Chapter Text
Here goes nothing.
Simon blows out a long breath and pushes open the door. A smell of disinfectant and overcooked vegetables greets him and he flinches. There are things he really doesn’t need at 9 on a Saturday morning. He tries to breathe through his mouth and walks up to the reception, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum floor.
The gray-haired man behind the glass window blinks up at him over the edge of his coffee mug. He looks pissed off for some reason and automatically, Simon pushes out his chin and squares his shoulders.
He clears his throat. “God morgon”, he says pleasantly and follows it up with a polite smile.
The man, Ove according to the name plate on the counter, raises an eyebrow. “God morgon.” He waits.
Simon fights down the flutter of nerves. “I… uhm… have an appointment with Dilan Amiri.” With annoyance he registers how unnaturally high his voice sounds.
Ove nods slowly. “Right, you’re one of our new delinquents.”
Simon bristles at the word, he wants to protest. But – well, Ove is right. So, he nods wordlessly.
“Down the hall, last door on the right”, Ove says, pointing his coffee mug in the direction.
“Thanks”, Simon answers, forces another smile and starts walking. He lets a nurse who is pushing a woman in a wheelchair pass and walks down the corridor, deeper into the building.
The last door on the right is open and he can hear an annoyed voice talking. He takes another deep breath and pokes his head through the door. A huge desk takes up most of the space in the room with two chairs standing in front of it. There’s a shabby, old-fashioned, orange-colored couch to his right and the left wall is covered in filing cabinets and bookshelves. The window across from the door looks out over the grounds in the gray light of the cloudy day.
The person behind the desk has their back turned. Simon can only make out a head of short, black hair above the backrest of the office chair. A coily cable leads from the chair to the phone on the desk.
“Yes, of course”, the voice says suddenly, startling Simon.
“Yes, you too. Bye.”
A hand appears and slams the receiver down. The voice mutters something in a language that sounds like Turkish and Simon doesn’t understand a word, but if the tone is anything to go by, it’s a string of curses.
Simon lifts his hand and carefully knocks on the wooden doorframe.
The chair swivels around.
He clears his throat. “Hej. God morgon.”
Two dark brown eyes run him up and down and Simon self-consciously tugs on his jacket. He feels naked, exposed. Like he cannot hide anything from those eyes.
“God morgon.” The expression is stern. “I’m Dilan Amiri. They/them. Head of this fine establishment and the person that’s not going to accept even the slightest hint of bullshit from you. So don’t even try. And you are?”
Simon swallows. Clears his throat again. Inconspicuously wipes his clammy hands on his pants. “Simon Eriksson”, he says, holding out his right hand. “He/him”, he adds hastily.
Dilan’s lips quiver with the hint of a smile. They nod as they shake Simon’s ice-cold hand. “Welcome, Simon. Sit down.”
Simon does as he’s told, pulling out one of the chairs, then awkwardly wrestles his arms out of the shoulder straps of his backpack and sets it on the floor in front of him.
Dilan rifles through a huge pile of files on their desk and eventually pulls one out. They flip it open and scan the document inside. A sigh, a disappointed shake of the head. “Drugs?” Dilan asks, fixing him with their eyes. “Really?”
Simon feels the blood rush into his cheeks. He could try to explain. He could say that it isn’t like that. He isn’t like that. He did it to protect his sister and to get his money back. He doesn’t. Because it doesn’t matter. He did it. There’s no denying that. He did something rash and stupid and wrong. And he’s here to receive the punishment the judge saw fit. To make it right.
Dilan flips a page. And another one. “Ok, Simon. Looks like we’ll be having the pleasure of your presence for quite some time.”
100 hours. The memory of the cold panic that gripped him when he heard the number is still fresh in Simon’s mind. It has simmered down since, after he broke it down into days and weeks. Ten hours a week for two and a half months doesn’t sound quite as unmanageable anymore. It’s still a lot. But doable.
“We’re just waiting for our second newbie”, Dilan says as they shut the folder and put it back on top of the pile. “So I don’t have to do the whole briefing twice.” They glance at the clock on the wall above the door. “He should be here in a few minutes. Would you like something to drink in the meantime? Coffee, tea, water?”
Simon shakes his head. He’s too nervous to get anything down anyway.
Wordlessly, Dilan turns to the computer and starts typing something. Simon is left trying his best not to nervously wiggle his leg and studies the assortment of knick-knacks on Dilan’s desk. There’s a wooden, bicolored puzzle cube, a rainbow flag and a nonbinary flag, several unicorn figurines, a vase with flowers that seem to have died of thirst weeks ago, several empty mugs with ridiculous prints and withered tea bags, a vast number of pens, a stuffed sloth, a bottle of glittery-blue nail polish, two screwdrivers, a Lego Wonder Woman, hand lotion and a huge glass jar full of licorice candy.
Voices swell outside and the quickly approaching sound of rubber soles creaking on linoleum prompt Simon to turn around. For a second his mind is unable to compute what his eyes are telling him. Standing there, in the doorway, hand raised, paused on the way to knocking, with his ridiculous mullet and the nose ring that plunged a substantial part of the country into hysterics a few weeks back, clad in gray jeans and a black bomber jacket, is Wilhelm. As in Prince Wilhelm. Of Sweden. Second in line to the throne.
The Bad Boy/Party/Rebel Prince respectively, depending on whatever he’s done to warrant the media’s attention.
Simon closes his mouth.
“God morgon”, the prince says and steps into the room, chewing on his gum. He takes the headphones off his neck and stuffs them in his black messenger bag.
“God morgon, Wilhelm. Welcome”, Dilan answers and gestures to the second chair next to Simon. “Please have a seat.”
Wilhelm flops down and nods towards Simon. “Wilhelm”, he says.
“Simon”, Simon answers and, snapping out of freeze mode, finally manages to tear his eyes away. What the fuck has he done to deserve this? His sentence did not entail having to endure the country’s second most spoiled brat as company on top of everything else. He knew it. It was too good to be true, too easy.
His neighbor Pinar came round their house the day after the court hearing and told him that Kvällssol retirement home, where she works as a nurse, was always willing to give youth offenders a place to work off their hours. Simon gratefully accepted her offer of helping him with the application. He thought he hit the jackpot when he received the confirmation. Kvällssol is within biking distance of home and doing some kitchen or garden work sounds entirely fine. Less so now.
Of course he knows that the prince received a community service sentence for his club fight where he headbutted some guy, breaking part of his face. He vividly remembers the satisfaction at hearing that despite his royal status Wilhelm wouldn’t just get away with something like that. He does not know what the fuck the prince is doing here, in Bjärstad, in this room, with the royal palace at least a 45-minute drive away in Stockholm.
“Ok then”, Dilan says and looks at Wilhelm. “I’m Dilan Amiri. They/them. The person who’s gonna tell you what to do for the next few weeks.”
Wilhelm keeps chewing his gum, his face unimpressed.
“First things first, both of your drug tests came back negative. So, well done”, Dilan continues. Their eyes lock in on Simon. “I want to make it very clear, that I can demand another one whenever I deem it necessary.”
Heat crawls up Simon’s neck. It’s not like that! He swallows and nods. His heartbeat is drumming in his ears and he stares down at a tiny stain on his knee. Probably tomato sauce from last night’s pizza. He refuses to care what the other two think of him. Let the fucking Punk Prince think that he has a drug problem. Who gives a shit? Not Simon. Definitely not. Plus, the Party Prince and his posh friends probably guzzle up more pills on a normal weekend than Simon ever tried to sell. The difference being that they have the means to weasel their way out of any potential drug charges.
Simon gives a start when Dilan’s hands clap onto the desk. “Ok. Rules! Phones remain in your lockers. There’s no smoking inside the building. No drinking, no drugs. Nowhere. Do as you’re told. You answer to just about everyone here, meaning you’re at the very bottom of the pecking order. Royal or not.”
Wilhelm makes a noise and Simon isn’t sure if it’s amusement or annoyance that’s tugging at the corner of his mouth. It’s hard to tell with the chewing.
“Don’t talk to the residents”, Dilan rattles off. “If you do, do it at your own risk. You’re gonna have to make up for the missed time. And rest assured, some of them will be racist, homophobic, misogynistic and, yes, I daresay even republican. Deal with it.”
This time Simon is certain that it’s a snort he hears from his left. Dilan is looking at him again and despite their brash words Simon sees traces of an apologetic expression. He gives a tiny nod of appreciation in return.
Dilan turns away and grabs something from a plastic box.
“These are your badges. Please wear them visibly at all times so everybody knows you’re allowed to be here.”
Simon – temporary staff the letters spell out. Simon doesn’t know what he expected but he’s flooded with relief that he won’t have to carry his offender status for everyone to see.
“Have you thought about how you’re going to distribute your hours?” Dilan asks.
Simon’s fingers close and open the clip on the badge. “Uhm, yes. I could do Wednesdays and Fridays, 4 till 7, and then four hours on Saturday. Starting whenever you need.”
Dilan turns to the computer. They nod. “Yes, that should work. 9 am on Saturdays is good.” They turn towards Wilhelm. “What about you? It would be convenient if you two can coordinate, but it’s not necessary.”
“It’s fine”, Wilhelm answers.
Dilan keeps looking at him expectantly. When he doesn’t react except for his jaw working the gum, they ask, “Do you maybe need to check that… with someone… or your schedule maybe?”
Wilhelm shakes his head. “It’s fine”, he repeats.
Simon can tell that Dilan is suppressing an eyeroll as they turn back towards their computer. A few seconds later the printer springs to life and Wilhelm and Simon are handed a sheet of printed out paper each. They are supposed to get a signature on there after each shift from Dilan or whoever has been supervising them last. Simon’s insides feel leaden at the sight of the very long, very empty timetable on the paper in front of him.
He takes a deep breath. Two and a half months. It’s not that long.
“I cannot tell you yet what kind of work you’ll be doing. But since we’re terribly understaffed in just about every single department, I’m sure you’ll get a nice, varied experience. Any questions at this point?” Dilan looks back and forth between them. Both of them shake their heads.
They follow Dilan out of the office, down a corridor, now three pairs of shoes squeaking on the floor, Dilan’s gigantic bunch of keys clinking on the carabiner fastened to their belt loop.
“This”, Dilan says, pushing open a door, “is the staff changing room.” They fiddle with the keys and hand each of them a small one with a number on the tag. “These are the keys to your lockers. Please deposit your personal belongings here. Including cell phones. And jewelry”, they add, gesturing to Wilhelm’s hands onto which he apparently tried to fit as many pretentious rings as possible. Ok, maybe the snake one is pretty cool. And they do make his fingers look…
“Understood?” Dilan’s voice snaps Simon’s attention to the fact that he’s been gawking at Wilhelm’s hands.
He hums his response with no fucking clue about whatever he just agreed to. His cheeks feel too warm and he forces himself to keep his eyes fixed on Dilan while they point out the shelves with the white garments they are supposed to wear whenever they work in the kitchen.
“Garden workwear can be found in the shed. I’ll show you when we get to that”, Dilan says. “We’re starting with kitchen today. So, please change and meet me outside in three minutes.” They pull a phone from their pocket, give the two of them a nod and leave the room.
It’s quiet. And has the room gotten smaller? Simon is very aware of the prince’s presence suddenly and it annoys him to no end. What is wrong with him? He gets changed in the locker room at school all the time. This is not different. It should not be different. Prince or not.
Determinedly, he walks over to the locker with the number 36, crams in his backpack and his coat and kicks off his shoes. He barely notices Wilhelm walking to a locker across from his and he only vaguely keeps track of the sounds to maybe guess what’s happening behind his back. Swiftly, he deposits his pants and hoodie in the locker and steps up to the shelf with the kitchen clothes.
Simon hesitates, his hand hovering between the ‘S’ and ‘M’ compartment. Ill-advised pride wins in the end and he takes a pair of ‘M’ pants. Even as he’s unfolding them he knows he’s going to helplessly drown in them. It’s too late now, because Wilhelm is standing next to him, in his underwear, hand purposefully heading towards the ‘M’ pile and…
Tattoo.
Holy fuck.
Simon blinks and quickly turns away. With as much dignity as possible, he pulls up the pants, props his foot on the bench and rolls up the hem. In a cool way.
“Yes, it’s real”, Wilhelm says with a hint of irritation in his voice.
“Wasn’t asking”, Simon rebuffs him.
He was wondering but he’s not going to give the prince the satisfaction of admitting it. Along with the rest of Sweden, he’s seen the pictures from Wilhelm’s last vacation, taken on some beach, his naked torso covered in several black markings. They were all over the news. Ayub tried to convince him and Rosh that the images were fake, arguing that there was no way the royals would allow the prince to get real tattoos. Which was an argument that most media seemed to favor, too. Granted, that was before the nose ring.
The snake Simon just saw, winding up Wilhelm’s forearm, curling around a crown, was definitely real. The mental image makes something stir deep inside of Simon and he quickly pushes it away, proceeding to roll up his second pant leg. He fastens the strings on the waistband or tries to, still ending up folding it over to make it at least sort of fit. After stepping back into his sneakers, he takes a top from the ‘S’ pile and pulls it over his head. He closes his locker and without looking back steps outside.
So, the prince has a tattoo. No big deal. Probably more, then. Because if one is real why should the others be fake? And why the fuck is Simon still thinking about them?
He takes a deep breath and walks over to the large window overlooking the parking area. Dilan is still talking on the phone a few meters down the corridor. A door opens and falls shut and Simon doesn’t turn around.
“Alright”, Dilan calls out. “Follow me, please.”
Simon does as he’s told and walks behind Dilan and Wilhelm down some more corridors. If he doesn’t want to end up hopelessly lost in this building, he should probably start memorizing succinct points along the way and what does the writing say?
With an annoyed inward groan Simon tears his eyes away from the prince’s right arm that’s staring him right in the face, poking from the short sleeves. There should be no princes in the first place, he reminds himself, and if there have to be they shouldn’t be allowed to get tattoos, making them seem all interesting and alluring and like they have an actual personality apart from ‘entitled prick’.
“Merhaba, Kerem”, Dilan calls into the kitchen after pushing through a heavy double door. “I’m bringing you two pairs of strong… well, two pairs of hands for today!”
The humid air, laden with overpowering cooking smells, hits Simon in the face like a brick wall.
A man’s head pokes around a corner. “Merhaba, Dilan”, he answers and looks Wilhelm and Simon up and down as he comes closer. There’s a flicker of recognition on his bearded face when his eyes land on the prince but he doesn’t seem surprised. Simon guesses that everyone was probably informed and briefed or something. Everyone except him.
Kerem shrugs. “We’ll make it work.”
Dilan leaves and after they politely introduce themselves, Kerem instructs them to clean the dishes that are sitting on several laden trolleys. So, for the next few hours, Simon scrapes leftovers into the bin, places plates, cups, glasses and cutlery into one of the industrial style dishwashers and retrieves them 5 minutes later, steaming and hot to the touch.
To Simon’s surprise and slight annoyance, the prince seems not entirely lost in the kitchen and isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. They barely talk except for the occasional ‘could you hand me that?’ or ‘careful, hot’, which may or may not earn Simon an amused eyebrow twitch. The nose ring gets less distracting as the hours pass.
When they are done for the day, they are both flushed and sweaty, hair sticking to their foreheads and Simon would really like a shower before changing into his own clothes. The employee shower in the changing room does not look particularly appealing, though, and he doesn’t have a towel. So, he strips off the white work clothes and tries to soak up at least a bit of sweat with the stiff fabric before stuffing them in the laundry bin.
He keeps his gaze fixed on the floor and does not look to confirm that the rest of Wilhelm’s tattoos are real. It’s bad enough that he catches a whiff of the prince’s scent when he passes him on his way back to his locker. Because underneath the smell of fresh sweat there’s something there that tickles a hidden, feral part of Simon, urging him to close his eyes and take a long, deep breath through his nose until his lungs are filled and it’s all he can sense.
He’s fairly certain that the kitchen fumes must have steamed his brain to mush along with the vegetables or else he wouldn’t even seriously entertain the idea for the split-second he does.
They have Dilan sign their sheets and afterwards walk down the corridor next to each other, wordlessly. In front of the building Simon has to turn left towards the bike stands while Wilhelm keeps on towards the drive-up.
“See you Wednesday, I guess”, Wilhelm says and for a moment it looks as if he wants to extend his hand.
Simon nods curtly. “Yeah. See ya.”
The September air is heavenly cool on his heated skin when he rides off the grounds and swerves around the black limousine parked in the no-parking zone. Of course, the princeling gets picked up by his personal chauffeur.
Then again, riding his bike through the busy streets isn’t actually that bad and it feels nice to stretch out the aching muscles in his back and legs. Contrary to his muscles, the nervous knot in Simon’s stomach from this morning has definitely loosened. The people he’s met so far seem nice enough and even though he felt a careful reserve, it wasn’t hostile.
After taking a long, hot shower he’s just roaming the fridge for something edible when the doorbell rings. He lets his friends in and Ayub and Rosh jostle into the kitchen, in the middle of some kind of argument. Simon doesn’t interfere, instead heats up some leftovers and sits down at the table. Eventually, Rosh turns to him.
“So how was it?” she asks, snatching a piece off his plate.
He swats her hand away with his fork. “Go get your own food”, he mumbles through a mouth full. “There’s more in there.” He nods towards the fridge.
Rosh considers it for a moment, then jumps up and gets herself a plate. “You haven’t answered the question”, she says over her shoulder.
“It was ok”, Simon answers.
Ayub narrows his eyes. “But…?”
“Nothing”, Simon mumbles and shovels another forkful of food into his mouth.
“Simme, come on”, Ayub says. “We both know there’s more. You have that look.”
Simon rolls his eyes. “Fine.” He swallows and gulps down some water. “So”, he starts, leaning back in his chair. Rosh sits down across from him and both of his friends watch him expectantly. “You know the Prince? Wilhelm?”
His friends nod. “You mean the hot one?” Rosh asks and lifts a laden fork to her mouth.
“He’s not… What?” Simon replies, thrown off his tracks.
Rosh chews and shrugs. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m telling you, since he got that nose ring… kinda had a small sexuality crisis for a moment there.” She puts another bite into her mouth. “Maybe I’m, like, one percent bi after all.”
Ayub chuckles. “He’s not my type, but I get it. I for one think he’s definitely giving off some vibes.” He lets his wrist go limp and wiggles his eyebrows.
Simon scoffs and shakes his head. “You know, you don’t have to be gay to get a nose ring. Straight people can get them.”
“Yes, but do they though?” Rosh asks as she clears the remains off her plate. She is wearing a discreet little stud in her nostril today.
“I suppose you’re right”, Ayub says to Simon. “He'd have loads of other reasons to stick some metal in his face. Mommy issues for starters.”
Simon can’t believe his friends. Thanks to them he’s been thinking about nothing but Wilhelm’s nose piercing for the past minutes. To distract himself, he takes his and Rosh’s plates and carries them over to the dishwasher.
“I kinda dig his mullet, too”, he hears Ayub say. “I never thought I’d say it, but… he’s really pulling that thing off.”
“Totally”, Rosh replies. “Look at this.”
Simon finds both of them bent over Rosh’s phone when he returns to the table.
“Oh wait”, Ayub says excitedly and fumbles for his own phone. “I’ll show you my favorite picture.” He starts typing on his screen.
Rosh turns her phone so Simon is forced to look at a picture of Wilhelm, sulking next to his brother and his parents. He knows that the photo was taken on Erik’s birthday. Conservatives across the country were appalled by the younger prince’s lack of decorum when he completely ignored the traditional dress code for the event and turned up in a pink long sleeve top with an open black waistcoat over a pair of black jeans. If Simon remembers correctly it was also the day he premiered his mullet.
“Admit it”, Rosh says. “He’s a total snack.”
Simon will do no such thing. No matter what that broody look on Wilhelm’s face as he’s glaring into the camera does to him. And the stupid nose ring again… That guy is still a member of the royal family and therefore symbolizes everything that is wrong with this society. He won’t fool Simon with his rebel attitude. For all he knows Wilhelm just listened to too much pop-punk and is being a teenage terror to his parents. He’ll likely clean up to become just as bland and prissy as his older brother the second he turns 18 in a few months.
“I knew you’d agree”, Rosh grins and pulls back her hand.
Simon chooses not to dignify this with an answer.
“Here!” Ayub calls out and turns his screen towards them. It’s a picture of Wilhelm giving the finger to the camera as he’s getting on a bus. “Now this is what I call hot.”
And dammit, he isn’t wrong. Simon isn’t even sure if it’s the rude gesture or the fact that the prince is using public transport that tickles him just the right way.
“Wait”, Rosh says, pushing Ayub’s phone to the side, “why are we talking about Pretty Prince again? Not that I’m complaining, but… I sorta expected there to be a point.”
Two pairs of eyes look at Simon. To his annoyance he can feel his cheeks heat up. “Uh – remember how he got community service for that club fight from a year ago?”
His friends nod and keep looking at him, not yet having made the connection.
“Guess who showed up at Kvällssol today?”
“Nooo!” Rosh calls out.
Ayub’s mouth drops open. “Are you kidding me?”
Simon grimaces. “I wish”, he huffs.
“How? Why?” Rosh asks.
With a shrug Simon replies, “No idea.”
“Didn’t you ask him?” Ayub knits his brow.
“God no!” Simon shakes his head and holds his hands up defensively. “I’m not gonna talk to him. It’s bad enough that he’s gonna slow me down for the next weeks when it turns out he doesn’t know which end of a broom to use.”
Rosh gasps and suddenly grips his arm. “Are the tattoos real? Did you find out?”
“Uh, I think the one on his arm is real, yes”, Simon says slowly.
Rosh shoves Ayub’s shoulder. “See! I knew it!”
Ayub rolls his eyes. “Fine. You win.”
“Did you find out what the one on his chest says?” Rosh asked, an excited glimmer in her eyes.
“No!” Simon calls out exasperatedly. “No, I did not shamelessly ogle the prince in the changing room.” Warmth builds in his chest.
“Well, you should”, Rosh retorts.
Simon shakes his head at her. “I definitely shouldn’t”, he says. He really shouldn’t.
“Then be low-key about it”, Ayub suggests. “You have a couple of weeks. Just sneak a few glances now and then.”
“And why are you so interested in his tattoos?” Simon asks, trying to banish any images of princes in nothing but a pair of boxers from his mind.
Ayub and Rosh exchange a glance and shrug. “A general thirst for knowledge?” Rosh grins and Simon shakes his head again.
“You guys are the worst. I’m glad my misery is entertaining for you.”
“Oh, come on, don’t be like that”, Ayub says, nudging his ribs. “Where’s your silly side?”
“Oh, she left”, Simon shoots back. “The second I got that court sentence. Kind of takes the fun out of things.”
Ayub’s grin dies on his lips. He sighs. “You’re right. Sorry. That isn’t fun.”
“No, it’s not”, Rosh agrees, “but it doesn’t mean your life is over and you have to become a fucking kill-joy.” She studies him silently and adds, “You’re still allowed to have fun, you know? Don’t punish yourself, too.”
Simon swallows. His throat is tight and his eyes are starting to burn. He takes another sip of water. Clears his throat. “Please don’t tell anyone at school about the prince, ok?” he asks.
Ayub’s eyebrows shoot up. “Did his people make you sign something?”
Simon shakes his head. “No. I just don’t want people to know. I’m gonna lose all my street cred.” He tries to go for a grin. “Also, I’m gonna need that V button you got at their campaign booth.”
“Why?” Ayub asks.
“To put it on my backpack. Show the Prince who he’s dealing with and that I won’t be swayed by his tats and his dumb nose ring.”
Rosh snorts. “200 kronor that he’ll have a big fat crush on him in two weeks. Tops”, she says to Ayub.
Ayub considers it for a moment, then slaps his hand into Rosh’s. “I’m gonna give him four”, he says.
Simon rolls his eyes and pushes back his chair. “I hate you”, he mutters and stomps off towards the kitchen. He will not, under no circumstances, crush on the fucking Prince. He has some dignity and common sense left, after all.