifth day he's spent resting and not attending classes. He needed to get out of his room and breathe a bit of fresh air, so he'd grabbed his coat and sauntered out of the secluded sanctuary of the four walls that are still not truly his.

The lake has always meant calmness to Wilhelm. Even though he's only been at Hillerska for a few months, he feels like he belongs to the water. Rowing practice was the starting point of his love story with the lake, and the soft day he spent with Simon there — the normalcy of them teasing each other — became the perfect ending to it.

Only, Wilhelm still loved the lake. Despite everything — despite the bad memories it now conjures, the last moments of true happiness he shared with Simon before everything exploded — he still seeks refuge in these dark waters.

"I'm going to sit for a while by the shore," he announces to both Malin and Joakim, who have followed him on his short trek through the forest. Malin nods her head in acknowledgment; Joakim simply stands his ground stoically. Wilhelm knows that Joakim is trying to prove a point, looking the part of the most professional bodyguard, but he wishes he'd be more friendly with him, the way he was with Erik.

Everyone was better around Erik. Even Wilhelm.

Most of all, Wilhelm.

He sinks to the ground, fingers touching the soil as he sits down in front of the water. He looks at the surface, pristine and glowing in the dimming light, reflecting purples and pinks and oranges. He thinks of everything Erik’s been missing, all the experiences Wilhelm would have loved to share with his older brother, all the advice he'd have asked Erik. It puts a weight on his shoulders he's been trying to avoid since Erik’s accident, for as long as he's been able to bottle it all up inside.

Suddenly, the stark reality of the world he's living in catches up with him for the first time since his imposed retreat from classes and Crown Prince duties. It builds up in his chest, tightening around his heart in a vicious grip. He rubs his right palm over the spot, skin itching at the contact with the wool sweater he's wearing underneath his coat. It only helps so much; it's not long before Wilhelm feels the pressure becoming too much.

He scrambles for purchase as he feels himself leaning forward, his body moving on its own volition. His left hand sinks into his coat pocket, searching for the packet of chewing gum he always keeps on himself. His fingers graze the packet and he takes it out hastily; he manages to bring two pieces to his mouth to chew on them angrily as a way to tame down his growing anxiety.

All his attempts are futile, for the pressure building up finally overflows and seeps into his soul, tarnishing everything and dying his feelings black.

It's not that he can't breathe — it's that it's so erratic that it feels as though he's suffocating. Wilhelm closes his eyes, trying to find his center and focus on something that isn't his pain. He tries.

He fails.

He stumbles on his feet, unable to control his movements. He isn't sure what he wants to do, whether it is to call out help or to escape this feeling, but surely he isn't counting on leaning forward in his panic. He can't help the way his body moves on its own, forward, forward, forward, until he's almost falling head-first into the water.

A pair of hands steady him, steering him back to a straight position — he almost laughs hysterically at the sheer irony of that statement, because he's pretty sure he's anything but straight anymore.

"Wille!" he hears in the distance. He needs to check because he feels he's underwater, but he can breathe properly. "You're having a panic attack. You need to calm down. Malin! Fuck!"

Wilhelm thinks he's dying. He thinks he might already have ascended to Heaven, because he could swear it's Simon’s voice tethering him back to the ground.

"Sir, you need to breathe," he hears Malin saying, interrupted by Simon’s voice.

"He won't breathe on his own. We need to help him."

"Mr. Eriksson—"

"You sure you want to keep the formalities now? Fucking Crown and fucking—"

"Sir, I must warn you—"

"Warn me all you want, but later. Wille, can you hear me? If you can, squeeze my hand."

It's only then that Wilhelm realizes that there are fingers grabbing his — strong fingers made to hold his hand. He tries to do as told, earning a small whoop.

"Good boy, Wille. You're doing so good. Now, I need you to breathe. I know it's hard, but you can do it. Follow my lead."

Wilhelm can't. He tries, but he isn't able to copy the motions.

"It's okay, Wille. Can you look at me? Please look at me."

He manages to lift his eyes from the water, to meet Simon’s worried gaze. Wilhelm almost yelps, the sound that escapes his mouth barely a hoarse groan. The hand holding his lifts both against Simon’s chest; Wilhelm can see the movement on his peripheral vision but he doesn’t dare tear his eyes from Simon’s.

"Fantastic," Simon says encouragingly. "Now, I need you to copy what I do. See? I inhale deeply through my nose. Then I need you to keep it inside, like that," he adds when Wilhelm mimics his breathing and even keeps the air inside in an unsteady sequence. "Now, out through your mouth. Great. Now we repeat."

It takes him a few sequences to get the breathing right. His heart rate slows down bit by bit, within each inhalation, and Wilhelm feels lighter by the second. As he comes back to his rightful senses, he begins taking in his surroundings — the sounds of the forest around him, the birds chirping away as they bid the day farewell, the pulsing of his blood in his ears. When he focuses once again on something that isn't himself, he can see Simon smiling softly at him, although there's a hint of sadness hiding in his chocolate eyes.

He realizes he's sitting back on the ground, this time with his back against the trunk of a tree. He doesn't have a memory of that; he just remembers falling down and being saved by Simon.

"Welcome back, Wille," he whispers.

"Sir, I think it's better if we take this back to your room," Malin tells them. Wilhelm becomes aware of her hand on his arm. "Can you walk?"

"I—I'd like to say I can, but I'm not sure," he stammers. He's still not fully back to his senses, and he's utterly exhausted.

"It's okay, Wille. We can stay here for a bit longer. There's no rush."

Wilhelm hears Malin mumbling something that sounds eerily similar to it'll be freezing soon, but she moves backwards and joins Joakim at a respectable distance. He follows her long enough to see the grimace on her face when Joakim speaks to her, undoubtedly chastising her for her lack of professionalism. Wilhelm would love nothing more than to scold Joakim precisely for his excess of professionalism — he needs a friend, not a babysitter. He does understand why they can't be friendly with him when he clearly needs that — when they were close to Erik.

Maybe it's because they've only been guarding him for a few months. Or maybe, Wilhelm realizes finally, it has something to do with the fact that fraternizing with the Crown Prince has led them to heartbreak, and they're just protecting themselves.

Either way, they've made Wilhelm feel lonely and alone, but he isn't any longer.

He has Simon right in front of him.

"How—what are you doing here, Simon?"

"I was taking a walk before catching the last bus home," Simon offers easily. It doesn't explain much about the reasons why he was walking around the forest long after he was supposed to have left for Bjärstad, but right now Wille will take anything. "I happened to be around."

"I'm glad you were around," Wille says, emphasizing the last word to make sure Simon knows he doesn't buy his story but that he's not going to ask about it. They're not friends, not anymore — he's not sure they were even friends to start with — and Wilhelm needs to respect the distance Simon asked him for.

Simon has yet to let go of Wilhelm’s hand, and that gives him hope.

"Can you stay for a bit?" he asks. "I don't want to be alone."

Simon nods. "Take a moment to recover," he says. "Then I can walk you back to your room."

Wilhelm nods. He will take anything Simon has to offer him right now, even if it is crumbles of forced friendship.

"I was—I was thinking about Erik," he confesses. "It still hurts."

Simon sighs. "I'm sorry, Wille. I really am."

Wilhelm can feel the sincerity in Simon words. He doesn't say anything else for a long time, until he feels himself strong enough to stand up again.

"I think I can move now," he announces. "Should we?"

Simon nods, trading Wilhelm’s hand for Wilhelm’s back as he moves his fingers to hold him steady, and together they begin the trek back to Hillerska.

The room is still as impersonal as Simon remembers it.

He still can’t believe that it’s been merely a couple of months since he last was here, running his fingers through Wille’s hair in what he hoped was a soothing motion; merely a couple of months since he last allowed himself to keep his hopes up.

Merely a couple of months since he said goodbye to his boyfriend, only to end up that weekend more alone than he ever thought he could be.

Merely a couple of months since he had his heart broken in the same way that Wille had broken his promise, made in this very same room — that they were together, that he wouldn’t leave Simon to the wolves.

And yet here he is, hand on the small of Wille’s back as Malin escorts them right up to the doorway. Simon hesitates long enough for Wille to turn and meet his eyes again; there’s such a vulnerability in that gaze that Simon finds himself caving in even though he hadn’t been aware that he was holding on to a fortress where he could hide his feelings.

It’s as though he’s rooted to the ground, unable to move forward. Wille seems to feel it too, for he takes a step forward, into the room.

“It’s okay,” Wille tells him in a soft voice. “Thank you for keeping me company, Simon.”

“No, wait,” Simon says, hand still firmly in place against the soft fabric of Wille’s coat, when the Prince starts to enter the room. “I—I can come in, if you want me to.”

“Only if you want to,” Wille says, voice still a tiny thread. “I don’t want to impose.”

Something inside Simon shatters at those words. He’s been hurt by Wille’s actions — and lack thereof, if he’s being honest with himself — but it’s in moments like this one, when he gets to see the real Wille, the person behind the persona, that Simon understands just how similar Wille is to him. To any teenager lost in anger and confusion, really. Wille may have hurt him, but Simon knows he’s hurt Wille as well when he chose to step away. In protecting himself, Simon had abandoned Wille to himself; he’s been telling himself that it was for a good cause — that he needed the time and space so Wille wouldn’t devastate him in the process of finding himself — but Simon would be lying if Wille’s demeanor and his voice right now weren’t making him feel bad about his actions.

“You’re not imposing,” he mutters. “I just want to make sure I’m not overstepping.” Simon sighs. “I really don’t think you should be alone right now.”

“You want to make sure I don’t do something crazy,” Wille says. He’s further into the room now, Simon’s fingers clutching the air as Wille steps away from him. “I can assure you, I won’t. And Malin’s right outside. But,” he adds, looking at his feet, “I could use a friend.”

“That I can be,” Simon concedes. He isn’t ready for more right now — even though his heart is screaming at him that he’s lying to himself — but he could be the friend Wille needs right now. Until Felice’s available, he tells himself.

He already knows he’s lying.

Simon follows Wille into the room, closing the door at his back. He thinks he sees Malin smirking out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t turn around or open the door to check on that. He sits on the bed that he knows isn’t Wille’s, and the Prince crouches himself on his own bed, still burrowed in his coat.

It dawns on him that they really don’t have anything to talk about. It’s a bittersweet realization, to learn that Simon doesn’t think they can have anything in common — to understand that what linked them was purely physical. It hurts him more than he thought it would.

“I didn’t know you also suffered from anxiety,” Wille begins, fidgeting with the buttons on his coat. “I mean—after the first day of term—”

“It’s been a while since I last had it that bad,” Simon finds himself replying. “Ever since things calmed down with Micke, life had been good. And then, well. You know.”

“I’m sorry this, uh, situation between us has triggered your anxiety back,” Wille mumbles. “And I’m sorry things with Micke got so bad that they were anxiety-inducing.”

“It was more frightening than anything else,” Simon explains. He wants to tell his mouth to shut up, but his brain doesn’t seem to like that, and so he keeps talking. “And you didn’t trigger anything. The situation between us didn’t, either. It was just bound to happen.”

“Still. I’m sorry.”

Simon shakes his head. “Don’t be. I believe that history repeats itself.”

The silence stretches between them then, heavy and uncomfortable, until Wille breaks it.

“How was—how was growing up with Micke?” he blurts out. Simon flinches at the sudden and unexpected question. Wille picks it up, for he continues, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Nah, it’s okay,” Simon tells him. While they had been dating, if what they had can be called dating, they never talked about their lives before meeting each other. Sure, Simon had told Wille about how his father wasn’t in the picture, how Simon called him Micke to detach himself from the situation, and of course Wille knew about Micke’s problems because Simon had confessed to having stolen his father’s drugs.

He finds it’s still easy to talk to Wille, despite everything that’s transpired between them.

“Micke wasn’t always a bad father,” Simon begins. “I doubt he’s a bad person, mom wouldn’t have started dating him if he’d been, you know, not good at all. He’s just someone who made bad decisions.”

“Sounds like my parents,” Wille says in a low voice when Simon remains silent. “I know—I know it might not seem the same, but—”

“I get what you mean, I really do. I guess sometimes adults don’t really know what they’re doing. About parenting, that is.”

“I doubt my mother knows how things work outside ruling a kingdom,” Wille snorts. “Sometimes it feels like she only cares about the Crown. But then she just shows up out of nowhere and tells me she’s worried about me because I’m not taking good care of myself.”

“Felice said she called your mother and that’s why you didn’t come to classes for a few days.”

Wille shrugs. “Something like that. I still think she came because she was worried about the Crown Prince, not me.”

“Aren’t you the same person?”

“Not to her, no. But I didn’t want to make this about me again. You were saying?”

Simon scoffs. He knows Wille has a tendency to make everything about him, maybe because of his upbringing, but it shows a bit of growth that he steers back the conversation to where it started, even if it means that Simon’s under the spotlight again.

“Micke wasn’t bad, but he had bad habits. And mom tried to keep the worst parts of it from us, but when Sara was diagnosed with ADHD—” Simon trails off, blushing. This part of their story is by far the worst — the abuse they suffered when Micke found out that Sara’s medication gave him the high he’d been chasing, the violent benders he’d go on while on the effects of the drugs, the handprint marks beneath Simon’s t-shirt that one time that he dared to step between his parents when Micke had tried to hit his mother.

As if sensing his discomfort, Wille offers, “You don’t have to tell me. It was stupid of me to even ask.”

“No, I—I want to tell you.” Simon shivers with the force of that truth. He wants to tell Wille everything about his life, but the fear of Wille thinking less of him because of his past is strong. “I just don’t know how.”

“It’s okay. Take all the time you need.”

Those are the words Simon seemed to need, for everything comes tumbling down his mouth upon hearing them. He babbles about Micke being a good musician, how he introduced Simon to music. How music is still tainted because it reminds Simon of better days and also of the worst moments of his life, when he sought refuge in it to help him cope with the panic that settled whenever Micke broke the restraining order his mother filed. How scary growing up had been until Micke had gone to rehab and remained sober for at least a year — or how he faked it until he made it, and how hurtful it had been to learn the hard way that Micke had never tried to stay sober because of them. Simon hated how much he still wanted to believe that Micke loved them, but it was harder and harder to do so.

In exchange, when Simon falls silent, Wille begins talking about how growing up in a Palace felt like — how he always had Erik to defend him, both a soundboard and a shield, until he suddenly wasn’t there anymore and Wille had felt like half of his heart had been buried with his brother. He talks about how his parents were gone on Royal duties more often than not, and how wherever they were home Wille felt inadequate in their presence, as though he didn’t meet their expectations.

“Life,” Wille sighs, “has taught me that it was the case. I never was what they expected me to be. I doubt I’ll ever become who they want me to be. I can’t be the perfect Crown prince. I can’t even be a good son.”

“You know that’s not true, Wille.”

“My mother will tell you otherwise. It’s always been like this,” Wille whispers. “Always telling me to stop rubbing my chest, or to stop biting my nails, or to stop hiding behind Erik. And now, now there’s no one to hide behind, and it’s like the whole world has stopped spinning. I still need to find my footing, but I have nobody to lean on.”

“Parents are supposed to be there for you,” Simon tells him, because he believes so. “I’m sorry you feel like yours won’t be there for you. But you’re not alone. You have friends, real friends now. We’ll be there for you while you’re figuring everything out, and we’ll be there afterwards.”

It’s a weird notion, to call himself a friend of Wille’s when Simon knows they could be much more — they were much, much more, once upon a time. But maybe they’re bound to be just friends for now; Simon would take it if it meant having Wille in his life in any capacity. All he wants to do is help Wille through his pain, the way he’d love for someone to help him through his.

Maybe they’re not meant to be more, but Simon can be the friend Wille needs.

“Believe me,” Simon insists. “You’re not alone anymore, Wille. And I have the feeling you know that already.”

Wille gets up from his bed and sits down beside Simon, carefully surrounding his frame with his arms, giving Simon a much needed hug. He’s missed this — he’s missed the intimacy of Wille’s hugs, the warmth that Simon had come to associate with them. He’s missed the proximity. He’s missed the feeling of closeness, of belonging.

Simon melts into Wille’s embrace for the first time since that last moment before Christmas break, when Wille professed his love for him in front of everyone, but for Simon’s ears only. He sinks into the hug, allowing himself to simply feel, and for the first time since Christmas, he dares to believe that they might have a chance at normalcy.

Being friends with Simon, Wilhelm discovers, is as easy as breathing. It's not that Wilhelm doesn’t want to be more — after all, it was him who'd declared his love in front of everyone, even if it'd been only for Simon’s ears — but he knows they should thread carefully. He's been forgiven for his misconduct, for treating Simon like a secret when he should be the brightest star in the night sky, but Wilhelm is aware that his past actions are dictating their current situation. He denied being in the video, and the Crown protected the offender instead of throwing him under the bus. Wilhelm has yet to find the perfect moment to tell Simon that August is responsible for the leaking of the tape that's ruined Simon’s life.

Somehow, Wilhelm doesn’t think that spilling the truth during one of Simon’s sleepovers is a good idea. Simon’s been allowed to spend more time at school after hours, either for choir practice, rowing practice or just to hang out with his classmates; after the whole video debacle, Wilhelm has noticed how many of their peers have taken to protect Simon, including Walter and Henry. It feels as though they know that the danger lies within them, the author of the video another student, and Wilhelm isn't sure that Felice hasn't spread the rumor that its been August, for he catches Henry glaring at his second cousin a couple of times during workies. Either way, Wilhelm has yet to tell Simon, and he wants to do it on his own terms.

While he waits for that perfect moment to come, Wilhelm relishes in the small mercies that his life at Hillerska gives him. Since August is a third-year, Wilhelm only sees him at meals and during rowing practice — but August seems to respect Wilhelm’s wishes of being left alone and he keeps his distance. It's not like Wilhelm has much time to spend with the rowing team, anyway; these days he's regularly fulfilling his duties as Crown Prince even though he's not being summoned to the Palace. He needs to work hard to reach exactly the same goals that Erik had achieved when he'd been Wilhelm’s age; it doesn’t matter that Erik had been getting ready for his future as King ever since his birth and Wilhelm has only had a few months — filled with grief and heartbreak — to step into Erik’s shoes.

If occasionally Wilhelm feels dizzy after a long session of homework from both school and diplomacy, he never says anything. If his throat closes up and tightens with soreness after a particularly difficult day, he doesn’t say anything. He just wants to remain in his little bubble where he's managing to keep Erik’s memory alive by making him proud, and at the same time he gets to spend time with his favorite person in the world.

Which is why he's ended up attending a party on a Friday. Wilhelm knows that Simon isn't keen on parties, but Sara is — and Sara wanted to come to this party that the third-years have thrown. Everyone's been invited, even the non-residents, although there's rumors milling around that Sara will be a boarder next year. Wilhelm doesn’t want to give them credit, but he wouldn’t miss the chance to spend more time with Simon, and since Simon is usually where Sara is, Wilhelm gets ready to go to the party, Malin in tow.

August is there. Of course he'd be there, but Wilhelm hadn't been ready to face his second cousin. August is already halfway drunk, throwing his arm around everyone within his reach and proclaiming how cool he is because he's Royal adjacent.

Wilhelm wants to throw up.

Simon and Sara are nowhere to be seen. Wilhelm picks up a red cup and smells its contents before leaving it where he's found it. He chooses to grab a Coke and sips from it slowly, scanning the room and waving at Felice. She marches towards him and before Wilhelm can protest she's dragging him to the dance floor, where she helps him find the rhythm and they dance along the music for a while. She also tells him that Simon and Sara will be arriving late, but Sara will be spending the night.

Wilhelm wishes that he'd think about inviting Simon to do the same.

"I bet you still can invite him," Felice tells him, making him realize he's spoken out loud. "I mean, text him. Maybe you'll be lucky and he can still pack a bag."

Wilhelm stops dancing with her to do as she's told him, ignoring the knowing glint in her eyes as he sends the message and receives a quick thought you'd never ask followed by a thumbs-up emoji and thanks, Wille, looking forward to tonighr that leaves him breathless.

"Oh, Wille," Felice says fondly. She doesn’t elaborate further, and he doesn’t ask. Instead, they keep dancing and dancing.

The party is in full swing when Wilhelm decides he needs a break. August is nowhere to be found, probably having left with one of the girls who are always fanning around him, and even though Wilhelm should feel the tightness in his chest loosening up without his cousin in the vicinity, he doesn't. Therefore, he excuses himself to Felice, who looks up at him with a knowing glance in her eyes, and makes his way outside. It's deserted, and despite the bite of cold hitting his skin, Wilhelm is thankful that he's alone.

Sometimes it's too much to bear on his own — being the Crown Prince, attending classes, being a good friend, trying to fall out of love with Simon — and Wilhelm isn't sure he's going to get through it all unscathed. He doesn't know how Erik did it, anyway.

"You shouldn't be on your own in the dark," comes a voice at his back, followed by a snort. He doesn’t have to turn around to recognize August. "Something could happen to you, and nobody would know."

"Are you planning on hurting me physically?" Wilhelm replies evenly, even though anger is building up in his gut. "That's the only thing you've got left, after betraying my trust, and the Crown's."

August huffs. He moves forward until his shoulder is touching Wilhelm’s. He wonders briefly if his second cousin is crouching in order for their shoulders to be aligned. "The Crown doesn’t think so."

"Right now," Wilhelm retorts breezily. He isn't sure where this attitude is coming from, but he feels brave. "But those who protect you now won't be forever the ones in charge."

"Is that a threat?"

"Take it the way you want. I thought I made it clear I didn't want you near me."

"Wille—"

Wilhelm balls his hands into fists to keep himself from doing something he'll regret later — like punching August. "Leave me and my friends alone. We don't want anything to do with you."

"You can't force people into disliking me."

"Oh, August," Wilhelm says as he finally turns to face his second cousin. "You're very capable of doing it on your own."

He searches the older boy's face for some sort of reaction, anything, but August remains stoically serious. "You don't mean—"

"This conversation is over," Wilhelm tries again, using his Prince voice but it comes out shaky.

"You can’t write me off your life, Wille. We're family!"

"No, we're not!" he exclaims, standing his ground and glaring at August. "You lost your right to be part of my family when you destroyed my trust! You filmed me! You uploaded that video for everyone to see! And you call yourself loyal to the Crown?" Wilhelm is shaking as much as his voice is; he reaches out and rests his hand on the wall in an attorney steady himself. "You should've been thrown out of the Society for treason. You should've been thrown out of the Royal Family! What were you thinking? What did you want to achieve?" Without allowing August to reply, Wilhelm keeps on. "Did you expect to be patted on the shoulder by the Queen? Well. That's what happened. But that's all. I will make it my personal life goal to make sure you will never have enough power to do this to anyone ever again, August."

There's a pause; August seems to be pondering his options but in the end he turns on his heels and leaves him alone. Wilhelm feels his resolve crumbling as fast as August retreats back into the party. He doesn’t know where the strength to confront his cousin has come from; he just knows that his legs aren't supporting him anymore. He allows himself to lean into the wall and slides down to the ground.

"That was quite the speech," he hears. He recognizes this voice too. He'd have to be deaf not to. "Look at you, going all Prince on August."

"He deserves it," Wilhelm finds himself replying as Simon gets out of the shadows. "After what he did to you."

"What he did to us," Simon corrects him. He sits down beside Wilhelm, his fingers brushing Wilhelm’s knee as he does so. "That was brave."

"I wasn’t aware that you knew it'd been August," Wilhelm says stupidly. It's something that weighs in his soul — he should have said something, but he never did.

"Not through you, that's for sure," Simon teases him. "Felice told me. It's okay. I'm over it. Now. After that speech—"

Wilhelm sighs and interrupts Simon. "My mother's protecting him. I was just making sure August knows this situation won't last. That one day—that one day I'll be in charge."

Simon nods. "I've made my peace with it. I mean," he continues, "I hate the paps and the tabloids inventing shit about me and following my every move. But it's easier when I'm here. It's easier when I'm—when we're together. And it shouldn't be, because you—"

"—I betrayed you, Simon," Wilhelm cuts him off. "I'm so sorry. So, so sorry."

"It's not okay," Simon tells him. "But I know you're sincere. I forgave you a long time ago." His hand reaches out to cover Wilhelm’s, sending a shivering up Wilhelm’s spine.

"For real?"

Simon nods again, his eyes watering from Wilhelm’s eyes to their entwined hands. "You said you loved me, and I wished you a nice Christmas. For that, I'm sorry."

Wilhelm snorts. The mere thought of Simon apologizing to him is foreign. "You don’t have to—"

"I do. I'm sorry." Simon's eyes are fixed on their hands.

Wilhelm feels brave all of a sudden. He allows his free hand to touch Simon’s chin and he lifts Simon’s head up until their gazes lock. He searches Simon’s brown eyes before leaning in. "I forgive you," he whispers, lips a breath away from Simon’s, giving him an out.

When Simon doesn’t recoil, Wilhelm hesitates briefly. It's weird, to be on the edge of a new beginning when their last adventure had ended up so tragically, but he can't help himself. He doesn't see regret in Simon’s eyes.

Wilhelm closes the gap between their mouths, kissing Simon, being kissed by Simon, and once again the pieces of his soul that were misplaced lodge perfectly.

"Hello, Malin," Simon greets when he reaches Wille’s door, where he's basically run to after his choir practice, five weeks after the party that's changed his life once again. Malin is sitting down on a stool close to the entrance to the room, while Joakim is doing the same but by the far end of the corridor.

Unlike Joakim, who's ignored Simon when he's passed by him, Malin smiles brightly.

"Mr. Eriksson," she says. "It's so good to see you again."

"It's Simon," he corrects. Malin huffs. "How many times do I need to tell you?"

"At least one more time, Sir."

He shakes his head, bemused. It's been a constant war with her these past weeks; Simon’s determined to have her call him by his given name at some point, but so far she's winning every battle.

"Can I come in?" He knows he's got granted access, but still he asks every single time. His mother drilled that bit of manners into him from a very young age, and he's also been around Wille — both before Christmas break and now, in every single capacity he can think of — to be aware that he can't get inside Wille’s room without Malin or Joakim allowing him to.

"Yes," she tells him, gesturing towards the closed door. "He told me to let you in unannounced when you arrived. I think he's been studying; I haven't heard him shuffling much."

Simon shakes his head. He might have to have a few words with the Crown Prince about focusing too much on his duties. Simon knows that Wille wants to excel in everything does, but he already had a meltdown the first few weeks of terms. Nobody wants Wille going down that road again.

"I'll talk to him. Get him to take a breather," he promises, hand already on the knob.

"But don't distract him much," Malin warns. Simon blushes.

It's true that they've kissed. It's true, too, that they've just kissed. Simon isn't ready for more, after everything that happened, and it seems Wille feels the same. Not a single time during their make-out sessions have their hands wandered further than their shoulders or the upper half of their backs. Still, Simon thinks they're together. They haven't had that talk yet.

Simon suspects that Wille doesn't want to put a label on them, just like he still hasn't labeled himself. And Simon is fine with that, he really is, although he'd like a bit more clarity on their status.

"I'll try not to," he replies dryly.

He turns the knob, stepping into the room and closing the door at his back.

The room is dimly lit, only the fairy string lights are on. Simon thinks that it's a weird illumination if Wille wanted to study, but it's only when he sees the figure slumped on the bed that his brain registers the scene in front of him.

Wille is lying on top of the duvet, covered by a blanket, his socked feet peeping from underneath one of the edges of the soft material. From where Simon’s standing, it looks like Wille is shivering.

"Wille?" he asks, taking a tentative step towards the bed. "Wille, are you okay?"

"I'm really cold," comes the hoarse reply. Simon can hear the pitiful moan Wille tries to suppress afterwards. "And I'm not feeling all that well."

Simon drops his bag on the floor, flinching at the loud noise — no doubt Malin would think badly about what they're doing here right now — and rushes to the bed. He sits carefully on the edge, mindful of Wille’s space. He lifts one hand that lands on Wille’s forehead, clammy and pale under the soft light.

"You're running a fever," he mutters. His fingers thread through Wille’s hair in soothing movements. "How long have you been feeling unwell?"

"Not long," Wille coughs. "I was trying to study, but I had a headache so I just lied down and just—I don’t know."

"Have you been going out for a run early in the mornings, Wille?" The noncommittal sound that Wille makes is enough answer for Simon. "And I bet you've been working hard on all your Royal duties."

"That doesn't—" Wille’s words are cut off by another bout of coughing.

"It affects your health when you're running yourself dead on your feet," Simon tries to explain. He's frustrated that he has to say this all over again. "When you exhaust yourself this much, you lower your defenses, Wille. It was only a matter of time that you caught a cold or something worse! You even went straight to class with your hair damp every single day."

"Nobody catches a cold from that," Wille protests weakly.

"They do, if they're stressing themselves this much over being perfect," Simon counters.

Wille sighs, burrowing himself deeper under the blanket. "I'll be fine," he says stubbornly. His arms shoot out of the blanket and surround Simon’s waist in a grip that's way too warm, and not just because it's Wille trying to hug him.

He's definitely running a fever.

"Of course you will," Simon agrees. "After I've sent Malin or Joakim to fetch some medicine."

"No—"

"Do you want me to call the Headmistress?" Simon deadpans. "I'm sure she'd be thrilled to inform the Queen that her son's sick."

"You wouldn't."

"Want to try that theory?"

Simon feels the moment Wille surrenders. He can tell from the way his body sways closer to Simon’s, from the way Wille sighs as he hides his head in Simon’s lap. He smiles despite the situation.

"I still need to get up. Malin will most likely want to call a doctor."

"The Headmistress will know then."

"But maybe Malin could convince her that she doesn’t need to call your mother," Simon reasons. Malin’s the scariest person Simon knows, so maybe it's not far-fetched to believe that she could intimidate anyone into not calling the Queen.

"You want to try that for real?"

Simon chuckles. "It's worth a try," he tells Wille. "But I need to move. Could you please let go of me?"

"No," Wille mumbles. "You're warm."

"I'm not. You're just sick. Please."

Reluctantly, Wille moves his hands and shoots closer to the wall and far from Simon, who takes this chance to get up and walk hastily back to the door. He opens it and peeps outside until he sees Malin looking back at him, her blue eyes gleaming with a hint of irony.

"Yeah, Sir?"

He lets the treatment slip in favor of speaking freely. "Could you please call a doctor or something? I think Wille has a fever."

Malin stands up so fast that she almost knocks the stool over. By the other end of the corridor, Joakim imitates her, one hand shooting to the gun holster Simon knows he wears underneath his black suit.

"A fever?"

"I don't know when it started," Simon explains. "But he's just lying on his bed shivering, and I'm sure he's running a fever. Probably just a bad cold, he's been exhausting himself lately. But I think an expert opinion might help."

"I'll let the Headmistress know," Joakim informs them. "She'll have the school's doctor come over."

"Be clear that the Queen isn't to be informed for now," Malin says before Simon can get the chance to ask for that. Simon could kiss her when she shoots a warning glare at Joakim before he takes off. "Why don’t you get inside and go be with him until the doctor comes?"

Simon doesn't need to be told twice. He saunters back inside and flops down once again beside Wille. The Prince is now sitting up, wheezing and heaving. "Wille, take it easy," he says.

"I can’t breathe," Wille retaliates in between coughs. "While lying down, I can’t—"

"The doctor’s coming. Don't worry," Simon reassures Wille. "You'll be fine in no time."

"My mother's going to be so disappointed."

"Wille, I love you, but you sound horrible." Wille looks up at him as though he's said something marvelous, but Simon is too busy trying to make his point come across that he totally misses it at first. "Why would she be disappointed? Because you're sick? Given that you've been working too hard on her—what?" Simon interrupts himself when he finally notices Wille staring up at him in wonder.

"Do you mean it?"

"Mean what?"

"You've said you love me," Wille murmurs.

Simon blushes. He's known for a while — probably before Christmas break, and, if he's being honest with himself, way before that — that he's in love with Wille. Not Prince Wilhelm, not the cardboard-cut version the Crown insists on selling on the media, but Wille with his sandy hair and his boyish smile, Wille with his nervous ticks and his big heart.

Before he can say anything — because what could he possibly say — there's a knock on the door and Malin announces that both the Headmistress and the doctor have arrived. Soon, the room is filled with worried glances and some advice as the doctor writes down a prescription that Joakim is sent to retrieve at the pharmacy. Simon listens intently as the doctor tells Wille that it's a bad cold that should have been over weeks ago; Simon suspects that everyone knows how Wille has been running himself wild with all the expectations put on his shoulders, and he most probably thought the cough and the soreness would go away.

He squeezes Wille’s hand when the doctor recommends rest for four days, effectively cutting the Prince when he's about to protest.

"He'll behave," Simon promises. "Malin and I will make sure of it."

The doctor shares a knowing glance with the Headmistress before excusing himself and leaving the room, followed by her in a swift movement. Once they're left alone, Malin tells Wille that he’s not supposed to leave his room under any circumstance, and that she’s not above tying him up to the bed in order for him to follow his doctor's orders.

It isn’t until much later, when Joakim has come back from the pharmacy and Wille has taken the first couple of pills, when it's evident the Queen hasn't been informed yet, that Simon lies next to Wille on the narrow bed, his lithe frame covering Wille’s usually bigger body.

"Yes," he mutters to Wille’s sleeping form, soft snores only interrupted by a hitch in the breathing from time to time. "I love you so much it hurts."

Easter sneaks up on him. Between the classes, rowing practice — despite his efforts in having August as far away from him as possible, Wilhelm is still part of the team, as well as Simon — and his Crown Prince duties from time to time, he's lost track of the days flying by. Before he knows it, he's waking up on the last day before Easter break with a groan, hand patting the desk between the unused bed and his until his fingers find his phone and he presses the snooze button. Wilhelm groans again, falling back on top of the mattress.

"Sir," he hears from outside the door. Malin’s stern voice cuts through the wood, making him sit up. "I hope that sound is you getting out of bed instead of underneath the covers."

"I'm up!" he calls back. He puts on the uniform, the jacket a bit loose on his frame since he lost weight. Those are the only clothes he's left out of his luggage when he packed last night, ready and not ready at all to go back to Stockholm.

The Palace never felt like home, before Erik’s accident. After, the vast halls and intricate decorations only serve to haunt him in his sleep.

"See?" he says as he opens the door of his room. Malin is standing outside, back straight and hair in a tight bun, a small knowing smile dancing on her lips. "I'm perfectly capable of getting up in time."

"I doubt Mr. Englund agrees," Malin teases.

Wilhelm shakes his head. His relationship with Malin has changed over the course of the past months; he used to be distant and — he can now admit to it — a bit stuck-up, but those times are long gone. Malin still keeps that general air of professionalism and efficiency that seems to surround her everywhere she goes, but there's a gentleness to her voice when she addresses him, a hint of closeness that Wilhelm had spied before, when she talked to Erik. It makes him feel closer to his brother, somehow.

“Oh, shut up,” he mumbles.

“Truth hurts, doesn’t it?” Malin snickers, but she follows him at a certain distance as he makes his way to the dining room where his peers are already milling around the orange juice like it holds some mystical powers. Malin remains outside, and not for the first time does Wilhelm wonder when she eats — he’s never seen her doing anything that’s not guarding him, even during mealtimes.

Since it’s the last day before break, there are no classes to attend and no exams to be held. Wilhelm sits beside Henry and Walter at the table, inhaling his breakfast as they tease each other. He’s found a true companionship among them — all the while ignoring August's attempts to socialize with him. Wilhelm is still in awe at how his peers have joined forced to help him through the worst of his grief, either by making him focus on his classes and projects — Walter and their joint assignment — or by including him in activities outside the curriculum — Henry and his attempts to Makin Wilhelm join their football nights. Wilhelm also has only gratitude for Felice, who's been his true support throughout the whole ordeal of discovering who he is and fighting for his happiness.

They trickle down the center aisle of the chapel for the Easter concert. Wilhelm sits front row, a reminder of the last two times he was here — Erik’s warmth has been replaced by Madison's, and August has been relegated to the third row as Henry and Walter sit on Wilhelm’s other side. When Simon steps in, following Felice and the rest of the choir, the uneasy feeling Wilhelm’s been feeling deep in his gut fades a little bit.

It was the voice of an angel that moved him that first day, a voice sent from the heavens which comforted him when he'd lost half of his heart, a voice made of softness which lulled him to sleep whenever he felt sick.

Simon's voice always manages to be exactly what Wilhelm needs — Simon himself — and he can only hope that he means the same to his boyfriend.

Wilhelm is distracted for half the concert, the way Simon’s glowing underneath the spring light is taunting him with memories and emotions that he can hardly contain anymore. Maddie squeezes his hand during part of the concert, and Wilhelm is really thankful for her presence rounding him and keeping him in place when all he wants to do is stand up and kiss Simon senseless. As much as they’re dating as publicly as they can — they’re not hiding their relationship from the students — neither wants any of the teachers to know and tell the Queen. Wilhelm knows it’s not healthy of him to always refer to his mother as the Queen, but the events leading up to this particular moment in his life have only proved to him that she’s putting the Crown before anything else. It hurts, but it’s also what’s expected of her.

Maybe that’s what’s expected of him when he becomes King.

Madison tugs at his hand when the concert is over and the choir has left the chapel. He stands up and follows his friends outside of the place, Walter and Henry chatting about their plans for break, and waits in line to say goodbye to the teachers and the Headmistress. He gets a sense of déjà-vu as he shakes the Headmistress’ hand and wishes her a happy Easter before moving onto the small gravel path leading to the road.

Wilhelm spots Simon hanging out with Felice. When he approaches them, Madison in tow, he notices Sara waiting in the sideline, alone and staring at her brother with a pained expression in her face. He makes a mental note to talk to Simon about it later — he chides himself for not having noticed that something was off between the siblings.

The farewell this time is less bitter and a lot sweeter than it was the last day before Christmas break. There are no muttered love confessions or sincere apologies. Wilhelm hugs Simon tight against his chest, both of them holding on as they promise to text and call as much as they're able to; Wilhelm wishes he could spend Easter with Simon in Bjärstad, but they both know he has duties to fulfill.

"Just don’t forget to take care of yourself, Wille," Simon whispers. "Nothing, not even the Crown, is worth you being sick."

"I'll try my best, mother hen," Wilhelm promises. He looks up briefly, making sure not a single teacher is looking their way before dropping a soft kiss on Simon’s lips. It's quick, and it feels nice, to be able to just be in a space where everyone, one way or another, is in on the secret the Crown forced him to keep.

Simon's about to kiss him back when someone clears their throat loudly at Wilhelm’s back. He freezes on the spot when he recognizes his mother saying, "Wilhelm."

Reluctantly, he lets go of Simon but he grabs Simon’s hand instead. It's a small act of rebellion, but he hopes Simon understands. When his boyfriend squeezes his fingers, Wilhelm feels emboldened.

That doesn’t help the butterflies in his stomach when he’s faced with the stony gaze of the Queen of Sweden, standing in front of them with her pristine white coat and her heels, her hair in a tight bun. Wilhelm clears his throat and opens his mouth to greet her, but the first sound that escapes his lips is a grunt. He coughs ungracefully and tries again.

“Mother,” he says, voice still unsteady. “I wasn't expecting you to come pick me up.”

"I wanted it to be a surprise," she replies in a voice that tells Wilhelm that she's the one surprised. "Mr. Eriksson," she greets with a nod, attention shifting to Simon.

Wilhelm wants to tell her not to intimidate his boyfriend, but the words get stuck in his throat as he feels Simon shivering slightly at his side.

"Your—Your Majesty," Simon stammers. Nobody says anything for a long while; WIlhelm can feel the air thickening around them, everyone’s gazes falling upon them as they try to wade through this awkward interaction.

In the end, it’s the Queen who breaks the silence, gesturing towards the car waiting by the end of the road. "Shall we, Wilhelm?"

"Text me when you get there," Simon mutters, letting go of Wilhelm’s hand.

"I will," Wilhelm promises before following his mother towards the vehicle.

Wilhelm enters the car, Malin a few steps behind them as she approaches the second car that’s been waiting for them in the same road. He feels exposed, sitting in a secluded space with his mother now that she’s seen him with Simon. It’s not that he’s ashamed of anything, but he wishes he’d be able to choose the timing of his own life.

"Do you remember the last conversation we had in this car?" his mother questions, words cutting through the silence, once they're already on the road, one hand on the seat belt as though it's a lifeline.

Wilhelm realizes with a start that maybe it is, for her.

"I remember that it didn't go well. For me, at least," he retaliates, not looking at her. Instead, he stares outside the window at the passing landscapes as they're driven away from Hillerska.

"I'm sorry you feel like that," she tries again, but Wilhelm isn’t having any of it. He stops looking outside to shoot one hard glance towards his mother.

"No, you aren't," he replies, voice steady despite the waves of nausea rippling through his stomach. "If you were, you wouldn't have told me to hide Simon. You would—"

"I haven’t said anything about Simon now—"

"—keep August away from us after he—"

"Wilhelm, would you please listen to me?" She speaks in her Queen voice, making him startle and look back at her.

"What for?" he snaps. "I'm tired of all the bullshit you try to put on me—"

"I'm trying to apologize here!" She surprises him with her words, effectively shutting him up. "I had to protect August in order to protect you. Do you think I condone what he did to my son? I don't!" she exclaims. "But what good would have it done to you, if the public would've known that your own cousin had—had—" She trails off. "What August did was atrocious, but there was only one way to honor Erik’s memory and—"

"Don't talk about Erik as if you're the only one who misses him," Wilhelm whispers, but it sounds like a firing gun.

"I'm sorry I didn't see your pain before," she mutters back. "But helping you become a great king while mourning Erik has been—"

"Do you think I'm going to be a great king?" Wilhelm cuts her off, taken aback by her words. He isn’t sure where they’re coming from — he’s definitely not felt like she ever considered him to be anything but a disappointment.

“Of course,” his mother says softly. Wilhelm tries to avert his gaze, but his mother reaches out, finally letting go of the seat belt, and she places her fingers underneath his chin, forcing him to turn around once again from the window. “Oh, Wilhelm, did you think—” She trails off, blinking rapidly. Wilhelm thinks he sees tears in her eyes. “You thought, didn’t you—”

“I know I’ve disappointed you and Dad,” he begins. There’s a stutter in his voice. “I can’t sit still, I can’t stop biting my nails, I’m not half as good as Erik was, I’ve been in two different scandals in less than a year, and I—”

“And I’ll stop you right there,” his mother sighs. She hasn’t let go of his face. Now her hand moves up to cup his cheek. “I’m sorry, Wille. I guess that’s exactly the image I projected. I’m so sorry that you thought I was judging you because of the way you are.”

“But aren’t you?” he can’t help but question out loud. “I mean, you’re protecting August—”

“I’m protecting you.” The way she pronounces the words cuts through Wilhelm’s heart. It’s a reprise from that other conversation, the night before Christmas break, when Wilhelm’s world halted altogether. Sometimes it feels like it hasn’t been brought back into spinning. “And I’m protecting the Crown I want you to inherit. A scandal like this, a betrayal like this made public, what do you think the media would do? They’d tear into August, for sure, and they’d ask for his head. But they’d also tear into your story with Simon. And they’d dissect everything to try and find a fault in you. August will be dealt with, after he’s done at Hillerska. I’m making sure he doesn’t hurt you ever again. But I wasn’t trying to keep you from Simon. I was keeping you from getting hurt.”

“Instead you made me lie, and I hurt him,” Wilhelm laments. “And I know it was my choice in the end. But—”

“But it worked out in the end, didn’t it?” she asks softly. “I’ve seen you two kissing goodbye, Wilhelm. There’s no need to deny it.”

Wilhelm feels panic rising in his chest. He hadn’t been aware that his mother had seen them kissing — he thought they were safe at school, away from prying eyes — and he feels bile filling his throat. “I can’t—you can’t—”

His mother shakes her head. Her hand flies to her lap, and Wilhelm instantly misses the warmth it brought to his skin. “I’m sorry you think I’m bigoted enough to forbid you from seeing Simon. I was doing damage control back then, Wilhelm. I was just making sure you stayed out of the media hurricane.”

“You told me to stop seeing Simon,” he retaliates. “I won’t. Not this time. Last year I asked you to let me have a normal life. Now I’m not asking. I want to be with him.”

“And you aren’t?” His mother looks away. “I never wanted you to be unhappy. But I also want you to be able to find out who you really are away from the limelight. That privilege was taken from you when—when your brother—when Erik died.” She stammers through her words. “You should have been able to explore yourself without everyone questioning your every move. That’s why we sent Erik to Hillerska and why we were so opposed to you attending public school.”

“And then Hillerska proved to be as unsafe as public school,” Wilhelm says, but there’s no real bite to his statement. He thinks he’s beginning to understand the reasoning behind his mother’s actions — even though he still despises how things went down, how lonely Simon must have felt, how badly he’s behaved. She might be the Queen, this persona concealing who she truly is beneath the flashes, but she’s also tried to keep him as sheltered as possible.

“And then family proved not to be what I thought they’d be,” she mumbles. “I was never against you being with a boy, although I’d have preferred someone from, let’s say, a different background,” she adds. Wilhelm scoffs; he wants to call her out on her elitism, but he’s too busy being surprised by how open she’s being. “I just wanted you to be happy.”

“Congratulations on failing, then,” Wilhelm grunts. “Guess the perfect Queen isn’t perfect after all.” Then, after a beat, “Mom?”

She’s still staring at him with fondness in her eyes, although he can spy a bit of sadness. “Yeah, Wilhelm?”

“I’m going to still be with Simon. Now that he’s forgiven me, I don’t think—”

“I should have explained to you the difference between in secret and in private,” she smiles sadly. “You’re way too young. You both are. You deserve your own privacy, away from the public. That’s what I was trying to achieve back in December.”

“You traded my privacy for Simon’s,” Wilhelm tells her. “I’m more used to the paparazzi following my every step. We threw Simon to the wolves.”

His mother sighs again. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Wilhelm. I’m sorry things went down like that. I sincerely thought it’d be easier for everyone. I’m sorry I wasn’t the mother you needed a few months ago. I’m trying now—I’m working on being the mother you deserve. But even mothers make mistakes. All I can promise is that I love you, Wilhelm, and I will always love you, no matter who you love.”

Wilhelm inhales deeply, the anxiety that had been building up during the whole conversation dissolving magically at her words. There are tears prickling at the back of his eyes; a couple escape the prison of his eyelashes when he blinks to retain them. He startles when he feels his mother’s hand caressing his face again, wiping away the saltiness.

“Will you—” his mother begins, waiting for him to open his eyes again to continue, “Will you properly introduce me to Simon and his family? Is it too forward to visit them in Bjärstad?”

He breathes in and out, trying to calm his racing heart. “I—that’s—do you really want me to?” A quick glance at her face tells Wilhelm that she’s being serious. He doesn’t know where this change of heart comes from, but he isn’t about to miss his chance at normalcy. “I’ll—I’ll ask Simon. And Linda. They’ll be thrilled.”

Inwardly, he cringes. He knows what Simon thinks of the monarchy — particularly Queen Kristina, after everything that transpired after the video was leaked — but he also knows that Linda might want to meet the parents of her son’s boyfriend.

“It’s a date, then,” his mother smiles, turning to look outside the window, effectively considering the conversation done.

Wilhelm gulps, almost choking on nothing but air, as he takes out his phone and shoots a quick text to Simon to let him know that nobody has been murdered in this ride — and to talk about his mother’s speech, allowing his astonishment to seep through his message. As expected, Simon’s words are colorful about his thoughts on Queen Kristina, but he finishes his tirade with a heart emoji and of course you’re all welcome to our house, Wille.

Simon watches as the black cars speed away from the school. His fingers still itch in the places where Wille’s fingertips have grazed him.

Neither of them had been expecting the Queen, of all people, to arrive at Hillerska to play the part of a caring mother, not after everything that’s happened — after the video and the statement and the denial and the pile of Royal duties dumped on Wille. But she's shown up at the school, she’s sequestered Wille — is it so, Simon wonders, when Wille’s gone almost willingly — and she's whisked Wille away from him, leaving Simon alone in the pathway.

When he turns around, he sees Felice staring back at him with wide eyes. He can almost hear what she's thinking as she approaches him.

"Are you okay, Simon?" she asks, voice soft and warm.

"Yes," he finds himself replying. It's not a lie, though — he doesn’t feel as bad as he did back at Christmas. At least this time he knows where he stands with Wille, he hasn't been left with a promise of love after a whole universe of lies, but a small part of his soul traitorously reminds him that Wille has left with his mother and that the Crown has already turned him against Simon once.

“Let’s go,” Felice offers.

She throws an arm around his shoulders and tries to guide him back towards the school when they all hear a ruckus nearby. They both turn around to see Sara marching on towards August, who’s got his arm surrounding Fredrika’s shoulders. Her face is red and she’s looking murderous. Simon has a sinking feeling in his gut. When Sara reaches August and Fredrika, she starts talking loudly, her voice only shaking from time to time.

“You are a bastard,” she says, loud and clear. “Everyone should know who you really are.”

August laughs — Simon’s going to kill him — as he replies, “I thought you wanted nothing to do with me?”

“That didn’t stop you from fooling around and coming back to me whenever you wanted,” she spits, the accusing words cutting through the air. She takes a deep breath. “You take advantage of people,” she continues, glaring at August. “You think because I have Asperger’s I’m stupid, but I’m not. You’re just an addict who’s always looking for his next fix. You’re just like Micke, and I hope everyone knows how much of a shit excuse of human being you are.”

Fredrika stares up at August with a frown, but he just laughs out loud. The bastard, Simon thinks.

“I should’ve told everyone!” Sara continues.

“Told everyone what?” Fredrika asks.

“August is the one who filmed and leaked the video of my brother,” Sara says. Simon cringes. He doesn’t really like being reminded of that particular part of his past, and it still stings knowing that Sara knew and chose a grant over him. But she’s now standing up for him. “He did it because he was angry that he’s so broke he needs the Crown’s help to remain in Hillerska. I have proof. I know people who also have proof. He is a criminal.”

“What?” comes the different reactions all over the crowd of students gathered to witness August’s downfall. August is becoming whiter by the second; his hand slips from Fredrika’s shoulder when she takes a step back.

“You did what?” she exclaims.

There’s a hassle surrounding them all of a sudden. August has a murderous look in his eye. Simon takes a few steps forward to keep August from even touching Sara as he lunges forward, hand stretched out as if to hit her.

“Don’t you dare,” Simon hisses. August recoils at the venom in Simon’s voice, but he’s not done. “You wanted to ruin me. You wanted to ruin Wille. You wanted to ruin my sister. This is where I draw the line, August. You won’t hurt any of us ever again.”

He then turns around, grabbing Sara’s arm blindly as he walks away as fast as he can. He catches Felice’s eye as he passes by her and Madison, and she nods at him proudly. The sounds of the crowd shouting at August for answers — Henry’s voice calling for peace as Walter tries to harangue the masses — fade the further they walk, Simon dragging his sister through the gravel until they’re far enough.

He only stops when they’re almost by the end of the pathway.

“Simon?” Sara asks wobbly. He turns to look at her — her hair is disheveled and her eyes are puffy, as she’s about to start crying. He feels a wave of intense love towards her — his older sister who’s way too kind for this world. “I’m so sorry, Simon. I wanted to be done with August so badly. I hope you can forgive me someday.”

“We’re okay,” he says, looking Sara in the eye to make her understand that he’s being truthful. “I love you, Sara.”

His sister pushes forward, hugging him tight before stepping back and awkwardly walking back to the car where their mother is waiting for them, giddiness honking to catch their attention. Simon follows suit, ignoring the way his phone chimes in his pocket as he greets his mother and jumps into the passenger’s seat. Only then, when his mother has started the car and they’re on their way back home, does he check his phone to find a text from Wille. He has to read it twice to understand the message, and even then he can’t be sure he’s not dreaming.

“Mamá,” he begins, eyes still glued to the screen. “Mamá, Wille’s mother wants to visit us in Bjärstad sometime.”

The car halts at a light, and his mother takes advantage of it to look at him. “Wille’s mother as in the Queen?” she questions. “Simon, what’s going on?”

He knows he should have been clearer with his mother — he should have told her that he’s back on dating Wille — but he also knows that she’s got his back. She’ll support him no matter what, because she wants him to be happy. “I—Wille and I, we’re, uh, dating again. And it’s going well. And he, ehm, he’s told his mom and now she wants to visit us. Apparently.” He waves the phone in front of his mother’s face. She squints at it. “Can they? Visit us, I mean.”

He can feel the moment his mother gives in; she's always been quick to understand him, and she's always taken in stride everything he's done, even if it meant turning her whole world upside down. Just like right now.

"¿Estás seguro?" his mother asks in Spanish, her voice only slightly quivering. "I'll do whatever you want me to do. But they already broke you once. I won't let them do it again," she vows.

"I'm sure, mamá," he replies. "I'm sure of Wille. This time—this time's different. I can feel it. His mother has asked to come visit us. She wouldn't have if she planned on keeping Wille from us, would she?"

She sighs. He can see her gripping the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles paling as she grapples for the correct words to say. “I guess she wouldn’t,” she acquiesces. “They can come. But I’ll need a bit of a warning. I’m not receiving the Queen of Sweden and the Prince Consort in a house with all your stuff all over the place.”

“Gracias, mamá,” he mutters, leaning in as far as the seatbelt allows him to and placing an awkward kiss on his cheek.

“What do you say we make a stop for some pizza before getting home?” his mother offers, looking at Sara on the back seat through the rearview mirror. When his sister nods, she whoops. “Pizza it is!”

Simon sits back on the passenger’s seat, a soft smile on his face, as he texts back.

The Palace feels empty without Erik. Wilhelm thought he’d be over this feeling by now, after having spent months away at Hillerska, healing his soul and building a life, but the moment he sets foot inside the hall leading to both his and Erik’s rooms — opposite to one another — his whole world begins to crumble and he feels the walls closing in on him.

He falls down on his knees, one hand up to his chest, in a shaky attempt to rub the skin through the sweater he’s wearing. Wilhelm gasps, suffocating in the middle of the halls leading to Erik’s room, feeling as though he’s going to die here.

He can’t breathe.

That’s how his parents find him, less than five minutes later — a whole eternity — unable to focus and rubbing his hand over his chest so furiously that he knows he’ll leave a mark.

“Wilhelm!” his mother exclaims, the words cutting through his haze, horrified and worried. “Wilhelm, are you okay?”

He wants to laugh as his parents help him to sit on the floor, against the wall next to Erik’s door. His hand shoots up on its own volition, landing on top of the wooden surface, fingers pressing against it. It makes him feel like he’s closer to his brother.

“Oh, Wille,” his mother mutters, sitting down beside him in a very unroyal manner. Wilhelm can’t help but notice the way the nickname has slipped into her speech, just like when he was a small child. It’s been years since she last used it. “I know you miss him so much, dear.”

He can simply nod. “Sometimes I think I’ll never get over this, and others I believe I’m already forgetting him,” he mumbles, lifting one hand to his mouth and nibbling on the tender skin of his thumb. “It hurts so much I can barely breathe.”

“I’m sorry,” his mother whispers. When Wilhelm looks up at her, he can see that she’s changed into more comfortable clothes in the short span of time they’ve been in the Palace. She’s gotten rid of her light blue dress and is wearing trousers and a sweater — nothing too comfortable, but still. “I know you think you can’t talk to us, but we’re here, Wilhelm. We’re here and we love you.”

He doesn’t know why he’s opening up to his mother — the person he thought he’d never be able to trust again — but it feels easy to just speak. So he simply sighs and begins telling her all about this last term, about how much he’s tried being a proper Crown Prince and being on top of classes and avoiding August and falling sick over and over again.

“I guess Simon has been the one taking care of you,” his father, whose presence Wilhelm had almost forgotten, says in an even voice. “Your mother’s told me about that, uh, farewell.”

Wilhelm feels the heat rising up to his face. “I—uhm, Simon’s been amazing through this all, even when we weren’t, ehm, we weren’t together.” He stammers, his voice strained. He thinks, not for the first time, that talking about this with Erik would have been easier, and the tightness in his chest feels heavier.

“Why didn’t you call us? Why didn’t anyone at school inform us that our son was sick?”

Wilhelm looks up at them, and he’s met with two pairs of concerned glances. “I asked everyone not to. And, well, Malin might have threatened the Headmistress?” When the words leave his mouth, he cringes. “But don’t—please, I don’t want to get her in any trouble. She’s been amazing and I just didn’t want you to think I’m weak—”

His mother surprises him by interrupting his tirade with a hug. It’s tight and it’s warm, and it reminds Wilhelm of long evenings in front of the fire way before his grandfather passed away and he lost his mother to the Queen. He realizes with a start that he’s always lost someone to death, and not only the one who passed away.

With his grandfather, he lost his mother, who became Queen.

With Erik, he lost himself.

He only realizes he’s crying when the first tears splash his hands. And from there it’s a river streaming down his face, shaking him to his very core, as his mother rocks him back and forth until he’s not trembling anymore. He doesn’t remember when or how he ends up in his bed, but he does, and he can hear his mother ordering people around so he isn’t disturbed.

He falls asleep at some point, and only wakes up to soft hands brushing his bangs out of his face. When he opens his eyes, he blearily sees his mother sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Good morning, son,” she greets softly. Her hand doesn’t stop its motions as he tries to sit up.

“Good—good morning,” he stutters. “What time is it?” He checks the clock on his nightstand and yelps when he sees it’s almost noon. “Shouldn’t we—”

“Don’t worry about schedules,” his mother tells him. Wilhelm blinks at her. “I’ve talked to Headmistress Lilja. Apparently you haven’t been hiding your shenanigans that well, Wilhelm.” Her words hold no bite to them, but Wilhelm cringes and recoils from her touch. She doesn’t relent, though, and her fingers follow his movements.

“I don’t—”

“She’s told me that you’ve been sleeping scarcely. That you haven’t been taking care of yourself after that incident at the beginning of term,” she continues, reminding Wilhelm of the fateful scene when his mother had shown up at Hillerska to order him to take a few days to rest. “She’s told me about an incident involving the school’s doctor?”

“We didn’t want to worry you. I’m—I didn’t want you to think I can’t do this,” he mumbles. “I know I’m not—I’m not Erik. He was perfect and I’m just trying so hard but it’s never enough. I can’t even remember half the names of the people who attend our parties!”

“Erik didn’t, either, in the beginning,” his mother confesses. She smiles softly at his confusion. “Erik was learning, just like you are. He was just better at hiding his discomfort, but that’s also something he’d learned to do while growing up. We all made sure you could be a bit more free-spirited than him, because you weren’t bound to be the next in line. That wasn’t the plan at all.”

Wilhelm feels the pang of remorse in his soul. “I know I’m not what you—”

“You’re exactly who you should be,” she tells him. “I’m sorry for everything, Wilhelm. I wish you’d believe me, but I understand you can’t. Not now. But believe me when I say you are enough.”

He sighs but says nothing.

“Erik would be so proud of you,” his mother says, voice breaking. “He was always telling me about all your accomplishments as though I wasn’t seeing them with my own two eyes, while you were growing up. It was always look, mamma, Wille did this and mama, did you know Wille managed to score a goal this morning? and I was so proud of you both, of the bond you shared. I’m so sorry you have to go through life without him, and I’m also sorry that I made you believe you needed to be more like him for me to love you. Love is unconditional, Wilhelm. Any kind of love is.”

He’s openly crying again. He knows he needed to hear those words from his mother, but he never thought he’d ever get to listen to her admitting to being wrong and apologizing. It warms his heart.

“I think we all deserve a nice and quiet Easter,” she keeps talking, after discreetly wiping tears from her face. “That’s why I have canceled all Royal events this Easter. We’ll be honest about this. Easter was Erik’s favorite season, and we’re still mourning him. We may be the Royal Family, but we’re also just a family. It’s about time that I realized it.”

And that’s how Wilhelm ends up spending his Easter break strolling around the gardens and leaving his room to terrorize the cooks at the kitchens with his stealing of treats, snacks and candies. He spends his days texting Simon and staring out a window, talking to Erik in his mind until all that’s left for him to listen to is his own breathing.

Officially, the whole Royal Family is honoring Erik’s memory by taking a step back and allowing themselves a week of mourning and grieving and healing. And that’s what they do. He talks to his parents for the first time in years, openly and unabashed. He recoils when his own words come out harsh, or when he says something his mother doesn’t like, but he powers through it anyway, trying his best to be understood. He can almost hear Erik’s voice whispering in his ear I’m proud of you, little brother.

It comes as not a surprise at all when the Palace issues a statement about how Wilhelm will be stepping down from his Crown Prince duties for the duration of his boarding at Hillerska to focus on his studies. Wilhelm weeps on the phone with Simon and Felice on a three-way call when his mother gives him the draft for his approval. She sits down in his bed and tells him that she’s proud of him, and it’s almost as if Erik’s right behind her, grinning down at him.

And when he gets out of a black car right outside of Simon’s house, promptly followed by his parents — sticking out like sore thumbs — Wilhelm knows he’s won. He’s won his life back, and he’s learned that he always had his parents’ love — as misguided as it was, before — and he can’t help but relish in that feeling.

He still kisses Simon when he opens the door, right there in that space that’s not public but neither it is secluded, and he can feel his heart beating wildly. He can feel alive.

And he knows, deep down, that Erik will always be proud of him.