ett • privilege, not punishment

Wilhelm

The music is so loud, he can feel the bass thrum in his teeth as he traipses down the stairs. The atmosphere is thick and saturated with the mixed scents of perfume, sweat and alcohol as he weaves through writhing river of bodies cluttering the school hallway. His own head is light, but his limbs feel clumsy and heavy as he drags them along.

"Now this is a party," he hears Isak say from up ahead, leading a line of his friends through to a quieter spot. "Eh, Wille?"

Wilhelm has barely opened his mouth to respond before a massive shoulder slams into him, sending his world spinning. The music seems to get louder, if possible, as a small crowd gathers to spectate.

Blinking the stars out of his eyes, he blindly swats away at the person in front of him. He doesn't know if his body is tingling, or if there are actually hands holding him up like the ropes around a boxing ring.

He feels it in his fingertips, in his bones; the crowd, intoxicated high schoolers, chanting: "Fight! Fight! Fight!"

There is a brief sensation of stubble at his knuckles before they connect with hard bone - perhaps a jaw - eliciting a loud "Oooh!" from the ring of wolves howling all around Wilhelm. He sees a stocky, tattooed student - maybe a senior - rubbing his cheek and glaring daggers at the prince.

Hey, a voice whispered in his head. That's me. Haha.

Somewhere past the haziness, Wilhelm's stomach goes cold with terror.

It happens so quickly. Two large hands grasp his leather jacket and sharply yank him forward, and pain explodes across the left side of Wilhelm's face. His vision is peppered with stars. Stars, or cell phone flashlights. He can't tell the difference.

He can vaguely hear Isak and Oleg trying to break the fight apart, yelling for people to mind their own business. The older student locks his eyes on Wilhelm, charging at him like a bulldozer and tackles him to the floor.

Chaos.

Wilhelm can feel his ribs throbbing with each hit they take, feel the cold tile digging into his shoulder blades; he hears the roars of students egging them on, and the attempts of his friends to tame the torrent. He even catches a glimpse of metal - gold, maybe - right before it strikes his eye.

His world goes black. But he welcomes the silence.

•••

"We don't have many options."

"Granted, Mama, it is not an ideal situat-"

"There is no alternative! Look at the damage this one thing has done to us, we'll be ruined if he's given even one more chance to step out of line." A shaky exhale. A steady inhale. "How I wish he were more like you, darling."

"How about Hillerska?" comes a soft, familiar voice. Erik.

"Goodness, no. Imagine the disasters he would cause there. I wouldn't survive it."

Wilhelm tries to open his eyes, but his left eye refuses to obey. He sends a thought to his curled fist - open - and his weak fingers do what little they can. His heart begins to thunder in his ears.

"Mama," Erik says softly. "Wilhelm is his own man. He will make you proud, as I have strived to."

A wave of nausea overwhelms Wilhelm's senses. He buries his nose in the pillow. It's so soft, he thinks to himself, before he is pulled back under.

•••

Erik is sitting by his right side, a little smile tugging at his thin lips. "I hope you feel better than you look."

"I'm fine," Wilhelm hears himself say, finding that though his response is perfunctory, it is not entirely a lie. At least he can sit up without regurgitating last evening's meal. "How are you?"

Erik doesn't respond immediately, searching his little brother's eyes doubtfully. "You were out for a whole day," he says slowly. "Do you remember what happened?"

Wilhelm nods. It's all coming back in loud, bizarre chunks, but he recalls the drunken fight that had ensued at his high school. "It was nothing, it's all fine. Just some guy looking to pick on someone."

"So he chose the prince of Sweden?" Erik's eyebrows are raised as he shifts his weight closer to Wilhelm. It's faint, but Erik's jaw clenches once. Twice. Wilhelm furrows his eyebrows, because it is all he can think to do.

"What's the matter?" he asks. "Erik, what's happened? What is it?"

Erik inhales sharply, touching Wilhelm's arm. "Wille-"

"Darling, so good to see you up." The guards at the door bow as Queen Kristina enters the room holding a plate of biscuits, walking straight to Wilhelm's bed. She sits on his left, caressing his hair.

"Hello, Mama," Wilhelm smiles, leaning into her familiar touch, but wincing as his left cheek prickles with pain.

"Careful, you're still healing, darling," says his mother, "You won't be nearly camera-ready tomorrow if you bother your wounds like that."

What?

"Why...Why do I need to be camera ready tomorrow?" Wilhelm inquires, sitting up straighter as his gaze locks on Erik's.

"You made a mistake engaging with that student," she replies, straightening out her wrinkle-free baby blue skirt. "Every spectator either streamed the fight live or recorded and posted it online."

"Okay." Wilhelm raises his sore fist carefully, biting on his thumbnail. His mother's stare seems to ice over before his eyes. "What?"

"Wilhelm." His mother's tone is serious. "You are not a normal schoolboy."

He sighs. He's heard this a thousand times. "Why do I need to be camera-ready tomorrow, Erik?" He turns to his brother, but Erik's eyes are locked on the floor. Wilhelm faces his mother. "Mama?"

"Wilhelm, you are going to be addressing this matter publicly tomorrow," says Queen Kristina, "and you are going to apologize for your carelessness."

"What? Ma-"

"And," she presses on, pulling out a white sheet of paper and handing it to him, "you will not stray from this script."

"What is the script?" Wilhelm mutters angrily as he skims the page until his eyes come crashing to a stop.

private tutoring

He jumps to a few lines down.

...resume my studies within the palace as part of my responsibility to the Crown...

"What is this?" Wilhelm bursts out angrily. "You can't take me out of school!" He sees Erik's head fall into his hands tiredly. "You allowed them to do this?"

Erik does not meet his eyes.

"We can and we have taken you out of public school," Queen Kristina says icily. "You will issue this public apology and start your tutoring from next week."

"I don't want tutoring!" Wilhelm sputters, "I want my friends and my school! My whole life is there!"

"Your life is and always will be here," she says with a tone of finality. "It is best for all of us - including you - to adjust at the earliest. You are a prince before anything else. It's time to start acting like one."

Wilhelm stares at his bitten-down nail beds. Anger bubbles inside his throat, but he keeps his mouth shut. It begins to pool in his eyes instead as he glares at his mother, jaw clenched.

"Oh, Wilhelm," she purrs, reaching forward and embracing him gently, his head falling onto her shoulder. A hot tear trails down onto her exquisite dress before he can wipe it away, and he sniffles. "It'll be okay. It's not the end of the world." She pulls away, taking him by the shoulders. "Being a prince is a privilege, not a punishment. Remember that."

She presses a kiss to Wilhelm's forehead and leaves the room after bidding Erik good night, who has not yet uttered a word. The two sit in silence, save for the ticking of the clock on the dresser. Wilhelm looks up at his ceiling, about three stories high. He wishes he could drift right through it and into the night air, where it is quieter than his mind. Anywhere but here.

"Wille," says Erik finally.

"I don't want to leave school," Wilhelm chokes out. "'It wasn't even my fault, Erik." A tear drags down his left cheek, stinging his skin on its way down. "I didn't ask for this."

Erik's eyes crinkle with sympathy, with pain. He reaches out with his hand, ever so gently swiping at Wilhelm's cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. He scoots forward and lets Wilhelm bury himself in the crook of his neck, shutting out everything but the sound of Erik's heartbeat, his steady breaths. Wilhelm feels a hand in his hair, and a light kiss against his temple.

"None of us did," Erik whispers.

•••

Simon

"Ay, mi amor, you're outgrowing me! I want a rematch."

"Mama, you're not going to win," Simon laughs, trapping a chip between his teeth. He tips his head back, shouting into the hallway. "Sara, hurry up, I need to take a shower!"

"In a minute!" Sara calls from inside the bathroom. "Ma, tell Simon to mind his own business!"

"Simon," their mother says sternly, but he can see her smiling.

"Ugh, okay," he relents, "but then you do the dishes today!"

"As if you ever do them at all, Your Majesty," Sara croons mockingly.

"Shut up!"

"You're so brave when there's a door between us, Simon! Say that to my face!"

"I would if you didn't insist on being a diva and taking ten minute showers everyday!"

"Pig!"

"That's enough, both of you," their mother interjects, rising from the sofa. "Simon, por favor, put the chips back inside. Sara, finish up, I need your help in the kitchen, cariña. Venga."

"Sí, Mama," Simon mumbles with a smile, snatching up another chip before putting the bowl in the sink. "I'll rinse it later." His mother wraps her arms around him, kissing his shoulder fondly before returning to the sofa.

Not two minutes later, Sara emerges in the hallway, wrapped in a towel with her hair wet. Simon looks up from his phone, frowning when he sees her face wrought with unease. "Sara?" he asks, walking up to her and taking both her arms in his hands. "¿Qué pasa? ¿Estás bien?"

"There's no more water," Sara says tearfully, her face crumpling with guilt. "I was almost done anyway, but then it just shut off. I don't know what happened."

"Mom? The water supply shut off when Sara was taking a shower," Simon calls.

"What? Why?" their mother frowns, standing up. Her eyebrows furrow, until she gasps and smacks her forehead. "Simon. Dame los correos que recibimos hoy."

Simon nods, walking over to the kitchen counter looking for that day's mail. A small pile of white envelopes, including two ads for preschools, sit there waiting for him.

"Just as I thought," his mother sighs, worry etched into the lines of her face as she flips through the letters. "The water bill is overdue by a few days. Lo siento, Sara," she apologizes, "it's my fault. Not yours." She rubs the outsides of her arms. "We only had enough to pay for electricity and gas."

"But Simon," says Sara sadly, "you can't take a shower now. I'm so sorry." She bites her lip, hugging herself.

"Are you kidding?" Simon laughs. "Stop it, both of you. I don't mind one bit. Bathing is another chore. If anything, you've done me a favor. Besides-" he smirks, "who really suffers if I don't shower? ¿Yo o tu?"

His mother smiles, but her eyes are heavy and sorrowful. Simon presses his lips to her cheek, leaching some of the sadness from her eyes like black ink from white tile. "Te quiero mucho. It doesn't matter. Pay it tomorrow. I may not need my daily spa, but Sara, on the other hand..." He snickers.

"Skunk pits," she growls.

"Drama queen," he coos back.

"Ay, mis hijos," their mother laughs, wrapping them both in a tight embrace. "My love, light, and everything else. My world-" she kisses Simon, "-and my heartbeat." She kisses Sara.

"Mama, you're so emotional," Sara grumbles, burrowing further into her shoulder.

"Explains why you're so sensitive," Simon chimes in, his voice muffled by their mother's hair. Sara whacks the back of his head.

They stay like this for a minute. Then:

"You still have to help me in the kitchen."

Simon and Sara groan in unison.

•••

"Imagine having to do this every time you get into a scuffle at school. Shit, I would go mad."

"Ayub would go mad regardless, but, yeah, it's fucking crazy," says Rosh, picking at shoes with a toothpick. "It wasn't even his fault. The other guy started it." A box of half-eaten pizza sits on Simon's chair and Rosh's stinking football jersey is drying on his windowsill.

Simon doesn't care, of course. Best friends have rights that even family members don't.

They are sitting in front of his computer, watching the live broadcast of Prince Wilhelm's apology to the public about his behavior at some high school party. Simon has seen the videos, of course, and Rosh is right - the prince did virtually nothing until the other boy rammed right into him.

"...am ashamed of my clumsy behavior at this party," Prince Wilhelm is saying. "I've disappointed my family - my mother, my father, my brother, but most of all, myself. I apologize to all the students involved, and think that..."

"Pizza?" Simon asks the others, holding out the box. Ayub passes, but Rosh takes another piece, both their eyes glued to the screen. He watches them intently, and after a minute, he laughs.

"What?" Ayub laughs self consciously. "Hey, bitchass. What's up?"

"No, no, it's just..." Simon chuckles, "you're both so invested. Shit, it's just live press. It's not Princess Diana's wedding."

"No, because Princess Diana was way hotter," Ayub snorts. Rosh seesaws her hand.

"The prince isn't horrible on a scale of 'ugly' to 'perfection'," she states. "What does the gay boy think?"

Simon stares at the screen. "Oh, wow."

Rosh and Ayub burst out laughing. "You'd think he was in love, man," Rosh coughs out, high-fiving Ayub.

"Wh- no, no, imbéciles," Simon groans, reaching over and increasing the volume. "The prince isn't going to a high school anymore."

"I have discussed the matter with my family and we have...we have collectively decided..." Simon frowns, noticing Rosh and Ayub doing the same. Something is wrong with Prince Wilhelm. He's beginning to stammer and grow unfocused, and now his hand is adjusting his tie but his palm is pressed flat against his chest.

"We have...We've...decided that I shall..." Prince Wilhelm's breathing turns heavy, and he closes his eyes momentarily. Simon realizes, with something of a jolt, that if they were in the same school, they would be in the same grade. And suddenly, he thinks that if he were in Prince Wilhelm's place, he would panic, too.

"I shall be continuing my studies here in the palace," the prince finally says, "where I can become someone my family and I are proud of."

The broadcast ends. Simon, Rosh and Ayub look at each other, but it's as if no one knows what to say.

"Well, I'm glad I'm not a prince." says Ayub finally.

"Yeah, no shit," replies Simon, chewing his pizza. "No shit."

Rosh bites a massive chunk of her slice, deliberately chewing in Simon's face. "No shit, imbéciles," she imitates Simon, cackling. "Thinks he's better than us because he's bilingual."

"That's because," Simon swallows and bites his pizza again, chewing open-mouthed. "I am." He grins, opening his mouth wide, revealing the mess in his mouth with glee.

"He is," Ayub chimes in helpfully. "Bjärstad would suck without him."

"Asshole," Rosh chucks a pillow at Ayub, making Simon cry "Aha!" triumphantly.

Outside, in the living room, Simon's mother laughs quietly to herself. "Kids," she mutters, shaking her head.

•••

Wilhelm

"Good morning, Prins. Can I get you anything to drink?"

Wilhelm shakes his head. "No, thank you," is what he tries for. A strangled cough escapes his mouth instead.

The attendant smiles politely. "Very well, Prins."

The moment the attendant is gone, Wilhelm slouches and collapses onto his bed. Do the work. Rolling off, he stands in front of the mirror. There is a short gash right below his hairline, and the left side of his face is splotchy with bruised patches of purplish-red skin. His hand brushes the pimples on his "good" side, tentatively.

I don't want this. I don't want myself.

"Privilege, not punishment," he tells himself, carding his fingers through his hair. He takes one breath, and steps out of his room.

The chamber is enormous. An ornate ceiling hovers around four stories above Wilhelm, and all the walls are covered with exquisite portraits of his forefathers and distant relatives whose names are less and less familiar to him each day. He vaguely remembers thinking he'd never see a room bigger than this in his life.

The moment he enters, a wall of journalists rise from their seats. All he sees are tall shadows, his family on the couch in the center, and cameras. So many cameras.

The room is suddenly shrinking - it's too small. It's tiny. And Wilhelm can't breathe.

"Smile, dear," he hears his mother mutter. "They see everything."

His lungs scream for more air, his neck itching from the buttons closed too tight around his throat. He grits his teeth and grins as wide as he can.

He takes a seat, but is asked to switch with his brother at the very last moment. Erik dashes him a quick reassuring smile before returning to his unnatural calm state. A shuddering breath leaves Wilhelm's mouth, and he waits.

"Whenever you are ready, Prins Wilhelm."

He almost laughs.

•••

did i just start another book without updating precious? the johnlock fanfic that i have at least seven chapters' worth of notes just sitting there for?

no why would you think that get the fuck out

anyway

here's this. my latest obsession.

enjoy.

~A.M.

Bạn đang đọc truyện trên: AzTruyen.Top