Chapter Text
it howls. it bleeds. it stays.
The collar on his shirt is too tight. Wilhelm has to refrain himself from tugging at it once more. He doesn't want people to notice his discomfort. He knows everyone expects him to be uncomfortable, to be a mess, even.
It's not every day one buries their ex-boyfriend.
He can feel the eyes on him. People watching him closely, gauging his every move and reaction. He doesn't know what's appropriate. He knows he's welcome here; he knows he belongs amongst all these people mourning, but the two letters that have been added to the way one would refer to him make him uneasy.
Especially with him there.
He's standing next to Alex's mother, Perla, and he looks almost as uncomfortable as Wilhelm is. His hands disappear under his too-big of a suit jacket, an obvious loan from someone bigger, or something he found in a thrift shop. Alex had told him about his financial struggles, and they're very obvious now that he's standing in the middle of Alex's relatives, who are all very well-off and displaying designer, funeral-appropriate clothes.
Simon Eriksson doesn't belong here, but he's the one Alex's mother guides first inside the church, with the rest of the Bragé household. She notices Wilhelm staring at them before they cross the threshold, and offers him a tight, forced smile. Wilhelm can't answer with anything but a nod. She takes it as an invitation.
Her thin arms soon wind around his shoulders. It's not the first time she hugs him, but Wilhelm has a feeling it'll be the last. She pats his cheek. "Thank you for coming, Wille. I'm sure it means a lot to him."
Wilhelm wants to bite back that it doesn't matter if he's here or not. Alexander is not here to care anymore. His body rests in that goddamned wooden box. But he knows she means well. He knows he's supposed to nod and say: "I had to say goodbye."
Perla nods too, her lips a thin line. Her eyes are already wet, and Wilhelm knows she will quietly sob throughout the entire ceremony. He knows Alex's dad will sit straight and look unbothered the whole time, that his two little sisters will not speak a word until they really have to.
"Would you like to speak during the ceremony?" Perla asks, and Wilhelm's throat closes up.
Speak? About Alex? About their long friendship turned romantic turned sour? About how his death carved a hole in his chest he's not sure he'll ever be able to fix? About how everything reminds him of Alex, his laugh, his jokes, his little habit of sticking his tongue out whenever he got too focused? Do that in front of an assembly of people that won't care about any of this, and that also don't deserve to know any of this?
Because these memories, these moments, are Wilhelm's , and Wilhelm's only. Alexander was his not-so-secret garden, his safe place, his haven in the middle of a storm. He has no interest in sharing them with anyone. His hate of public speaking aside, he just can't.
So he shakes his head, and his voice comes out broken. He hates that it's already betraying his state of despair. "I'm not sure I can."
Perla's smile wavers, but she nods in understanding. "It's okay. You don't have to."
She gently pats his shoulder and gives a tilt of her head to Wilhelm's parents, who are watching from a few meters away, preoccupied with handing out flowers and leaflets on behalf of Alexander's family. Their parents have always been friends, and that was how Wilhelm had met Alex in the first place.
Suddenly feeling small and exposed, Wilhelm looks around. He doesn't have to look for long before he feels Erik's hand slide into his. His large palm is warm against Wilhelm's, and he squeezes his hand in a reassuring gesture. "You can still leave, Wille." He murmurs, and Wilhelm shakes his head. He can't leave. He can't, because Simon Eriksson is in there.
He tugs his brother along, following the flow of people entering the church with them. Emboldened for a moment, it fades out the second he sees him sitting in the first row with Alex's sister on his right. He slicked back his black curls, making them almost look straight. From the back, he could almost fit into Alex's family with that hairstyle, once you forget the ill-fitting clothes and his slouched back, of course. That view alone makes Wilhelm's stomach churn: Simon is everything he isn't.
Erik must sense his hesitation, because he starts walking in front of him, pulling him along the rows of benches that slowly start to fill. The sheer number of people is making him uncomfortable: Alexander didn't know that many people. Most of them are there for show, to show that they're supportive of his family. Because his family's reputation matters to them, Alex doesn't.
Erik marches without looking at any of them, aiming for the second row, but Wilhelm spots Henry, sitting by himself in the fourth one, on his left. So he quietly tugs Erik in the opposite direction, sliding next to Henry without a word.
At first, Henry doesn't look up. His eyes are fixated on his hands; he's fidgeting with his bracelet. It's a thin braid, consisting of three colors: blue, purple, and pink. It's a bit faded now, and a bit tighter on his wrist than when they made it, three years ago.
It was Wilhelm's therapist who advised that he find some kind of manual activity to calm his nerves whenever he felt too anxious. Walter had suggested friendship bracelets, as his sister already had the supplies, and it was pretty late when Wilhelm had made them stop the movie they were watching, his hands trembling after a scene none of them had anticipated. Walter had launched himself into a complicated set of knots with blues and greens, while Henry kept it simple with a braid. Wilhelm had to watch a tutorial on how to make a four-threaded macrame bracelet.
Wilhelm still wears his on his left wrist, and the pastel blue and green are so faded they're almost alike. He reaches up to Henry, holding his palm up in a silent peace offering. Henry hesitates a little, but lets go of his bracelet to take Wilhelm's hand and squeeze it tight. "I'm sorry." He whispers, and Wilhelm tenses, because Henry doesn't have anything to be sorry for.
He shakes his head. "Where's Walter?" Because Henry and Walter have been attached at the hip ever since Wilhelm had started to date Alex, the two finding solace in hanging out with each other while Wilhelm honestly ditched them for his relationship.
Henry grimaces, his thumb caressing the back of Wilhelm's hand in circular motions. "Running late. He wasn't in town this week." His tone is dry, as if he resented Wilhelm for not knowing about Walter's plans. Maybe he should've. But he's hardly been speaking to anyone for the past week. Since that dreaded phone call.
The reproach is so clear in Henry's voice that Erik tenses beside Wilhelm, reminding him of his presence. He doesn't intervene, though; it's not his place to do so, and it's not a good time. Henry himself notices he's being unfair. So he lets his head drop against Wilhelm's shoulder. "Can we talk later? The three of us?"
"Today?" Wilhelm's voice is charged with emotion, and Henry is not stupid: he knows nothing will go well today. He shakes his head, sniffing behind his fingers. "No. Sunday? I'll make pancakes."
Pancake Sunday. A tradition they haven't honoured ever since Wilhelm and Alex broke up about eleven months ago. Not that he's counting (he is). Three days seems early, but Wilhelm knows he needs it. His answer is the good one, the one he hasn't forgotten despite their slight fall-out: "I'll bring chocolate spread and jam."
Henry's smile is tiny, but it's enough.
Around them, people are almost all seated, and the priest is taking place. Wilhelm's hands are both taken, and he doesn't want to let go. He sees Henry shuffle a bit closer to him to let Walter slide in just in time before the priest starts talking.
It's all empty speeches and sorrys, and we won't forget this or that quality about Alexander. Wilhelm feels nauseous, and the more time he spends on this bench, listening to people describe someone he loved - loves - so dearly makes him want to scream and run and tear down these stupid pristine perfect pictures his parents chose.
On Wilhelm's phone, there are pictures of the real Alex. Drunk at a party, a stupid sparkly cowboy hat dangling from his neck, his cheeks red with happiness and alcohol. Hanging from Wilhelm's neck after he's just been spun around after three daunting weeks spent apart during summer break. Sticking his tongue out to the camera, both eyes focused on his nose, Henry - or was it Walter? - giving him bunny ears with blurry fingers behind his head.
That's the real Alex, the one Wilhelm knows and misses. The one lying in that damned casket in front of them. It feels wrong to have it there. It's closed, too, because no one wants to see what's left of his love. No one will be able to see him one last time to say goodbye. The one person who saw him alive last, who saw him take his last breath, is in the church with them. And he has the guts to stand up.
Wilhelm grits his teeth as he watches Simon Eriksson slowly step up behind the microphone. He gets a slight pat on the shoulder from the priest, and nods slightly. From where Wilhelm sits, he can clearly see how he swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down his throat. Partially illuminated by the sun shining through the church's windows, he's a vision to behold.
In any other circumstances, Wilhelm would've admired Simon. He would've wanted to run his fingers through his hair, to undo the layers of hair gel and let his curls bounce free. He would've wanted to press kisses along the perfect line of his sharp jawline, to try and taste that smooth skin. He would've wanted to make him laugh, just to see what joy would look like in those wide, dark eyes.
But right now, as Simon's croaked voice fills the church with a song, Wilhelm hates him.
He hates how he doesn't seem to have any imperfections, unlike Wilhelm, and his acne that won't disappear even with a strict routine. He hates how, even with how small he is, he's hard to ignore, while Wilhelm doesn't know what to do with his long limbs. He hates how his plump, rosy lips curl around the words, assured despite the clear tremble of his voice, while Wilhelm's moles are larger than his lips, and his words are often a pile of mush.
He hates that Simon's singing a duet all by himself. He hates that it has been a song he sang with Alexander, that it meant something. He hates it.
He hates it because it used to mean something to him . To them .
Wilhelm doesn't want to cause a scene, but listening to this boy singing their goodbye like it was his own is too much. He lets go.
He lets go of Henry's hand first, then of Erik's, and he slips away, walking along the wall to avoid the stares. It's not proper to leave while Simon, Alex's official boyfriend, is saying goodbye in such a moving way. It's not proper, but Wilhelm has to.
He has to, or he will either burst into tears or punch someone, preferably this perfect opposite of him that Alexander chose to date after he left for Gothenburg.
Outside, clouds are dark, heavy with rain that will inevitably fall down on them. Perfect for a burial. He places a hand on his chest, tries to breathe.
"Remember the square, Wille! Breathe in slowly, count to four…"
Four. He has to count to four. Four.
He takes a step, then another. Four of them, and turns left, a square. Alex's praises grace his memories. "You're doing good, Wille! Continue! It'll pass."
Wilhelm does four squares; the number reassures him. It doesn't make it easier, but it helps. He leans against the stone wall, the cold, hard feeling against his back a welcome grounding.
"Are you okay?"
Wilhelm's head whips to the side, startled by the sudden question. Wasn't he alone?
But surprise is quickly replaced by a pungent, hostile feeling. It's green, muddy, and stinky, but it's there, filling Wilhelm's insides with a desperate need to do something stupid and cruel. Instead, he snarls: "Peachy."
Simon takes a step back, clearly taken aback by Wilhelm's bite.
"I'm sorry… Stupid question." He mumbles, biting the inside of his cheek in a contrite grimace that has no business being fucking cute .
Is it possible to slap away the cuteness?
"No shit." Wilhelm spits, and turns away from him, hoping Simon will get the hint and leave him be.
Simon doesn't move; he fucking stays there. He's looking at Wilhelm, and he can feel it. It's infuriating, and Wilhelm takes a deep breath.
He wanted to stay, to go back home with his parents and his brother, to seek comfort within his family. But Simon doesn't fucking leave, and if he stays one second more, he will push him away, say something cruel. Simon doesn't deserve his cruelty, or at least he tries to remember that he doesn't.
So he steps down the stairs, heading home. If Simon doesn't leave, he will.
A warm hand catches his wrist.
"Wait, Wilhelm-"
"No!"
Wilhelm whirls around and breaks free from Simon's hold with a little more force than necessary, making Simon stumble backwards, his hands raised up. As if he wanted to protect himself from a blow. From Wilhelm's blow.
Stunned by how the boy looks even smaller now, almost scared of him, Wilhelm deflates. His eyes land on Simon's right hand, slowly lowering as he understands Wilhelm won't hurt him. His fingers are bruised, his knuckles purple. His eyes search for Wilhelm's, wide and glistening with unshed tears.
He almost pities him. Wilhelm can't stand it.
He runs. He runs and doesn't look away.