Wilhelm

Instagram is a deadly place.

It's a minefield swinging like a pendulum, dispersing global input on every issue on the planet. Today, Wilhelm is the subject of discussion. He lies on his side as he scrolls through post after post, his headphones around his neck. His eyes, made bright by the screen, cling to every word.

cherrbloossoom tbh i don't think there was even a fight they're just overprotective lmao staged
———— 5 replies

ravi.iyer ouch. that headbutt had to hurt
              imanassholeirl literally hahaha

zhangisamoron yes. i'm sure the prince is suffering in a bigass castle with a room big enough for 20 people but go off
              pedro.noviak and then they say we whine too much

itskaylaaaa_98 ok but give me his hair it's so silky wtf
————98 replies

Wilhelm frowns, consciously tucking his fringe behind his ear. Then his eyes snag on another comment.

jeremylukasiakkkk poor guy. he's so anxious just leave him alone. live your life prins wilhelm 👑  i'm sorry you're going through this
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              marinadelagarza ☑️ VERDADDD
              ketchupandsalsa honestly facts
              bisex_u_a_l he clearly wasn't part of the decision. it's like he doesn't even control his own life

Wilhelm's thumb stills.

i'm sorry you're going through this

so anxious

wasn't part of the decision

leave him alone

he doesn't even control his own life

Wilhelm's eyes are not reading anymore.

leave him alone

He tucks his knees into his chin, wrapping his arms around his torso. There's something empty, hollow inside him, growing out of his spine. His pulse is thundering in his ears.

leave him alone

"Your Highness?"

"Leave me alone," he whispers shakily, but it is barely audible, as though he is hearing his own voice echoing back to him from the depths of a lonely cavern. He tightens his arms around himself till he cannot feel his fingertips anymore.

"Prince Wil-"

"I said leave me alone!" he screams, raw and guttural, springing into an upright position, sending his phone tumbling to the floor. Frederik, an attendant to his mother, looks only mildly fazed, although Wilhelm detects a hint of alarm in his eyes.

"Yes, sir, of course," Frederik says, bowing as he hurriedly leaves the room. Wilhelm feels his chest heaving, his face heating up. He turns to his left and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror; disheveled, feral, unhinged. His normally mild brown eyes are glassy and blazing, his hair unkempt. No wonder Frederik left as quickly as he did; Wilhelm can't even blame him.

He looks around his bed. Lush red carpet runs twenty or thirty feet in each direction, with a wardrobe area in one corner of the room, closed off by a screen. There is only one photograph framed on a mahogany desk in front of one of three great windows. It is a shrunken formal portrait of Wilhelm's family, and no one in the picture is smiling.

He sighs, resting his elbows on his knees, dropping his head. His throat stings. Leave me alone, a voice in his head murmurs.

Then, quieter: What am I asking for?

•••

"Wilhelm."

No answer.

"Wilhelm, get up."

"Why." It does not sound like a question from his mouth, but he's sure his mother will entertain him.

"Darling, it's past noon," she coos, sitting by his bedside as she begins to stroke his hair.

"There's nothing I have to do today. I want to sleep, Mama, please." Wilhelm turns on his side, his back against his mother's thigh.

He hears Queen Kristina clear her throat. "Wilhelm, I have something important to discuss with you. Please sit up, so we can have a conversation."

Wilhelm squeezes his closed eyes even tighter, feeling crusts grate against his eyelashes. He sighs, giving himself three seconds. One, t-

"Wilhelm," comes his mother's voice, insistent and impatient.

"I'm up, I'm up," he groans, hands raised in surrender. His bare chest recoils from the cold world outside his duvet, and he rubs the sleep from his eyes. "God, give me a minute."

He rests against the headboard.

"What did you want to talk about?" he asks, exhaling before his mind switches into the emotionally-bare-prince version of himself. His fingers interlace themselves in his lap as he looks at Queen Kristina expectantly.

"You're almost seventeen," she begins. "I think - your father and I think - it is time we showed the public a bit about you."

Wilhelm furrows his eyebrows as Queen Kristina continues.

"You leaving public high school-"

"Being taken out of high school against my will," he corrects her evenly.

"-will raise questions, and the media will be relentless. It's best to throw the dogs a bone, even if to keep them at bay for a while."

"You're being too...too vague, Mama," Wilhelm says almost apologetically, his brain moving like slush. "What do you want me to do?"

"Your image is currently that of a reckless, aggressive teenage boy," she explains. "We must reconstruct your narrative from the top down. Give them your personality on a platter."

A beat. Wilhelm brings him thumb up to his mouth, biting on the nail. "What are you suggesting we tell them?"

"Oh, we make it personal. We can show them your thriving social life, for example."

"Maybe, if I had one," Wilhelm shrugs. He gulps down the urge to grin.

"Don't you think it's time you had more..." she waves a hand, "mature interactions? For serious commitments in the future?"

Wilhelm lets his eyes fall shut. Of course this was about-

"Like Felice Ehrencrona, for example," his mother tries, smiling with all her teeth. "She's a sweet girl, likes horseriding just like you, and-"

"And is also from a pretty family and would look great on our official portraits," Wilhelm drawls coldly, clenching his jaw.

"Wilhelm, come now," Queen Kristina watches him roll off the bed in nothing but his sweatpants, "she is a perfectly decent candidate!"

"What is this?" Wilhelm rolls his eyes. "I'm not a competition to be won, Mama, I don't even know her."

"But you could," she pushes on, inexplicably, "it would take minutes to set up, I-"

"I've barely left school and now you want me to think about marriage?" he feels his pulse begin to thunder again, but this time it's in his temples, almost egging his rage on. "Don't you think I could have done with a little time? God, give me - give me a damn minute! Fuck!" He grinds his teeth, running a hand through his hair as he looks around his room. Why doesn't she just try? Just try to empathize?

"Wilhelm!" her eyes widen sternly at his language.

"So that's it, is it?" he bites, "hmm? I'm a full-grown adult or a kid on a leash only when it's convenient for you, is that it?"

"No, dear, I-"

"Just get out, Mama," he pleads, almost exhausted, as though just her sitting here is leaching his strength away, letting it soak into the mattress and its several sheets. "Get out of my room." In five long strides, he is at his door, holding it open. "Please, Your Highness," he spits, his voice dripping with venom.

Queen Kristina opens her mouth and shuts it, wordlessly, rising from the bed. He does not even grace his mother with a look as he shuts the door behind her.

Give me a minute, he prays to no one at all, because he knows no one is listening. Just give me a minute.

•••

The sky is a violent shade of cobalt, streaked with pink and orange. Wilhelm imagines the cold breeze outside, since his windows cannot be opened due to the safety hazards. He sits at his desk, watching the wind tickle the last leaves of the trees growing on the palace ground.

Sunsets have always calmed Wilhelm's nerves; the idea that today is over, that tomorrow has not been tainted yet by gloved hands and sickly sweet smiles, that tonight promises the solitude he has been deprived of all day. He feels his heartbeat even out as his fingers tap the mahogany tabletop, a pen sitting idle by a blank piece of paper.

He sighs, massaging his temple. He hasn't spoken to Oleg, or Isak, or any of the others since the night of the party. He doesn't know what he would say. Oh, I'm just going to be put under house arrest because I couldn't be a good boy at school. How are you doing?

How can his mother not see his misery? And if she sees it, how can she possibly ignore it?

Tap tap. Someone makes two sharp, light knocks at the door.

Only one person knocks on Wilhelm's door. "Come in, Erik," he calls, putting away the pen and paper as Erik walks in, perfect as ever. He never has a hair out of place, a single crease on his shirt. Wilhelm smiles at his brother. "What's up?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to pop in," says Erik smoothly, "see how you're..." his eyes glide to Wilhelm's bed, his sheets strewn about. "...doing."

Wilhelm clears his throat, suddenly insecure about how messy his bed is. "I'm good," he says. "Just thinking."

"Frederik said you wanted to be by yourself," Erik clips, walking over to the window with his hands clasped behind his back. "You've been in all day. Have you eaten anything?"

"Nej," Wilhelm replies, sighing as he joins Erik by the curtain, but not stepping into the light just yet. For a moment, he just looks at his brother; the chiseled cheekbones, the ever-present dimple to the left of his mouth so it looks like he finds everything just a bit amusing, the straight slope of his nose, his chestnut brown eyes, awash with sunset orange. "I wasn't hungry."

"Mama and Papa had to go to Drottningholm," Erik scratches his chin. Light stubble. "They've been called to attend to some serious family matters."

"So suddenly?" Wilhelm furrows his eyebrows. "Is everything okay?"

"Oh, ja, it's fine, I'm sure," Erik says, breaking into a smile. His eyes, that have been looking so far past the horizon, now skim the ebony frame of the window. Wilhelm finally joins him, and they stare into the skies, now turning a deeper shade of indigo.

"I think you need a breather," Erik breaks the silence.

"Hm?" Wilhelm looks across at him. Erik's gaze slides over to him almost conspiratorially, as though laughing at a private joke, just between them. It warms Wilhelm's chest.

"They're not coming back tonight." Erik grins. "Let's do something."

"What do you mean?" asks Wilhelm, smiling in spite of himself.

"Have you really never snuck out of the palace before, Wille?"

"What? No!"

"Well," Erik shrugs, "tonight's the night. I'm calling August, I'll tell him to meet us at the gates."

"Erik-"

"Oh, and dress warm, for god's sake," Erik wags a finger, "we don't want to have too much fun."

Wilhelm spreads his arms, blanching. "We can't-"

"Oh, sure we can, sure we can, Wille," his brother dismisses his concern, squeezing his shoulder, "it's going to be a load of fun, I promise you."

"Erik!" Wilhelm hears himself laughing. The burn in his cheeks is unfamiliar.

"You'll see, I promise you!" Erik claps his hands. "I'm not letting you turn seventeen without doing this at least once," he says firmly, spinning on his perfect polished heel and heading to the door. "Meet me outside my room in fifteen minutes."

"Okay," Wilhelm grins, nodding, "okay. See you."

Erik leaves, but pokes his head back in. "Oi. I love you."

Wilhelm smiles. "I love you, too, Erik. Get out."

Erik winks at him and leaves the room. It is suddenly very quiet. Walking to his wardrobe, Wilhelm quickly strips off his sweatpants, picking out a dark pair of jeans instead. He shrugs on a well-tailored beige jacket, and then a thick, dark winter coat. At the very last second, he decides to wrap a scarf around his neck. For some reason, he finds the sound of the fabric strangely comforting.

He starts towards the door, but catches sight of the paper sticking out of the desk drawer. He bites on his lip, lost in thought. The air is motionless, and suddenly he does not want to be.

Rushing to his chair, Wilhelm grabs a pencil and retrieves the paper. Light, broad strokes form an outline as he tries to recall the proportions; angular nose, chiseled cheeks, proud lips, dimple on the left. He shades the hollows below the nose, cheeks and jaw, until he is satisfied with the rough sketch. Folding it into quarters, he tucks it into the last drawer of his table and leaves his room.

The corridors are longer than he remembers. Perhaps that's what a day of staying inside does to you.

Erik stands outside his ornate white-and-gold door, dressed in a hoodie and track pants. Out of the corner of his eye, Wilhelm sees Frederik round the corner. Panicking, he grabs Erik, but his arm falls limp when Frederik hands his brother a set of keys. He watches them exchanging a nod, and mentally smacks his forehead. Of course this is how Erik has done this before.

"Tack, Fredo," Erik smiles, patting Frederik's arm, and stepping to the side. "Come on, Wilhelm."

"Please be careful, Your Grace," comes Frederik's voice, causing both brothers to turn around. "The queen would have my head if she ever got wind of me helping you both put yourselves in danger."

"I have it under control." Erik says firmly, surprising Wilhelm, "There's no reason for you to worry. Thank you, you're dismissed."

Wilhelm can practically see the protest clawing its way up Frederik's throat. He can also see him swallow it wordlessly, and press his lips into a thin smile.

"Very good, Your Highness," he clips, turning on his heel and walking away.

Wilhelm turns to Erik, meeting his eyes. Three seconds, and they dissolve into a fit of silent laughter, bent over in the middle of the hall. Red in the face and wheezing, Erik shushes him, guiding him to a smaller door at the end of the corridor that is hidden by a heavy velvet curtain. Wilhelm watches attentively as the key clicks into the lock with a satisfying shick and bids them entry.

The tunnels are cool and dry, made of ancient stone from the seventeenth century. It is a straight path to the outside - in no time, Erik is helping Wilhelm out of the tunnel exit, and they are standing twenty feet away from the palace gates - and in the blind spot of all the security cameras, Wilhelm notes.

"I was beginning to think you'd been murdered along the way," comes a thick voice from behind them. Wilhelm sees Erik's face split into a massive grin, illuminated by the light of the half-moon.

"That would not be a tragedy," Erik laughs, greeting a boy with a tight embrace. Wilhelm sees the greasy, dark curls, and the sunglasses - even though it's nighttime - and recognizes him as August, his brother's best friend and their second cousin.

"I mean, I could probably get away with it," he laughs, his eyes falling on Wilhelm. "Wille, är det du? My god, you've gotten so big." August grins at him, a blinding white smile in the dark. Wilhelm resists the urge to swat his sweaty hand away as he pats his cheek, once, twice, thrice. "Looking good."

"Thanks for coming," Erik nods at August, who rolls his eyes dismissively in response.

"Anything for you, bro," he loops his arm around Erik, who plants a good-natured kiss by August's ear in response. Wilhelm shoves his hands into his pockets as they start to walk, casting his eyes up to the stars.

•••

Simon

"Adios, mama," Simon calls, not waiting for his mother to reply as he shuts the front door behind him. It's cold out, but a smiles touches his lips as he notices the specks of glitter twinkling in the strip of night sky between his building and their neighbors'. He sighs as he adjusts his hoodie, his skin chafing against the new fabric; maroon and yellow, with a logo on the left side.

A cloud of fog escapes his lips, and he rubs his hands together, blowing into them for warmth.

Walking past a diner, he finds himself at a hub of restaurants and bars. He jogs down to Jakov's; everyone is dressed in expensive jackets that he imagines keeps them more than comfortably warm, and, unlike Simon, they are there to have a nice time. Find someone to spend the night with, maybe.

Not like him. He's willing to bet anything that no one else is there on work.

He straightens his spine, working up his energy and trying a smile on for size. He stops, running his hands through his hair and checking his appearance in the reflection of a window. Smile, shake your head, smile. There it is.

"Hola, hola, hola," he announces, pushing the double doors of the kitchen open with both hands, beaming at the cooks in the midst of their process. People shout greetings to him, some just share smiles and continue chopping their onions.

"Ursäkta, sorry, coming through," Simon mutters, meandering through the waves of bustling workers. "Tja, Ronald! How you doing? Martol, how's the sister, man? Good, good! Hey, how are you?"

Just another day in the life.

"Simme!" comes a booming voice from up ahead. Simon grins; Albus has always been more than kind to him, allowing him to take food home to his family free of cost on several occasions. Although Albus once terrified him - six foot four dinosaur that he is - Simon is now fond of his scraggly salt-and-pepper beard, his flushed cheeks, his large, calloused hands that have only ever known dough and cutlery.

"How are you, Albus?" he laughs, embracing Albus.

"Como siempre, señor," Albus winks back, patting his shoulder. "How's Linda?"

"Your Spanish is improving, and she's all good," Simon replies, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his purple hoodie and teetering on the balls of his feet.

"Cool, cool. Your stuff is all on stage already."

Simon perks up. "Alright. Let's get this party started?"

"Yeah?" Albus shoots back, high-fiving him.

"Yeah," Simon laughs, taking the four stairs up to a small raised platform in the centre of the restaurant . On it rests a piano and two guitars, an electric and an acoustic, along with two microphone stands.

"Hey, good evening, everybody," Simon announces into the mic, earning a few hoots from the audience. "How we feeling tonight?"

A mixture of cheers and "yeah!" fills the air, and Simon tastes it at the back of his throat as he inhales. He chuckles, turning to the side and removing his maroon and yellow hoodie to reveal a simple purple T-shirt underneath. Taking a deep blue acoustic guitar by the neck, he returns to the mic to find the customers looking back at him, waiting. Like they're watching their favorite movie for the fiftieth time and still expect something new, something brilliant to happen.

This. This feeling. It is a kind of home Simon doesn't need to take out a mortgage for in order for it to take care of him.

"Let's go," he purrs into the mic, feeling a smirk creep onto his lips as he tosses the strap behind his head, briefly checking the tuning of the guitar. He strums a simple A minor. "Ooh. You ready?"

"Whoo!" someone yells. Another voice crows "let's go, Simon!" from the far back.

"Enjoy your meal," Simon grins, licking his bottom lip. "One, two, three, four," he mumbles, and starts strumming.

"Ooh," he sings. "And though I never got her name, or time to find out anything, I loved her just the same."

•••

Wilhelm

Right this minute, under the stars, in the cool night air, Wilhelm hates everything.

He doesn't understand. Why does August need to tag along? Erik is laughing harder than Wilhelm has ever seen him do, and neither him nor August seem to notice Wilhelm falling behind, hands balled up in his coat pockets, his face sitting in his scarf sour and brooding.

They are in what seems like a shadier area than what Wilhelm is used to. Nothing is out of the ordinary, though, save for the absence of people. A barren, skeletal place. His arms snake around his torso.

He watches August and Erik. He's never taken to August very much, but he can see that he means a great deal to Erik; they laugh and grin and shove each other around like one of them wasn't going to inherit the entire country. And suddenly, Wilhelm's heart is pumping sickly, unexplainable green envy through his veins.

He's so lost in thought that he doesn't notice August and Erik turn a corner up ahead. Wilhelm wanders through the quiet, like the only creature left in the ocean. Slow, alone, trapped in deafening silence.

"Spare a bit for a meal, mister," comes a voice right behind him; his breath catches as he stumbles, turning to the source of the voice.

She must be maybe twenty years old. Her brown hair is streaked with purple and blonde, her long legs covered in fishnet stockings. She wears a sheer black blouse, leaving very little to the imagination. Her makeup may have made her beautiful at some point, but now it only highlights the exhaustion in the shadowed hollows of her face.

"I'm...sorry," says Wilhelm, his tongue leaden as he pats down his body, "I don't have anything to give you."

She swallows her disappointment, nodding, and Wilhelm hates himself. Royalty cannot carry loose change around, his mother says, it is beneath us.

Being able to help people is beneath us?

"You are the prins, are you not?" she asks suddenly, her mascara-stained eyes wide and inquisitive.

He could lie. He could make up an identity right there.

"Yes," he hears himself say, "that's right." This girl has probably had her share of unfair deception. She didn't need him to add onto it.

"I figured Prince Erik would bring you along soon. We see him around here so often, it seemed strange that you were never with him. It was always that other guy."

Ever so slightly, Wilhelm clenches his jaw. Envy.

"Oona! Oona! Where are you? Oona!"

The girl looks to the right, searching for the voice that called out for her, apparently. Wilhelm hears the panicked cry and wonders what's happened, for someone to shriek like that.

"I'm here!" Oona calls. Emerging from a building Wilhelm had assumed to be abandoned, a girl who looks no older than twelve sprints down to them, briefly widening her eyes at Wilhelm before whispering in Oona's ear.

"My mother," she says simply, barely concealing the tremor that breaks the calm of her voice with uneven ripples. "It's my mother."

She runs into the building after the little girl. Wilhelm bounces uncertainly on the balls of his feet before following her.

The first thing to hit him is the smell. Starkly different from the perfumed halls of the palace, this place smells like a thousand different things - laundry, urine, shampoo, food. Wilhelm doesn't even have enough room to walk in a straight path; the floor is packed with people asleep in sleeping bags scattered haphazardly. A mother snores with a baby tucked in next to her. Wilhelm can't keep his jaw from falling open as he passes them by.

"Mamma," he hears Oona say as she rushes to a woman's bedside. A strange itching at the back of his mind tells him he's not supposed to be here. Shh, he tells himself.

The woman couldn't have been over sixty years old, her brown hair streaked with grey. Currently, the breaths were rattling in and out of her so delicately Wilhelm was afraid she wouldn't be able to sustain a conversation. He takes a step forward, acutely aware of the heads popping out and turning in his direction.

"Oona, I'm sorry, darling," the sick woman says. Tears slide down Oona's face, and suddenly Wilhelm wants to be anywhere but here. Not just because this is much too intimate for him to witness, but because he is sure she will not live much longer. Everyone in this room knows she is about to die.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help you, Mamma, I'm sorry," Oona cries harder now, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Mamma! I'm sorry!" She is yelling now, hunched over on her knees as her mother squeezes her hand. "I'm so sorry, I love you, just five more minutes, please - I - I don't know anything, I can't..."

Wilhelm's eyes prickle with heat. He catches a tear hastily, before anyone else sees. The younger girl stands off to the side, her face devoid of emotion, her eyes vacant. Wilhelm is beyond puzzled.

"Mamma?" comes Oona's panicked voice, and Wilhelm's heart sinks with the confirmation of his instinct. She screams once, with her hand over her mouth. It is all he can do to stay rooted to the spot and not bolt out of the building.

It happens so quickly - five people group together and lift the body out of the bed. She is gone before Wilhelm can blink.

•••

They are sitting on a bench outside. The night air is cold and uninviting, but it is nothing to Wilhelm. Oona is still shaking, but there are no tears.

"She had some kind of cancer," she whispers to Wilhelm after a few seconds.

"I'm so sorry," he shakes his head. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"I decided maybe if I could sell whatever I could offer - including...my body," she clenches her jaw, shrugging helplessly, "I could earn enough for her treatment. But it doesn't work. Everything else costed too much to keep us going at bare minimum. I don't think she would have lived to see us happily secure at all, ever."

Wilhelm listens. It is all he can do.

"I'm a lucky one though," she says bitterly. "Everyone who was in there has a story like mine. Well," she scoffs, "except you. Your Highness."

He says nothing. He says nothing, because she is right. He thinks of his sprawling bed chambers, juxtaposed to the tens of people crammed up against each other on the floor. How many people can he fit in his room? She has every right to be spiteful. To be angry, even.

"If...If there's anything I can do-"

"No," comes her flat response. "No, Your Highness. Even if I allowed you to intervene, you are not going to be the one in charge. You can't change..." she waves a hand around, "any of this. Neither you nor me can help it."

"I want you to know that I'm..." Wilhelm struggles to find the words. His mind is sluggish with shock and heavy clouds of guilt. "I'm..."

Oona's eyes search his, until she gives him a small, close-lipped smile. "I understand. Thank you, Prins. I suggest you get back to your brother now, he must be waiting."

Wilhelm widens his eyes. He'd almost forgotten about Erik and August. He rises, buttoning up his coat and trying to locate the direction he'd come from. When he looks back, Oona has already disappeared into the building, leaving Wilhelm alone again, in the streets, with his thoughts.

He has barely made his way to a bustling intersection when a body slams into his own; there are ice-cold hands on his face, in his hair-

"Wille! Oh, thank God. Wille, are you okay? What happened to you?"

Erik could have been an actor in another life. Always so fucking dramatic.

"Erik, I'm fine, I'm fine," Wilhelm shakes him loose. August is looking at Wilhelm over the top of his gold-rimmed sunglasses with something akin to amusement.

"Idiot, let's get something to eat," Erik mutters, looping an arm around him and dragging him down to a café-slash-restaurant. The neon sign blinks the word "Jakov's" in bright red and green.

Wilhelm pushes the door open, shucking off his winter coat and holding it on his forearm instead. The smell of food makes his mouth water; it's a welcome change after all the events of the past few minutes. The three boys walk past the stage, but Wilhelm hears it before he sees it.

"I was shot down, in cold blood, by an angel in blue jeans."

And he looks up.

A boy, maybe around his age, stands at a mic with a blue guitar in his hand. Wilhelm watches him sing, and the only thing he registers is the way the boy's eyes seem to sparkle, and feed electricity into every light source in the restaurant.

"I hear voices callin' all around," he sings, "I keep falling down, I think my heart could pound right out of me-"

"Oi!"

Wilhelm snaps out of his thoughts as Erik beckons him to join him and August at a small table not far from the circular stage. Wilhelm sits down, not looking away from the singer.

"He's not bad, that one," Erik comments. "He sings here every other night."

"Yeah, not bad," August nods, the end of his glasses between his teeth, "for a guy like him."

"Not bad? He's great." Wilhelm shakes his head, turning the pages of the menu. "He's really, really good. Listen to him."

August shrugs, but Erik smiles at him as he takes a look at the boy on stage. "He's singing from his heart," he says to Wilhelm, his eyes crinkling.

Wilhelm's eyes flicker up to the boy. "Yeah," he says, "he is."

"I see a million different ways to never leave this maze alive," the boy adds a riff that makes Wilhelm raise his eyebrows. A smile tugs at his lips, and then suddenly, the boy is looking right back at him. Twinkling brown eyes meet his own, and Wilhelm feels the blood rush to his face.

"I woke up in somebody's arms," the boy sings, tilting his head, almost like he's seducing the mic, "strange and so familiar, where nothing could go wrong." Wilhelm tries - really tries - to detach his gaze from the stage. But he can't.

So he doesn't. And the other boy sings and sings, never once looking away from him, either. Wilhelm knows he must look like a fool. It doesn't bother him, nothing bothers him.

"-and there you are," the boy's face cracks into a blinding white smile, the joy shining through his eyes and bleeding into Wilhelm as though it were for him; it warms his chest and his pale fingertips and the coldest tip of his nose, pushing his lips into a grin. He's a fabulous performer, Wilhelm thinks, if this is how he makes everyone in the audience feel.

He doesn't even realize when the song ends. All he notices is how the boy grins at the thunderous applause, and only once Wilhelm is clapping (louder than anyone else, it seems to him), does the boy tilt forward in a bow, ever so slightly in Wilhelm's direction. But it is unmistakably towards him.

Wilhelm nearly stops breathing. He has never felt so special.

•••

OKAY BUT 'WILLE' IN SWEDISH MEANS 'PLEASURE' AND IM LOSING MY MIND OVER THIS

man it's like 4:30 am lol all for the update

ik erik never lived to get coronated but HE'S SUCH A KING

i love young royals is it obvious i love them i love them i loveejkfjskswkjdjsndjsndkfkfekfjskajjenf

leave a comment or a vote if you feel like it. be nice. this is the cool kid fandom.

~A.M.