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Simon hated going to his dad’s place alone.
It was a dark night – a curling mist hung over the path before him. Simon pushed through it, because he had to do this. He was strong, he had made a mistake and he was going to fix it. Because his family deserved to be protected and feel safe, and like he wasn’t going to betray them again.
So not even the stupid cold that scraped like a razor against his spine was going to make him turn back.
Clenching and unclenching his fingers repeatedly helped stop his thoughts from spiralling so much, even though he told himself he was only doing it to keep them warm so that his hands wouldn’t be visibly shaking in front of Micke.
By the time he reached the door to the flat complex, his fingers were aching and numb clutching the door handle.
The anticipation was the worst thing about these visits, Simon decided.
It was why he hadn’t prepared what he was going to say, and he hadn’t dared to try running through different scenarios of how this could go, because there were just too many disappointing ones. And he couldn’t handle the reality that this could very possibly go badly, because if he thought about that for too long, then he didn’t think he would be able to convince his body to willingly move any further towards the flat.
So he tried to keep the thinking to a minimum, and focus on the solid things. Things that he knew for certain. That he needed to protect his mamma, and Sara.
He climbed the staircase one step at a time. From the bottom, there was mountain heaped of them – a whole age before the confrontation with the wooden door. Plenty of time to work out what he wanted to say, and how to say it in a way that he would be able to leave the flat again quickly and unscathed.
But he had barely started climbing before he had apparently reached the top, and he had used none of it usefully, and the streaked wooden door was screaming at him, hall lights gleaming sickly off of it, as if it had always known he would be back.
Simon pulled in a breath and willed himself to ignore the way he couldn’t smooth down the shakiness of it.
This was fine, he was safe, nothing was going to happen, it was just his body and his mind over-reacting.
But as he knocked, he couldn’t shake the dreadful feeling that this had been a mistake. Except why did that helpful insight only come once he’d just locked himself in.
Adrenaline began to simmer under his skin - a process that his body understood well, carved into the pathways of his brain and body like muscle-memory. Carved by years of uncertainty and fear.
The cavity in time between when his knuckles met the door and when he heard Micke on the other side of it seemed to stretch on until none of it felt real anymore. That dreadful, awful feeling didn’t leave - it burrowed into him like a desperate mouse even when the door finally swung open, and Simon understood that it wasn’t just the paranoia making him afraid.
Micke’s large frame blocked the doorway, shuttering out the light of the apartment behind him like an eclipse. Simon’s eyes flitted between the heaviness of his stance, the way his big hand gripped the door frame, and the way gravity seemed to have more power over Micke’s face than he did.
“Simme—?” Micke drawled, his tone heavy and the sound bearing little resemblance to his actual name.
He was fucking drunk. Shit.
A part of his mind shut off then, and he let it slip away into a well. Perhaps it was part of his consciousness that he let go, something that allowed him to transform into something harder, something less present.
A heaviness made of memories swirled in his core and rooted him to the spot so that when he tried to take a good few steps back, he could only force out one. So much for the adrenaline.
“Simme, come in—” Micke reached out towards him as if to welcome him in, perhaps like a normal father would. He didn’t seem to notice the fear, the way Simon’s face had frozen. Or perhaps he did, and just didn’t care.
“I can come back” Simon cut him off, forcing himself to hold Micke’s gaze in the hope that maybe there was a part of him that was still sober, and would recognise how Simon ached to put as much distance between them as possible. The father who still cared about him.
“Fuck, no!” Micke frowned, and before Simon knew to react, he grabbed his shoulder, locking his grip like a vice and squeezing.
Simon flinched back but it wasn’t enough and soon he could feel every thick finger burning into his skin through his coat as he was pulled through the doorway.
It was hard to repress the shudder that wanted to rip through him but he forced it down, and tried to keep his feet beneath him as Micke kept pulling him through, forcing him deeper into the corridor.
The door clicked shut. Simon tried to breathe, tried to keep as much control as possible even while he could feel Micke’s steel eyes probing him, scanning him over, but it was so so hard, when the terror was mounting up inside, filling every pore and making his reactions slow and stiff like drying cement. He stared, eyes slightly wide, at where Micke’s reddish hand wouldn’t let go of his shoulder, holding on to the fragile hope that he would understand how distressing this was for Simon, and take pity.
But he was kidding himself because he knew that Micke was far too out of it at this point to be thinking about his comfort.
Micke kept moving them backwards, slowly.
“Can’t believe you’ve found time to visit your old man, even now that you’re a celebrity,” Micke jibed, his eyes running harshly over Simon.
Micke stopped and Simon thought that they might be by the sofa but he couldn’t be completely sure because not much was processing, other than the fact that Micke still hadn’t released the clamp on his shoulder.
And then the realisation that Micke had probably, definitely, watched the video.
A dull anger flickered at his core, soon snuffed out by nausea as he took in the man in front of him. Someone that was unsafe, someone that had hurt him so much, and that made him feel like he was nothing.
He had seen Simon in one of his most vulnerable moments, something that was only meant for Wille.
And that thought was somehow catastrophically worse than some random stranger seeing it, worse than a million strangers seeing it. The thought made him blank out for a moment, his grip on his surroundings flickering and faltering.
His silence only provoked Micke.
“So, you’ve come to tell me off for Lucia? Is that what this is?” As he spoke, Micke tightened his grip, shaking him a bit as if Simon wasn’t listening to him well enough.
“Come, sit down” he stated, and when Simon made a noise in protest, pushed him further towards the sofa.
“I’m only here about Sara, then I’m leaving.” He forced out, willing himself to sound determined.
“But can’t you see, I just want you to be comfortable?” He leaned in, and Simon could feel, and smell his metallic breath lap at his face. He couldn’t do this.
Micke grabbed Simon’s other shoulder then pressed down harshly.
“Stop– stop.” Simon grabbed hold of Micke’s warm wrists, and tried to push him off with everything he had, but it wasn’t enough; his muscles felt dizzy and numb and the result was pathetic, and worse only made Micke dig in harder, like he was trying to rip into Simon’s skin.
“How can you talk to your old man like that?” He didn’t relent. “How can you?”
“I’m just trying to be a good dad, but you keep shutting me out.”
At that Micke finally released his grip on Simon’s right shoulder, momentarily taking Simon by surprise, only to slide it up his neck and grip his face with it, like he was trying to blot Simon out, as if he didn’t know whether he wanted to caress it or crush it.
All of the instincts Simon had left told him that this was enough, that he needed to get out now.
He shifted his grip to Micke’s forearms, tensed his fingers, and pressed his nails in hard until he could feel skin beneath his nails.
Micke didn’t even flinch. The red rimming his under-eyes bled into his skin. “You’re clearly not managing on your own, Simme.” He shook his head. “You need me.”
His jaw clenched, searching his dad’s eyes. He would never need a man like Micke.
“I said stop.” He gritted out, and shoved Micke with all of the raw anger, and fear that he had, causing Micke to finally, finally, stumble back with a grunt.
Simon breathed, a small victory. He could leave now. He could leave.
But then they made eye contact, and Simon saw rage. Then time slipped. There was a hand swinging round, a blunt impact to his face. It was messy, and badly aimed, but it sent him twisting back into the coffee table. A sharp pain cutting through his knee, and his face on the cool wooden ground. A relief from the hot, spinning room.
A thick silence hung around him. He wondered whether he had somehow been transported out of the room, out of that situation. But his ears slowly started ringing, and there was a weird static buzzing in his head.
He blinked. The floor was nice, lovely even, especially against the blood running into his cheek.
Micke’s laboured breathing coming from somewhere above him dragged him back, and Simon pulled his eyes open. He wasn’t moving, apart from rubbing red circles into his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe the situation he was in.
Simon moved slowly, hesitantly at first; the room was still spinning, and he winced as he tried to move from his side to his knees too quickly.
Vaguely, he registered that he was in a lot of pain, but chose to ignore it and stand up, digging his nails into his palms so he wouldn’t fall back down.
He glanced at Micke one last time, who didn’t seem to be able to look at him now.
His legs moved of their own accord, carrying him forward, and he could feel his heart spike and leap, even as he brushed past him and finally, finally, out of the apartment.
Simon’s breath puffed out in front of him in slow, spiralling circles. Watching the physical evidence of his breathing was a calming antidote in some way, and he tried hard to let it ground him.
He was sitting on a park bench by the side of a gravel path. He might have been there before, but it was too dark to be completely sure.
Moments must have passed and his eyes still hadn’t moved from the same spot on the ground, everything blending into a mass of blurry grey. He pressed his hands into the cool metal of the bench beside him, feeling his fingers tingle.
He was going to be okay, he just needed to wait for his body to come back online, to start feeling things normally again. And then maybe he could work out what the fuck to do next. None of it felt real - his body was numb, as if he had just woken from a lucid dream and couldn’t be sure whether he was still in the dream world or not.
Besides, everything was OK now; he was safe - albeit outside in the dark. The darkness was somehow much better than the garish lights from just before. It was unassuming, and let him sit in peace. On this lone bench, he wasn’t forced to examine anything - didn’t have to be anything for anyone, or himself. And yet he knew he had to do something. The anxious prickle he could still feel in his fingertips told him so.
Simon cursed himself when his first thought was to call Wilhelm. He tipped his head back to look up at the star-dotted sky. What would Wilhelm even think? What would he say?
Simon tried to picture his reaction, but nothing immediately came to mind. He wasn’t even completely sure that Wilhelm would be able to understand something like this. Surely he was too far removed from it all.
They had never talked about this, because Simon hadn’t wanted to. He didn’t want to make what they had any more complicated than it already was. Having Wilhelm the way he did had been enough, and he had wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.
But of course he had always had the fear. Because he honestly didn’t know what Wilhelm would think, or what other questions he would ask. Simon wanted to be strong, he wanted to be there for Wilhelm. If Wilhelm had realised that Simon wasn’t as brave or as strong as he tried to project, maybe he wouldn’t feel as comfortable being vulnerable with him anymore. And Simon did not want that. So he just hadn’t said anything. And Wilhelm had never asked.
So why now of all times, did he ache for the boy to understand this particular aspect of his life.
It was a horrible feeling – to desperately want someone to understand, and yet that person being too far away to make anything better.
Wilhelm was much too far away. And for what? It was hard to remember sometimes. But it was what he had chosen.
Simon shivered, and pulled his coat tighter across his chest. His muscles felt so stiff, and he knew he needed to go somewhere warm soon. But he would rather feel the cold invading his body, a petty pain that was universal, and natural, than the throbbing pain where he was sure Micke had left a mark on him.
The thought of showing up at school made him feel sick. He was a complete fool for doing this, and right now he had never detested himself more for believing that he could fix everything. People would for sure be talking about this. He would be able to come up with some kind of story for Hillerska. But his mamma and Sara?
Simon brought his hands up to rub at his face, only to wince when he pressed harshly right over what he knew would soon be a bruise. It was the sharpness of the pain that surprised him, as he tried to process it clinically to avoid spiralling. Was there a cut there?
He tried to feel around but the pressure made his eyes sting, and his heart pumped harder, like it was being tortured inside of his ribcage.
Okay, too soon.
Simon breathed in and out, and tried to focus on the puffs of mist instead. They reminded him of a dragon’s breath, of a game he and Sara used to play – when it was cold outside, and they had nothing else to do, taking turns to be the dragon and one of them chasing the other.
If only he could be as tough as a dragon.
Simon’s first priority was ensuring that no one at home would know what had happened, which meant that however much he wanted to rush inside, cry, rip off the stifling clothes strangling his body, and that clung to his knee and calf where blood may or may not have soaked into his jeans, he could not. Even if he could feel the crisp edge of a breakdown beckoning him over the edge, begging him to slam his door, barricade it, and curl up under his covers and blankets, and never show his face to anybody, ever again. Or at least until he felt like his walls could heal again. To grow up again, thick and strong so he could endure the world again from behind them.
Only once the door had been pressed shut with a click which seemed to ring through the whole house like a siren and reverberate off the picture-cloaked walls, did he allow himself to take a few deep breaths, carefully, quietly untie his shoe-laces with fingers that still buzzed with anticipation and regret, and pad deathly silent, deathly still, into his room.
The pain was getting worse now, which SImon had learnt to expect.
When the impact hit, there was always too much else going on for it to be worth acknowledging. Simon had always been grateful for his body’s ability to understand that. He thought of it as a protective cloak of numbness; it was kind of magical in that sense. It could sometimes feel like a distant hug – better than nothing during the worst times.
But as Simon had learned when he was younger, all things magical must come with a price, and usually the price would show up half an hour to an hour later (depending on what injuries he had sustained) in the form of a bleeding headache, sometimes shakiness and palpable electricity under his skin, where his body wouldn’t acknowledge that he was safe again. Often it was throbbing sore spots, which would eventually turn into bruises, which would eventually die, turn into ghosts and fade away until he could pretend that it had never happened.
This time wasn’t so bad.
It really wasn’t, except that it had been a while since something this bad had happened. This was why he and Sara had agreed to never make contact. It was their way of protecting each other.
But now here he was, a red mark stapled into his cheekbone, a tiny slit where his skin must not have been strong enough, and Micke had managed to break through. His bedroom mirror reflected the ruby-redness of it, making it look far worse than Simon suspected it actually was. There was some blood, but not a lot. It would be fine.
It was the inevitable bruise that made him worry. That made him hate himself for letting it happen.
He traced the cut with his index finger, staring at his reflection. He pressed down, and it throbbed twice as hard, blood thrumming beneath the skin until tears pricked at his eyes like tiny spears sent from his brain.
This wasn’t something he could force himself to deal with now. He would clean this up and take care of himself, but not right now. Right now, he wanted sleep. He wanted to be held, and then to sleep with the blanket of safety that being held by one particular person could provide.
But that particular person wasn’t in his life anymore, so he told his wanting to fuck off.
Under the layers of covers in his self-made cave, he selected the neglected ‘5.00am’ alarm, and threw his phone out of the bed as a physical barrier to stop him from doing anything stupid, and tried his hardest to slip into the arms of unconsciousness instead.
Rain thundered against the windows of Mr. Englund’s room, icy pinpricks stabbing into the glass and blurring the voices of Wilhelm’s peers as they reluctantly drifted into the lesson.
Wilhelm registered Sara coming in, with Felice rather than Simon. Something had clearly changed between them since Christmas. The two of them had been close to inseparable before Wilhelm pushed his way into Simon’s life. Simon didn’t have many friends. Wilhelm thought that that was probably one of the most torturing things about all this – that Simon seemed to be alone again now. And he was good at hiding it of course. Still golden, still bathed in a sunlight which seemed to hang around him and fill whatever space he occupied.
But Wilhelm had collected hours watching the boy, and he could see the tension slowly building in Simon’s small frame day by day. He could sometimes catch the moments when the mask faltered and the boy spent a second too long staring at a single spot in the room for him to be fully present.
Simon came in late and flustered, with his head hung towards the carpeted floor. His hair was slightly damp and dewy from the rain; he must not have brought an umbrella. Wilhelm had a spare. He would offer it to Simon later.
“Take a seat Simon, we’re on page forty-three in the— textbook.” Mr.Englund finished, his words faltering when Simon looked up at him – Wilhelm didn’t know why, but his chest constricted uncomfortably at the look on the teacher’s face.
Simon stood by himself at the front of the class, pulling slightly at the straps of his rucksack as a swash of murmurs cannoned around the room.
Wilhelm’s eyes, however focused, didn’t quite catch the source of disruption from his first glance at Simon. Perhaps his in-denial brain convinced him that it was merely a dark blush that had bloomed across Simon’s cheeks from rushing to get to class on time; Simon was one of the most dedicated students he knew after all – he was rarely late. Wilhelm thought his need to please the elitist teachers at Hillerska was endearing considering his other ideals.
The illusion shattered the moment Simon twisted away from Mr.Englund to take his seat, and they’re lines of vision clashed.
It wasn’t a pretty blush, as Wilhelm had initially thought. Well, not both sides at least. On the right, a much deeper purple splotch twisted up the delicate curve of the boy’s cheek, like an artist’s spilled paint. It was a malicious tornado of colour, and the eye of it was a small red tick, small, but very much there. It even glistened slightly under the harsh, critical panel lights of the classroom.
Wilhelm blanked, and Simon’s gaze ripped away from him as quickly as it had landed.
Mr.Englund resumed the lesson, but the words were made of silk now and he couldn’t grab hold of a single one of them.
Simon had a bruise. Someone had bruised Simon. Or perhaps not. Wilhelm admonished himself for jumping to conclusions. He could only guess at what had happened, because Simon wasn’t speaking to him anymore.
He might have slipped on a piece of ice outside – the temperature was plummeting to its lowest around this time of year, and despite Hillerska’s surplus of spending money, the staff were ridiculously lacking when it came to salting the slippery pathways throughout the grounds.
Even so, the urge to pull Simon out of the classroom at his earliest convenience so that Wilhelm could check him over was like a flame devouring Wilhelm’s paper brain; less and less of his brain became useful to a maths lesson the longer he spent with Simon’s dark curls in his line of sight, and no answers.
Linda was there for Simon, Wihelm reassured himself. If the worst case scenario was that Simon didn’t have anyone at Hillerska to turn to, and him and Sara still weren’t talking, then he knew that at least Linda would never abandon him; Simon was never going to be alone.
And yet for some reason Wilhelm couldn’t dislodge the sickness in his stomach which buried deeper with every shaky inhale of Simon’s shoulders that Wilhelm locked onto.
They were well into the lesson by now, and Mr.Englund was pacing. Wilhelm hated when he did that, particularly Wilhelm was trying his best to appear like he knew what was going on when the teacher had told the class to get on with their ‘silent work’. Thankfully, Mr.Englund made it past his desk without any comments but Wilhelm couldn’t be sure whether that was down to his convincing fake-being-busy skills, or his Royal title.
He clearly wasn’t the only one who didn’t see the point in sketching graphs with a blunt pencil for half an hour; a swirl of murmurs had begun to fan out from the back of the room. If Wilhelm hadn’t been bored out of his mind, he might not have bothered but as it was he glanced over his shoulder to see what the commotion was about.
The source was Stella and Fredrika, naturally. They were leaning into each other, taking turns to whisper into each other’s ears and occasionally gesture towards— Simon?
Wilhelm gritted his teeth, huffed, and gave them his most practised ‘you’re behaviour is unacceptable and the Crown Prince disapproves’ glare, when suddenly the sound of Mr.Englund’s fist slamming down on Simon’s desk shocked through the room, making the whole class start round as if they were puppets who’s strings had just been yanked on.
Nerves zapped through Wilhelm’s skin at the shock. Were the teachers even allowed to pull shit like this? Apparently they were. Mr. Englund - the bastard - used his moment of control over the class to launch at them with a tirade about something to do with the importance of a quiet working environment.
“I will not have you talking during independent study time,” He had placed the heels of his palms on Simon’s desk now, and he leaned over Simon slightly to eye the group at the back, like an old snake who thought he was more threatening than he actually was.
Meanwhile, Simon simply stared down at his desk, eyes fixed on a certain point, alarmingly still.
Wilhelm subconsciously clenched his jaw, gaze zeroing on the old man. There was really no need for him to choose Simon’s desk. To disturb him like that – the one who was least likely to be talking and was clearly not having a good day. And why was he still leaning over him? Wilhelm took Simon in more closely, monitoring the way that despite his stillness, his shoulders had started to rise and fall in uneven, jerky motions. A bit like the graphs they were supposed to be sketching, he grimaced.
It was plain to Wilhelm that Simon was leaning towards a tipping point. As sure as sand fell through an hourglass, Wilhelm’s practical experience with anxiety told him that Simon was not going to last much longer in this state.
He watched closely as Simon’s hands came up to press at his face - his fingers pressing into his eyes, worry and stress clear on his face, even pressing into the tender bruise a little bit. Wilhelm’s heart lurched, yearning to take those hands in his and press soft kisses to them. To promise him that Wilhelm wouldn’t let anything bad happen to him ever again.
Then, Mr. Englund looked down by chance and finally noticed the distressed boy who was halfway to losing his breath in front of him.
“Oh dear, are you alright Eriksson?” He stressed.
When Simon didn’t look up or show any sign of having heard the man, just stayed where he was, Mr. England placed a mottled hand on Simon’s right shoulder.
Simon just barely flinched but seemed to be frozen, his frame was taught as if the single hand laid on him was a gun instead of the comfort it was supposed to be.
But he didn’t struggle either. He didn’t attempt to move out of the teacher’s grip. Wilhelm looked around him, behind him, to see if other people were also thinking that what Mr. England was doing definitely wasn’t helping - to see if anyone else was itching to shove the man away.
Instead, the whispers only grew. Whether it was out of concern for Simon, or morbid fascination at Simon, who seemed to be shivering or shaking softly now, Wilhlem wasn’t going to wait to find out.
“Mr Englund-” Wilhelm shoved his chair back and strode across the room. In one smooth motion he knocked Mr. Englund’s hand off Simon’s shoulder. Something in Simon’s eyes flickered as if snapping out of a haze. “Sir, I think that Simon’s having a panic attack,” he said, willing himself to only think about what Simon needed right now, rather than how this would look to his classmates.
As if they didn’t know how sick Wilhelm was for Simon by now anyway.
Mr. England’s expression flashed with recognition, and it was almost comical to watch the process of the man as his face moved in near-slow motion into bafflement, as if only now realising how incompetent he was.
“Oh dear,” he began, clearly at a loss for words. “Ok well Simon would you like to take a breather outside then?” Then he smiled hesitantly, perhaps hoping that the empty words would be a good enough redemption. It was almost apologetic. And despite the question being addressed to Simon, the suggestion was undoubtedly directed at Wilhelm.
Wilhelm couldn’t even put it down to their teacher’s poorly disguised elitism this time; when he looked towards Simon for his reply, Wilhelm couldn’t actually be sure that Simon had heard him. He seemed to be searching for something that wasn’t quite in this room, eyes flitting from Wilhelm to Mr. England and back again, as if he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to have an opinion or not. Wilhelm couldn’t stand it any longer; the sight was breaking his heart.
It wasn’t that he didn’t think Simon should be vulnerable. It was that Wilhelm knew that Simon didn’t like to be vulnerable in front of just anyone. If Wilhelm were to guess, that fact would be an extra factor of panic for Simon - something else weighing him down, pinning him to his seat. It would have made being seen today by everyone bruised and subdued, even harder. Perhaps that was what had made him spiral.
It only took Wilhelm meeting Simon’s eyes gently, with the promise of escape in a soft nod and a gesture to the door, for Simon to push his chair back slowly, never letting Wilhelm look away as if his steady gaze was something he needed to tether him to his existence.
Although physical contact was usually medicine for Wilhelm when his panic was prowling, Wilhelm was careful not to touch Simon even as he finally broke eye contact so he could walk ahead of Wilhelm and hesitantly out of the door, hand trailing across the wooden frame as if he couldn’t quite believe that he was there. Wilhelm just couldn’t be sure how he would react, and the idea of making Simon hurt more was unacceptable.
With one last poignant look at Mr.England and a bitter sweep of the rest of the class, he followed Simon out.
Simon didn’t have any direction or location in mind. He was oscillating between numbing disorientation and then rushing back towards phantom sensations like a heavy pendulum – never hanging long enough in one place to get his bearings. He could feel thick fingers digging into his skin, stinging heat, the cut singing and throbbing on his left cheek. He heard himself screaming, even though he had never dared to scream in those kinds of situations. His brain was betraying him – it had started to spin fiction just to scare him, to break him, to show him how weak he truly was. He felt himself burning up. There were soft footsteps behind him. He didn’t know who they belonged to. He didn’t want to know.
He needed to get out. He rushed towards the nearest door which led blissfully outside, away from people, but into an equally overwhelming outside. The world outside was still shivering with the rain – Maybe it would be worse, but Simon was running on adrenaline and impulses so it seemed like the only option.
He threw himself at the door and clasped the handle, desperately rattling it. Every second made it harder to breathe. He felt like everyone was laughing at him, though he was sure no one was even there. Rain pelted at the glass door in huge, lacerating watery spears which made his cut sting more deeply, if that was even possible at this point; the pain was splitting his face in two, even though he was aware that it was tiny.
The door wouldn’t open. The handle was stuck. He couldn’t work out whether it was because he was shaking too much, or if it was the door’s fault. Perhaps the cold had frozen them inside. Although that wouldn’t make sense because the rain was melting proof. Clearly it was his own fault, he couldn’t even save himself from this, and he was trapped. He had trapped himself.
Someone was saying something soft, and blurred.
Behind him.
Simon felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. It was feather-light, a hint of contact, but it made him flinch nonetheless. Shooting like electricity into his neck, through his spine. He recoiled at the idea of someone touching him.
He whipped around, the hand immediately dropping, and he came face to face with Wilhelm – the boy backed off straight away, his hands lowering beside him, palms facing the ground.
“Simon it’s okay,” he said gently, his eyes soft at the edges and the words shaped carefully. “It’s just me. It’s only me,”
Simon stared back at him, eyes slightly wide, adrenaline still jumping under his skin. His whole body was tense, felt like the smallest thing would crush and crumble him. And he couldn’t change his breathing, which was escaping in short gasps every other second.
Simon was still scared of Wilhelm. Scared that he was going to step closer. Terrified that he was going to turn around and leave.
But he wasn’t going anywhere. Just stood still. If Wilhelm didn’t know what he was doing, then he was doing an incredible job of disguising it.
A small voice blurred over the panicked one in his head: It’s Wilhelm, Wille is safe, he’s safe.
The repetitive reminder, combined with Wille’s quiet breathing in front of him managed to soothe his trembling heart a bit so that he could breathe just enough that he didn’t feel seconds away from collapsing, or like the world was ending.
But with the new calmness came confusion, and he found that he didn’t know how to think. It was all too much, and Wilhelm was just standing there, patient and calm, and Simon didn’t deserve that. Simon found himself pressing his palms over his face to cover it. It stung, but it was better than feeling so exposed.
“Hey Simon,” Wilhelm coaxed, inching a step closer. The way Wilhelm was talking to him, like Simon would expect him to talk to a terrified animal, should have made him upset. The softness and gentleness, and care should have made him livid because he wasn’t weak – he didn’t want to be weak, and he could take care of himself perfectly well.
But instead it made him crumple, it made him have to tense his whole body, just so he wouldn’t break down crying in front of Wille right there in the corridor.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered instead, forcing the words out of the tightness in his throat. He knew his behaviour was completely irrational, and he hated that Wilhelm was seeing him like this. Seeing how broken he was. “I’m gonna be okay.” He reassured, desperate for Wilhelm to understand that he would be fine, that this wasn’t the worst he had been through.
When he dared to slide his hands down enough to gauge Wilhelm’s reaction, he didn’t know what he was expecting. But he definitely wasn’t ready to see the pure torment in Wilhelm’s eyes. The desperation, the — fear?
Wilhelm seemed like he was about to reach out further, when the sound of screeching door hinges further down the corridor caused what felt like a whole goddamn bucket of adrenaline to pour through his body, and fizzle under his skin.
Shit.
The door wasn’t anywhere close to them, yet it made his heart thunder and rattle in his chest all over again, alarms ringing in his mind telling him to run, to freeze, to do something, anything to be able to hide from this completely harmless situation which his brain just didn’t seem able to cope with.
He swore that he was about to crouch down against the wall and curl into a ball because he just couldn’t take this. But a steady presence interrupted his plan.
“Hey okay, okay,” Wilhelm interrupted, presumably because he could see Simon unsteady on his feet, and knew that once Simon was on the ground, it would be much harder to get him up off it again. “Why don’t we go somewhere safe?” Wilhelm suggested, taking slow steps towards him.
Safe? Somewhere away from the harsh classroom lights and the echoey corridor? Simon hoped so.
“That would be nice, right?” he asked again, his tone hushed and kind. They were close now, and Wilhelm reached out slowly with an open palm, watching him intently for a reaction.
Simon knew that he shouldn’t take it; it was wrong to accept this comfort when he really didn’t need it – least of all from Wille. He glanced around the corridor as if looking for another option, another door that he could run out of maybe. But there was nothing else he could think of. He didn’t know what to do – It was too painful to think, and he was just too drained to fight right now, so reluctantly he reached forward and placed his hand in Wilhelm’s.
Apparently, Simon was so touch-starved that he had to repress a sigh at the warmth of Wille’s hand as it locked in his, his thumb immediately rubbing a soothing pattern over the back of his hand where his skin was sensitive.
Simon felt torn apart as he looked from their joined hands up to Wilhelm. It was painful, and it was relieving, and he was so fucking confused. So he decided to simply turn off his thoughts for now, which was surprisingly easy to do now that he had Wilhelm to ground him. He let the boy lead them– he wasn’t sure where, but it didn’t matter because he felt a lot safer now.
It was a testament to how truly out of it Simon was that he didn’t recognise where Wilhelm was taking them until they had reached the door to his dorm, and Wilhelm was holding the door open for him to come in if he wanted.
The interior was familiar, which Simon couldn’t decide was a good or bad thing. Good because it had an antidote effect on his nervous system - even the faint smell of Wilhelm was enough for his heart to calm and for him to feel cloaked in a protective aura. Bad, because it meant that now that they were alone together, there was no one around to remind Simon of the things he shouldn’t be doing with Wilhelm. The things he shouldn’t be thinking about.
Wilhelm stayed by the door as Simon reached the centre of the room.
And he stood there, feeling a little bit helpless, unsure what to do. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and completely and utterly lost.
He couldn’t remember why he had come here. To burden Wilhelm? To make everything much harder than it already was because he couldn’t stay away from the pain?
Simon noticed his hands shaking, and then Wilhelm’s room slanting in his vision. Everything was unstable, and slipping, and there was nothing to hold onto. He must have staggered slightly, because suddenly Wilhelm was there in front of him, ready to catch him. It was all too much.
When the door clicked shut, Simon lost his grip.
He collapsed into Wilhelm’s arms as Wilhelm stepped forward to close the gap between them, which bothered him whenever he had to look at the boy. A shaky sigh escaped from him at first, at the sensation of warm arms holding him up, wrapping around his back, supportive and strong. He couldn’t stop himself from grasping at Wilhelm's back. When Wilhelm didn’t show any sign of stopping him, Simon tucked his face fully into Wilhelm’s neck, trying to press himself as close as he could into the boy who had a hand in his curls now, stroking them gently and whispering something softly to him over his shaky breaths.
It started with a soft small sob at the sensation of being held so close in the arms of the boy he loved. Then the tears came unbidden, wracking through his frame in waves of unfiltered exhaustion and fear, and relief.
Wilhelm held him close for a long time until all of his warmth was shared between them, and didn’t let go until Simon finally stopped shaking and his sobs had dissolved into the occasional sniffle.
Simon closed his eyes as Wilhelm’s grip loosened, not ready to let go. He didn’t think he would ever be ready to let go. But he didn’t want Wilhelm to feel uncomfortable, or that Simon was forcing him to do this.
Simon leant away from Wilhelm self consciously, reaching his hand up to wipe his tear streaked face and hissing under his breath when the bruise caught him off guard.
Wilhelm was quiet, and Simon didn’t even want to look at him lest it was too obvious to see what he was thinking - to find out what Wilhelm really thought of him like this.
Before his thoughts could spiral any further, Wilhelm’s cool fingers were tracing softly across his jaw, guiding Simon’s uncertain gaze back towards him.
Wilhelm didn’t look directly at him for the most part, save for the occasional glance upwards, but rather his eyes were intent on following the same path as his finger was: up the line of Simon’s jaw until he reached his temple.
And then Wilhelm’s eyes did fix on Simon’s, as his thumb brushed against the lowest point of his cheekbone, just beneath the red mark. Simon’s breath hitched, he reached his hand up to grab onto Wilhelm’s wrist, to stop it going any further, his other hand clutching at the sleeve of the boy’s jacket.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want Wilhelm to touch him. No, he craved the feeling of Wilhelm’s strong but delicate fingers cupping his jaw so that he could finally let go of the tension.
The part that Simon couldn’t handle, was the hesitation on Wilhelm’s part. It was like he was afraid to touch him. Afraid of the mark on his face. Afraid for Simon. And it was terrifying, because no one from the outside had ever shown their fear for him. Simon had always had to be strong, to tell himself that it wasn’t a big deal. That’s what his mamma did – she was strong. And when even she couldn’t be, that was Simon’s job.
Wilhelm seemed to understand. His hand dropped to Simon’s upper arm, his hold still achingly light as if he was scared to mark Simon any further than he already was.
“Do you want to sit down?” Wilhelm whispered, the offer lacing through the tension that had woven between them. A tension so layered that Simon hoped it wouldn’t get too big for the room and starve them of oxygen.
He hummed, searching Wilhelm’s eyes as he let himself be guided down to sit on the edge of the bed. Wilhelm joined him, putting enough distance between them so that their knees could still brush against each other when they leant towards each other.
Wilhelm still wouldn’t stop looking at his face. And it would be nice, if the only reason he was looking was because he wanted to look at Simon.
Though he didn’t voice his thoughts, it was frustratingly clear that there were things Wilhelm wanted to say, things he wanted to do, that he wasn’t prepared to initiate.
Does he think he’s not allowed?
Simon practically scoffed at the worry painting Wilhelm’s features. You’d think he was the one that had been hit.
“Whatever you’re going to do, just do it already,” Simon smirked slightly. “I can’t stand you looking at me like that.” he teased, chuckling at the distinct shift in Wilhelm’s eyes from worry to blatant exasperation.
“Simon, this is serious.” he reached out to cup Simon’s hands, which softened immediately at the protective touch. “Don’t tease.”
“Okay, I’m sorry your Highness.” He replied, rolling his eyes playfully and squeezing Wilhelm’s hands in an attempt to stop him from being so serious about this.
Wilhelm just shook his head again, and brought his right hand up slowly again, frowning as he traced along the bruise, so feather-light that it almost tickled. The sensation spreading out like pin pricks that made his whole body tingle from the sensitivity.
Simon gulped into the quiet, and grew increasingly concerned that his unbothered facade was going to slip if Wilhelm continued like this.
This feeling. It was called vulnerability, but not necessarily the raw, painful kind. Despite what he preached to himself, he could feel the tender side of himself yearning to sit here with both of Wilhelm’s hands on him, clearly so worried about him. Touching him as if he were a piece of gold-leaf that he didn’t want to break.
It was easy to get lost in it - to let his eyes fall shut and imagine just for a moment that this was okay for them to do. That being like this with Wilhelm wasn’t going to hurt more later on.
And closing his eyes also meant that he didn’t have to face the pain in Wilhelm’s eyes. The desperation to understand. Because seeing that lead to a guilt so crushing that it was hard to breathe - the knowing that he was making Wilhelm worry, who’s life was already hard enough as it was, and didn’t need him making it more complicated with something that was mostly Simon’s fault in the first place.
He leant into Wilhelm’s palm, eyes shutting out the dark world.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered under his breath.
As the words left his lips Wilhelm’s hand tensed.
“Why would you say that,” Wilhelm retorted, pulling his hand away when Simon’s eyes fluttered open at the pressure, so scared to hurt him.
Simon grabbed hold of his hand again and brought it back down to where their others were tangled together. He closed his eyes - not knowing what to say, and not wanting to face the question.
“Please don’t say that,” Wilhelm continued, tangling his hands into Simon’s as if he could pull the thoughts out of him through his touch.
It was all too much again; Simon closed the small amount of space between them to bury his face into Wilhelm’s shoulder. Wilhelm pulled him in close so that Simon could feel Wilhelm’s chest rising and falling steadily against his. Wilhelm’s arm wrapped around his small frame and the other supported his waist.
Soon, it wasn’t enough and his hand slid up to hold the back of Simon’s head as if to promise him that it was all okay. That it was fine if Simon couldn’t even look him in the eyes. He felt Wilhlem’s chin rest comfortably on the top of his head, and he couldn’t help but nestle further into the warmth.
“Was it Micke?” Wilhelm pressed into his curls.
Fuck.
When Simon’s reply didn’t come, Wilhelm rubbed his back softly as if to soothe the words which had caused Simon to tense in his arms. It was instantly soothing, and Simon could almost cry at how much he had yearned for this type of comfort.
Eventually, Simon managed to murmur an assent – so quiet that he hoped Wilhelm hadn’t heard it.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Wilhelm continued, proving that he had.
Simon found he didn’t have the energy to reply, so he shook his head softly ‘no’ and prayed that it would be enough.
“Ok,” Wilhelm kissed his head. “Can I take a look at your cut?” He asked, squeezing Simon closer.
Simon was slumped fully into Wilhelm at this point, with the boy supporting most of his weight. Simon would have to send him a thank you card or something afterwards, for taking care of Simon when he was like this.
Simon nodded again against his shoulder,
“Thank you. You’re being so brave, Simon,” He said softly with another kiss to his curls. One of his hands moved up to tug gently at them, the pressure soothing and grounding. It did little to encourage him to lift himself up again.
Wilhelm didn’t push him away though, not until Simon decided it was time, and sat up with a small sniffle, arms sliding from Wilhelm’s back to the arms of his t-shirt.
Simon thought he was ready, but when Wilhelm went to pull away and stand up, Simon’s fingers tightened around the material, effectively stopping Wilhelm from going anywhere.
Wilhelm immediately stilled, and watched Simon carefully. When Simon realised what he was doing, he released Wilhelm, and his gaze shot down to his lap, entirely ashamed of the needy behaviour he was exhibiting. Surely Wilhelm wasn’t going to want to be around him after this. Not that it mattered, since they weren’t together anymore, but Simon still wanted to maintain some of his dignity. Some of his protection. Giving him this meant that Wilhelm had everything. Everything to hold against him.
Contradicting his thoughts, Wilhelm reached up carefully to place his hands so they were laced together behind Simon’s neck slowly, so he could still pull away, and leant in to press a soft kiss to his forehead. Simon’s eyes fluttered shut at the warmth that spread through him, at the overwhelming sense of completion, and at the pressure of Wilhelm’s thumbs rubbing small circles into the hair at the base of his neck.
Then he was pulling away slowly but still much too soon, to rest his own head against Simon’s.
“I’ll be right back, just a moment,” Wilhelm said, soothing a line beneath Simon’s jaw with his thumb before placing a final lingering kiss to his forehead and leaving the bed.
And he really was less than a minute, although that time was still enough for Simon to feel self-conscious again, tucking his knees up to his chest on the bed, trying to focus on what Wilhelm was doing rummaging around in a small cabinet to stop himself thinking.
Soon enough he was back right next to Simon on the bed, but this time with a small first aid kit which he brandished triumphantly in his face.
Simon couldn’t stop the soft giggle from slipping out, the strangeness of the moment over-taking.
“Why do you even have that?” He asked, his own smile mirrored on Wilhelm’s face. The boy looked so pleased with himself - maybe even a little bit smug. Cute.
“It’s Hillerska,” Wilhelm shrugged as he unzipped it. “Anything can happen here.” The small light in Wilhelm’s eyes, a glowing ember of hope, made Simon’s insides go fluffy.
“That’s so not true,” Simon swatted at his shoulder and Wilhelm grinned as he fiddled with the bag.
Before he knew it, Wilhelm had an antiseptic wipe in his hand, scarily focused and efficient.
Simon had to remind himself to breathe when Wilhelm cupped his other cheek, the one that didn’t need tending to, looked down softly, directly into his eyes and whispered, “Sorry älskling, this might sting a bit.”
Simon barely mumbled a strangled okay from the back of his throat, way too quiet, the slightest crack in his voice threatening to betray the effect of Wilhelm’s words.
But Wilhelm’s expression was serious, determined, intensely focused, as he touched the antiseptic softly to an outer-section of the bruise, his other hand holding Simon steady so he wouldn’t move away.
Simon didn’t know what to do with his hands, with his thoughts, with the careful way Wilhelm was treating him. He settled for clenching his fists together, worried that Wilhelm would pull away if Simon held onto him too much. And it was too much to look at Wilhelm, to see what thoughts were passing over his face so obviously, his worry bare and flowing from his eyes, darkened by the dim light. He found himself staring blankly over Wilhlem’s shoulder, too overwhelmed for anything else.
But when Wilhelm dabbed just over a particularly sensitive part, he couldn’t help the wince, and the tears that prickled incessantly over his eyes when the stinging tried to yank him back to Micke, and his dreadful apartment.
Was it really just last night?
“I’m sorry,” Wilhlem mumbled, his thumb drifting over his other cheekbone to distract him from the pain as he continued more gently, barely even touching him with the damp material.
“It’s almost over now.”
Simon didn’t mind at all. With Wilhelm being so tender with him, he knew that he could withstand the pain — as long as he got to have this.
Simon let out a shaky breath as Wilhelm finally lowered the piece of cloth, thumb never-ceasing the patterns over his cheekbone, the ticklishness somewhat distracting him from Wilhelm’s persistent gaze. It was as if the boy was waiting for an answer to a question he had forgotten to ask.
“Did– he hurt you anywhere else?” Wilhelm asked hesitantly, eyes flitting to Simon’s lips where he had rolled the bottom one between his teeth.
“No.”
The intense look Wilhelm gave him made him squirm, and he was almost glad that the bruise would outweigh at least part of the blush that he knew was spreading across his cheeks.
“Please, Simon.” Wilhelm’s hand slid gently down his neck, eyes flitting completely unsubtly over his body as if he might have missed some kind of bruise the first time, as if he would be able to see if there was a mark beneath Simon’s clothes. His blush intensified at the thought.
“Fine, yes.” Simon rolled his eyes, pulling back from Wilhelm a bit. Only for any further words to catch in his throat once he saw the hardness that set like tungsten in the boy’s eyes, his jaw stiff.
“Go on.” Wilhelm prompted.
“I–,” He paused, thinking of a way to explain it. “I tripped and hurt my knee a bit. But that wasn’t his fault.” He was quick to assure, wanting to smooth out the tension in his face, which was definitely his fault for putting it there.
“How did you trip?” Wilhelm raised an eyebrow at him.
“He– hit me?” Simon trailed off, undercutting the nonchalant vibe he was aiming for. “But that’s different, because it wasn’t his fault.” He continued when Wilhelm didn’t say anything, just looked at him slightly incredulously as if he couldn’t believe what Simon was saying.
When a moment had passed and Wilhlem still didn’t feel like showing Simon any sign of having understood, the silence in the room began to turn from being quiet and comforting into accusing. And that made a different emotion surface: anger. Because who was Wilhelm to make any comments about Simon’s dad.
“Stop looking at me like that.” He glared slightly at Wilhelm
“Fine, sorry.” Wilhelm pulled back, and Simon sighed at the stupidity of the situation.
“But, will you still let me clean it a bit at least?”
“Fine.” Simon conceded, mostly because he was too weak to protest right now and it would be easier to just let Wille do what he needed to do, so he could leave and then Simon wouldn’t have to feel so vulnerable and confused.
“Er, do you- want to borrow some of my joggers, so we can roll them up?” Wilhelm asked, a light blush brushing his cheekbones.
Simon nodded and murmured an assent; it would be much easier, after all.
He let Wilhelm turn away while he stood up to change into a pair that the boy handed him from his draw. It felt completely unnecessary, but Simon didn’t say anything, focusing instead on the soft and worn feel of the fabric of Wille’s joggers hugging his legs.
Then he was back on the bed, and Wilhelm lowered himself off it to kneel down in front of Simon, because apparently that was something that Wilhelm also decided was necessary.
“Which side is it?” He murmured, rifling through the first aid bag again. He seemed so sombre about this whole thing. Definitely taking it way too seriously.
“This one,” Simon whispered back almost teasingly as he patted his right thigh.
Wilhelm shot him a look, but didn’t buy into Simon’s attempt to lighten the mood any further, much to Simon’s frustration. Instead, he started to carefully roll up the material on his right leg, warm knuckles brushing against the skin. It forced Simon to repress a shiver. He muttered an apology when he had to lift the material over the cut on his knee, as if the cut was the thing on Simon’s mind right now.
Wilhelm didn’t touch him for a moment, once the material rested comfortably just above his knee. It was clear that he was just itching to say something as he looked from the small gash breaking the skin, and up to Simon’s eyes.
“What.” He deadpanned.
“Nothing.” Wilhelm replied quickly, searching the magic-bag for a new antiseptic.
It didn’t hurt too badly - the soft dabs over the cut. He was even a little bit glad for the small twinges of pain, because of the distraction. The worse the pain, the easier it was to ignore the tug at his heart at the way Wilhelm was sitting in front of him, so focused, treating him as if he was the most precious artefact, the most fragile thing in the world. He detested how healing it felt for his heart, how it made him want to cry into Wilhelm’s arms when he knew it couldn’t be true, because why did he deny it then. If you care this much about what happens to me, why did you deny me.
The thoughts stayed buried in his head.
Wilhelm cleared his throat, still working his way around the cut. “So, do you think you’ll—” Wilhelm trailed off.
There it is.
“Do you think you’ll go back and see him again?” Wilhelm glanced up as he worked, feigning nonchalance.
“Why?” Simon cocked his head, watching Wilhelm, and the freckles spattered over the bridge of his nose.
“Because I don’t think you should.” Wilhelm answered, gaze fixed on his hands..
“It’s none of your business.” Simon replied, leaning back on his hands.
A soft “I know.” left Wilhelm’s lips after a long pause, barely audible.
Something shifted in Simon’s heart. Although he was technically the vulnerable one, he couldn’t help but feel the rawness in Wilhelm’s voice. Simon leaned forward slightly. Wihelm’s hair had fallen in his face a little bit, where he had been concentrating. Simon brought a finger up to trace up Wilhelm’s cheekbone slowly, brushing over a spattering of freckles, and tucked a piece of hair behind his ear, marvelling when Wilhelm’s breath hitched.
The boy finally looked up under his eyelashes. “I’m scared for you.”
Simon’s thumb repeated the path his finger made, up his cheekbone. Wilhelm’s eyes shone beautiful, a dappled hazle.
“You don’t get to be.”
Then, Simon drew his hand away in a quick sweep, and slumped back fully onto the bed. His bones ached, his chest ached, and his face and his knee throbbed pathetically. He had been so fragile these past hours, and he was so tired.
Simon pretended not to notice how Wilhelm’s administrations had gotten notably more forceful, making Simon grimace and tense a bit at the new pressure.
And then Wilhelm paused, presumably finished, except he wasn’t moving anywhere.
“I won’t go back alone.” Simon said with a small voice, staring at the patterns on the ceiling above Wilhelm’s bed.
Wilhelm finished his tending. Simon felt the material being rolled back down, and the sound of the box snapping shut.
It was a few minutes before Wilhelm came back to him; he busied himself by packing away the items and washing his hands at the sink in the corner.
Simon was still staring at the ceiling, too exhausted to move even when the blinds were rolled down, plunging the room into semi-darkness before Wilhelm leant over him to click his red LEDs on. Simon’s eyes fell shut at the soft lighting.
“Do you want to rest here?” Wilhelm nudged him softly.
Simon nodded slowly - it wasn’t a difficult decision to make. He didn’t think he’d be able to move that much anyway.
“Come on then,” Wilhelm tugged Simon’s arm. His hand was big, and warm, and Simon didn’t want him to let go. Even after he had let Wilhelm help him settle under the warm covers.
Wilhelm’s sheets smelled of him, and Simon let himself breathe them in - too tired to care that Wilhelm was watching him do it.
Wilhelm soothed the curls on his forehead, his fingers a welcome and comforting pressure, promising the bliss of safety. A wave of emotion threatened to spill out of him, so powerful that he had to close his eyes to stop Wilhelm’s mournful eyes from getting to him.
“I love you.” Wilhelm muttered. “I’ll let you rest.”
Simon stayed silent, but he didn’t think Wilhelm was expecting a reply anyway. He watched out of half-closed eyes as the boy stood up, and made for the door.
There was only a slither of light left from the corridor as the door began to close behind him.
“I love you too, Wille.” He whispered into the room.
Simon could have sworn he saw the door halt in it’s motion for a moment, just before it clicked shut.