Chapter Text
@swearike
isn’t simon a nobody? how did he bag the fucking prince?
@anders_hjk
@swearike probably scamming the prince out of his money. He doesn’t actually love him
@mans34
Poor prince :( this is so heartbreaking to see.
@pellemelle
I bet he’s a typical latino lover. The prince deserves better
Simon shuts his phone off and unceremoniously tosses it on his bed. The comments have been nonstop since the Jubilee. Wille hadn’t mentioned them, so Simon tried not to think about it, but he wonders if Wille is getting them, too, or if it’s just Simon bearing the brunt of the consequences. Surely not.
But it doesn’t stop Simon from feeling angry, from digging his nails into his palms because these people don’t know him. They don’t know what they’ve gone through just to hold hands for once in broad daylight without fearing an unwanted photo leaking to the press. They don’t know the chaos, the betrayal and anger, the sickening feeling of disgust that coated Simon’s skin every time he looked in the mirror after the intimate video between them was leaked. They know nothing , but they talk like they know everything.
Simon picks up his phone again, and opens to the last comment he saw.
@simmesimons
@pellemelle you don’t know anything about me
Wille grew up with slander like this, probably ever since he took his first steps. He probably dealt with slander for every little action he did, the public analyzing his every move, word, facial expression, until Wille no longer had a part of himself that was solely his. Simon wonders how he did it. He feels like he’s burning up from the inside, his screams clawing to be let out because they don’t know him .
Simon picks up his notebook—the one he uses exclusively to jot down the lyrics that come to his mind sporadically. His hands scribble frantically, spilling every bit of rage hiding in the crevices of his chest onto the page because he can’t scream, and he can’t tell anyone how much these comments have been affecting him. They shouldn’t matter because they don’t know him , but they speak like they do. They act like they do because, at some point, they had seen every intimate expression on Simon’s face. They have seen Simon laid out naked, every sliver of skin on display while he tossed his head back, lost in pleasure. They witnessed Simon bare during one of his most vulnerable moments.
And now they act like they know him.
When Simon finishes drawing out the jumbles in his song notebook, he puts himself in front of a camera for the first time since the Jubilee—since Wille came out about them. And he sings. He bears himself to the internet one more time—this time, out of his own volition—and he tells them what he thinks of their comments. He tells them what he thinks of his love for Wille, because that’s what it is.
It’s love.
It’s love in its rawest form—love tying Wille and Simon together with invisible strings no matter how hard the monarchy and the public try to tear them apart. It’s love no matter how much, deep down, Simon wanted to tear it down, too, because he was scared, lost, furious that he had been left alone to deal with the outcome of the video. He had tried to burn down the remains of his love for Wille in an act of vengeance, but it burnt him instead. He couldn’t stay away from Wille despite his greatest efforts to move on. And now they’re here. They’re here going against the monarchy’s wishes, going against the public outcries.
They’re here as each other’s revolution—one another’s new beginnings.
Sure, it’s a challenge, but it’s worth it. Love is worth it. Wille is worth it.
Typical latino lover.
Simon posts the video of himself singing to his account, his fingers trembling as he holds his phone. In just seconds, his comment section is flooded.
@celestialgate
I didn’t know you could sing! That’s amazing
@willow321
Beautiful AND a talented singer? The prince is so lucky
@rusteez_
I’m so jealous ! would you mind giving me pointers on how to sing ? :D
Simon giggles and shuts off his phone. For a moment, he forgets about those violent comments, expressing their displeasure towards him as an individual. He basks in these new comments instead, taking the time to read each one of them and thanking them for the compliments. Then he rereads them and tries to burn each word into his retinas.
If they don’t know him, then he’ll show them who he is. He’ll prove he’s so much more than just the crown prince’s pretty arm-candy—or whatever they’re calling him.
“Simon!” Linda calls from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready!” Simon stuffs his phone in his pocket and saunters out to the dining room, where his mother has already set up the table with spaghetti and their utensils. On the other side of the table sits the drug test his mother wants him to take. Something dull beats in him when he looks at it, something that aches weakly—incapable of doing anything else.
He drenches his spaghetti in ketchup, glancing across the table where Sara used to be. She disappeared just the other day—probably to live with their dad. Part of Simon bubbles with hollow rage. Deep down, he misses her. He misses her sassy quips and her disgust whenever he’d add ketchup to any of his meals. He misses how she’d kick him underneath the table whenever their mother wasn’t looking just to get a rise out of him. He misses yelling at her to get out of his room when she barged in unannounced. Her absence leaves his chest agape, cutting right to the heart. It throbs and bleeds whenever he turns to make a joke to her, only to see her usual spot empty.
But alongside that longing for his sister is the anger; the anger that she had mercilessly betrayed him without hesitation. She knew, Wille knew, that August had uploaded the video, but no one had told him. For some reason, he was always the one being left out of the equation. It was his face in the video, but everyone knew it but him. He’d felt lost when he found out. He still feels lost, unsure where he went wrong, what he’d done for her to choose August over him when she knew how deeply August’s actions had carved into him.
She knew of the days where he struggled to go outside for fear that someone on the street would recognize him from the video. She knew of the times he was catcalled while trying to get home, people calling him an internet star for having a sex tape of him out in the open. She knew all of this, and she still chose August.
Had I done something wrong? Was it payback for staying in contact with my dad even though I promised I wouldn’t? Was there another reason she was angry with me, even when I tried my best to put her needs first?
And now his own mother believes he’s a drug addict, despite his numerous attempts to convince her that he’s not. That was just another thing he had done for Sara: stealing his dad’s drugs and selling them to August in hopes that he could get Sara into their inner circle, help her connect with the other students and feel more welcome. And she did connect with them. She connected with them so well, she even went and slept with the one person Simon hates more than his dad.
He wants to slam his fists into his head and tear his hair out from the curdling anger, but instead, he just feels an ache in his ribs and heavy exhaustion. He’s so tired of being angry at everyone.
The air lingering around the dining table is stiff and awkward, neither Simon nor his mother daring to speak to one another. There is a furrow in Linda’s brow, and her lips twitch every now and then, signaling how she wants to speak but decides against it. Simon doesn’t dare make eye contact with her.
When their unbearable dinner is over, Linda wordlessly takes the plate from Simon and heads to the kitchen to wash them.
Simon’s phone rings. Wille <3 flashes on the screen, and Simon grins widely. Even though they’re official now, Simon’s heart still races like it’s giving chase every time Wille’s name pops up on his screen. He eagerly accepts the call. “Hey, Wille. What’s up?”
“Hey, Simon.” Wille’s voice echoes on the other end, a low timber that sends Simon’s heart flying through the clouds. Oh, how Simon misses him. He knows he saw Wille at school earlier, but it’s hard, knowing they can’t embrace each other in public like they normally do when they’re in private. He misses burrowing into Wille’s arms and breathing in his earthy cologne, his brain buzzing with nothing but content. “Um, I saw the video you posted on your Instagram.”
“Oh,” Simon says, playing with the place mat in front of him. “Well, what— What did you think?” Does Wille think the lyrics are too cheesy? Simon doesn’t think Wille would say that to his face even if he did, but maybe he found it silly. Or maybe he found it cute, and they could giggle about it tomorrow by the lockers.
After all, it is a song he wrote for Wille. He just gave everyone else the privilege of hearing it as well.
“I liked it.” Simon’s heart soars higher. “It was really touching, but… Simon,” something about Wille’s voice makes Simon stiffen, “you can’t post things like that.” Just like that, Simon’s heart drops, falling through the clouds and harshly cracking against the concrete, knocking the wind out of him.
“Oh… Okay.” Simon swallows. “Can I… Can I ask why?” Did I do something wrong? Again?
As if Wille read his mind, he says, “You didn’t do anything wrong, Simon. It’s just that, content like this can result in severe backlash from the public. You need to be more careful with how you present yourself. Everything you do, from now on, represents me and the Royal family.”
“Oh.”
“I know, I know, it really sucks.” Wille sucks in a breath and nearly chokes on it. “These aren’t my own feelings; I want you to know that. But I can’t have you posting songs like this with suggestive lyrics. Farima and the rest of the Royal Court are doing their best on their end, so please, try to lay low, alright? And… I want to ask if you could delete the video.”
Is it possible for your heart to sink lower than it already has?
Simon wants to say no. He wants to fight back. This is his account. Why should they care about what he posts? Why should they care just because he sang a song for him and Wille? What had he done wrong? The Royal Court wants to shut his voice down, wants to strip a part of him as punishment for falling in love with a prince. If he can’t communicate his thoughts through songs, then what else is there for him to do?
But Wille isn’t saying this because he wants to.
Everything you do, from now on, represents me and the Royal family.
Who’s to say Wille won’t face consequences because his boyfriend refused to be obedient. The last thing he wants is to cause trouble for Wille. Or tarnish his image—the image of his family.
“Alright,” Simon sighs.
“I’m sorry, Simon.” And Wille truly does seem upset, which is why Simon easily forgives him. It’s not his fault.
This is just how it is.
When Simon opens his account, he faces a myriad of comments under the video. He scrolls through each one.
@matslog8
God what an attention seeker XD
@tick4gYfY
@willow321 talented where? He’s barely hitting those notes
@yippeebe7
Fucking golddigger.
@nimbleurban
Attention seeking whore
There’s a DM waiting for him. Simon swallows thickly, fighting against the shrinking of his esophagus.
50rr0w
[Sent 8:30PM]
kill yourself, honestly. Not only are you a desperate slut trying to destroy the prince’s image with that sex tape you obviously orchestrated, but you’re also posting songs that make him look bad? What on earth is wrong with you?
Simon’s throat closes up completely. His stomach churns from the spaghetti he just ate. He fights the urge to vomit it all up. He tries to steady himself against the edge of the table, but he feels himself tipping. His bones morph into lead in his skin and his vision blurs. He collapses back in his chair and rereads the message.
Kill yourself.
He reads it again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And—
“Mi corazón,” Linda’s voice cuts through his racing thoughts like a butter knife. For the first time in days, Linda looks straight at him, her face scrunched in an act of concern. “Are you okay?”
Simon nearly chokes on the rock lodged in his throat. He blinks his eyes rapidly to get rid of the black spots, and wipes at the corners of his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I have some homework to do now, so if you don’t mind…” Simon excuses himself and scurries away, tucking himself into the far end of his bed as he thinks back to the comments and the DM.
Wille was right, wasn’t he? Simon’s going about this the wrong way, smearing Wille’s reputation one stupid act at a time. What was he thinking, writing that song and posting it?
He glares down at the notebook that’s still open on his bed. The words smile back at him, taunting him, mocking him for his stupidity. Each syllable twists and sneers until Simon can’t take it anymore. He slams the notebook shut and throws it in the general direction of his desk. He hears it land on the floor with a booming thud.
He goes back to the video he posted. He reads the sweet comments people had left, but he’s blinded by the amount of detest radiating off his screen, overshadowing the compliments.
Simon’s finger hovers over the delete button.
Attention seeking whore.
Simon deletes the video.
***
“Fuck.” Simon digs his nails into Wille’s broad shoulders, whimpering as he comes all over his chest. Wille isn’t too far behind. He pants into Simon’s neck, thrusting a few more times before filling the condom and collapsing onto Simon’s chest. He’s heavy. Still, Simon wraps his arms around Wille and snuggles into his shoulder, inhaling his cologne and relishing in the silence of his mind for the first time in a while.
Right now, no one exists but them. No one in the world exists except Wille in Simon’s arms, cuddly post-orgasm and mindlessly kissing a column of Simon’s neck.
Wille kisses Simon’s temple, his lips hot against his skin. “I love you,” he whispers into Simon’s ear, his voice giddy.
Simon’s chest clenches. “I love you, too.”
He pulls Wille down for a kiss. After satisfying the boil in their veins, their kiss is now languid. They let their lips dance over one another, slowly breathing into each other’s mouths and taking the time to bask in the glowing warmth.
Wille moves away first, saying a quick, “Be right back,” and pecking Simon one last time after he whines in protest. When Wille pulls out, Simon winces at the wet squelching and the dull throb between his legs.
As Wille throws the condom in the trash and searches for a cloth to clean them up, Simon’s head begins to clear. He watches Wille flit about the room, tugging his boxers back on and wetting the cloth under the sink in the corner. The peaceful bliss shatters as everything crashes back into Simon: the comments, the video—the several videos—and that one DM that still haunts him when he sleeps.
Attention seeking whore.
Simon closes his legs and ignores how raw he feels.
A few other messages came in after that first one.
Somewhere in the distance, hands roam over his torso and his thighs. The touches are faint—like a ghost.
A couple of the messages had been from the same person who sent the last one: I can see that you read my message. Are you just ignoring me now? If so, then fuck you. You’re both a pathetic coward and a fucking parasite, sucking the life out of the prince and forcing him to come out. You’re disgusting.
Simon hasn’t had the time to read the other DMs in his inbox.
There’s another soft touch somewhere on him. He can’t sense where.
Maybe he should open the other messages once he gets home.
Some people have taken to flooding the comment sections of his older posts, tearing apart his looks and clothes. Those, he could’ve dealt with, until someone tried digging their claws into Sara, too. Simon was foolish to think they wouldn’t get their hands on his family’s information. Simon still grows hot with anger when he thinks of her, but he couldn’t stand watching them spew nasty remarks about his sister’s disability as if she could control it. He made the mistake of replying to a few comments when he shouldn’t have.
Then the comments increased.
Everything Simon did, it only seemed to punch him harder in the gut than the last hit.
Maybe he is fucking everything up like people said.
A touch to his cheek. Another touch to the side of his neck. A warm hand cups Simon’s face, and he blinks Wille back into focus. Wille lays on his side, facing Simon, and he frowns, his eyes muddled with worry. Simon wants to kiss the expression away. “Hey, Simon. What’s going on? You disappeared for a second.”
Simon opens his mouth. “I’m—” He stops.
He wants to say, I’m alright.
He wants to say, Something’s wrong with me.
Because he can’t stop thinking about all the insults he’s drowning under. All he sees when he closes his eyes is people telling him he should end his life. All he sees is people calling him an attention seeking whore who doesn’t deserve anything, much less Wille’s love and efforts. And I’m starting to think they’re right.
“I’m okay. Just tired, I guess.” Wille opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but quickly closes it and nods. Simon tries a smile. “How are those therapy sessions with Boris and August coming along?”
Wille throws his arm over his face and groans into the crook of his elbow. “It’s so annoying. I mean, what are these sessions even going to solve?” Each word is stamped with a cutting edge to it, like Wille is barely containing himself from throwing a fit. But Simon still sees the anger on his face, in the curl of his lips and the tight furl between his eyebrows that Simon wants to gently smoothen out, and in the way his eyes bounce around the room like he’s too restless to settle. “Boris wants us to talk about our feelings and sort out our differences, but there is nothing there to talk about. August is fucked in the head for what he did to us, and if he thinks I’m ever going to forgive him then he can die hoping.”
Kill yourself, honestly.
Simon lets out a slow, shaky breath. “Is it really necessary to harbour such strong anger for a long time?”
Wille whips his head around to face Simon, and Simon pointedly doesn’t meet his gaze. “Are you seriously taking his side right now? Out of all people, you should know how I feel when it comes to August.” I do, Simon wants to say . I did. “I seriously thought you hated him for what he did to us.”
“I do hate him,” Simon says, “It’s just…”
When the sex tape first came out, Simon had been livid. But above all, he was terrified. His face was everywhere, on every single social media he opened and every news article on Google and in the magazines. Every time he tried to pleasure himself, all he thought about was how one of the most private, intimate parts of himself were posted for the whole world to see. He thinks about how vulnerable and exposed he felt, how he had been stripped of his privacy, his dignity, his confidence. Everywhere he went, people stared at him like vultures, like they wanted to claim the kid that captured the prince’s attention and see what the hype was about.
There had been a time shortly after the video, where Simon had finally felt secure enough to head outside and dodge anyone’s prying eyes. It had been weeks after Wille denied the allegations that he was the second party in the tape, and the media had begun calming down, seemingly bored of milking the story. People no longer stared at Simon as much anymore. The magazines covering the scandal began fading from the grocery store shelves. So stupidly, Simon had accepted an invitation from Rosh and Ayub to attend a party.
After all, he deserved to clear his head after a brutally chaotic few weeks.
Big mistake.
The party had been at an older guy’s house, someone who was Ayub’s coworker’s older brother’s friend or something—Simon doesn’t remember. The living room had been dark, the only source of light being a few red, pink, and blue LED lights strung along the ceiling and the shelves. The music had blasted in Simon’s eardrums; the chatter had echoed along the four walls; the alcohol had smelled pungent, though Simon didn’t get his hands on it.
And no one had noticed him. Ayub had introduced him to some of his coworkers, and none of them had batted an eye. Simon hadn’t spotted a single trace of recognition in their gazes, and he had relaxed, sinking into the 2010s pop song and letting his friends sweep him into the throng of dancers.
Then he’d felt a hand slide along his waist and a body press against his back. Simon had immediately tensed, his temples beginning to sweat as he was held in the grip of someone visibly older and stronger than him. He had scanned the room for his friends, but no one paid him any mind. This was a party, and there was bound to be drunk dancing. So Simon tried to let it slide. He tried to sink into whoever was behind him, letting them grope his hips and pull him back into their chest. He tried to convince himself that the churning in his stomach was butterflies, not nausea.
But the person had leaned in close, breathing into his ear as they said, “God, you’re even sexier in person.”
Simon’s blood had turned to ice in his veins because he knew what they were talking about.
They were talking about the video.
And suddenly, Simon couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He didn’t take the time to bid his friends goodbye, simply tearing himself away from the person who felt him up and running out of the house. The cool night air smacked him in the face, and even though he hadn’t been drinking, he sobered up. His ears cleared of the ringing from the booming music and his head finally processed what had happened.
His body burned, the sensation of those hands on him still prominent. He felt tainted, violated beyond belief because someone groped him after watching that sex tape. They saw him. They saw him moaning into the abyss with his hand in Wille’s hair as Wille went down on him. They saw him laid out on Wille’s dorm bed, vulnerable for what was only supposed to be Wille’s eyes.
Even if Simon were to set his clothes and his skin on fire, the feeling of those hands wouldn’t leave his body.
Simon sighs and faces Wille. “Of course I hate August. I just think that avoiding these sessions isn’t going to help the situation. Whether we like it or not, we’re stuck here with him, and the monarchy will always protect him.”
“So you’re saying I should just suck it up and go along with it?”
“No, I—”
Of course, Simon hates August. He never thought he’d hate anyone more than his dad, but August managed to climb the list in record speed.
But… he’s so tired of being angry at everyone. He’s so tired of wondering why people keep betraying him. He was angry when Wille denied his part in the video and left Simon to fend for himself. He was—is—angry at Sara for betraying him when all he has done is try his best to protect her. He is angry at his mother for not believing in him and claiming he’s doing drugs. And maybe he’s also angry at himself for everything. He’s angry at himself because he keeps getting things wrong. He wishes there was a handbook that could guide him so he’d stop making mistakes and fucking it up for everyone he loves.
“Simon?” Wille looks worried again. Simon’s insides feel gutted. “You disappeared again. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Simon’s carefully rehearsed I’m okay sits on the tip of his tongue, ready to slap a bandage over every crack in Simon’s expressions, every error in his facade. But it doesn’t come out. Something else does. “Actually, I’ve been getting a lot of comments lately. About us.”
Wille shuffles closer and tucks a curl behind Simon’s ear, indicating that he’s listening. The curl, too short to stay behind his ear, bounces back to its original spot. Wille twirls it around his finger. “What kind of comments?”
“Well…” Simon inhales sharply and winces at how his lungs tighten and threaten to slam shut. “There are a lot. Some people are calling me a golddigger and that I’m trying to scam you out of your money.” If the comment hadn’t felt like a kick to the balls, Wille’s twisted expression would’ve been funny. “Yeah. And there are others saying that I’m not”—Simon fiddles with his fingers— “I’m not good enough for you and I’m corrupting you. And it just… It really fucking hurts because we fought so hard to get here, and… Do people really think I’m not good enough?”
Wille stops playing with Simon’s hair, and Simon mourns the loss of his touch. “Shit. Did they say anything else?”
Simon shrugs. He strategically leaves out the death threats.
Wille runs a hand through his hair, sighing out heavily. For some reason, Simon has to stop himself from flinching. “Don’t listen to them, alright? Comments like that are inevitable. It happens in scenarios like this. As long as you don’t engage with them and let them think what they think, it should die down. Besides, they don’t know us, so it shouldn’t matter.”
He’s right. It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
It does because it’s all Simon could think about since the Jubilee. It does because it’s been haunting Simon’s every waking hour, and even at home, he looks over his shoulder after feeling eyes on him that aren’t really there.
Simon wants to get mad—claim that Wille isn’t listening to him. He’s not considering my feelings and how hard everything is impacting me. Simon feels like people are following him every step he takes, every street he enters. He can’t breathe without being criticized, without feeling like there are pins and needles in his lungs, slowly emptying out the air in his chest until he can’t get any oxygen into his body.
But what right does Simon have to get angry?
He can’t make things harder than it already is for Wille because he’s struggling, too. Simon sees the dark bags decorating the underside of Wille’s eyes. What right does he have to complain about this when Wille is experiencing the same scrutiny under the public eye? What right does he have to complain when Wille has had his privacy invaded from the moment he was born and gets shamed for every little mistake he makes?
For once, Wille is less tense, whether his mind has been clearer lately or because of the sex they just had. How cruel would it be if Simon escalated things when they’re not arguing out of stress for once?
Simon is so, so tired of picking fights. He’s so tired of being angry.
Kill yourself, honestly.
Simon smiles and shoves the stirring, creeping dread down to the pit of his stomach. “You’re right. It shouldn’t.”
Wille returns his smile. He leans in and pecks Simon’s forehead, then trails his lips down until he’s licking into Simon’s mouth. When he pulls away, his smile widens. “I love you, Simon.”
Attention seeking whore.
Typical latino lover.
Fucking golddigger.
Kill yourself.
Kill yourself.
“I love you, too.”
***
For the next few days, Simon believes he can tackle the comments on his own. They get repetitive, brokenly saying the same things over and over until Simon almost wishes they’d come up with something original. The only times he engages are when he senses that the comments are gearing up to attack his family, too. He steers them clear of his mother and sister, leaving himself wide open as the only target for them to shoot at.
Linda inquires why he’s been on his phone more often. Simon forgoes an answer in favour of a shrug. This would just be one more thing on her shoulders that she doesn’t need to handle. Not when she already has a daughter affiliated with a criminal and a son who’s potentially on the same path as his dad.
When he flips to a new page in his song notebook, his pencil hesitates over it. He scribbles out a few lyrics, then crosses them out. He tries again, and crosses it out. When the page is covered with more scribbles than coherent words, Simon grumbles and throws the notebook off his bed.
His phone pings. For a split second, his heart soars, thinking it might be Wille. Then his heart plunges. Did I do something wrong again? Nowadays, when Wille messaged him, it was rarely for anything good. It doesn’t turn out to be Wille, though.
Ayub
[Sent 6:04PM]
hey you up for a game? i got a new console and wanted to test it out
Simon gnaws on his bottom lip before answering.
Simon
[Sent 6:05PM]
sorry :( too much homework to do
Ayub
[Sent 6:05PM]
aw man :/ alright i’ll try asking rosh. good luck
Simon glances at the pile of homework he’d already finished in class. He doesn’t know why he lied. It’s been a while since they last played, but he hasn’t had much interest lately.
Instead, he lays down and drowns himself in the comments that have flooded his posts. He’s made it a habit of reading them before going to bed, as if that would change anything. Maybe, deep down, some part of him wants something to change. Maybe if he reads them enough, they will no longer feel like a knife to the underside of his ribs. Maybe then he can learn to ignore them like Wille asked him to.
He can’t tell Wille he still obsesses over each hateful comment he receives. He doesn’t want to envision Wille’s look of disappointment when he hears Simon isn’t coping with it as well as he’d hoped.
But Simon is trying. He really, truly is. He just needs some time.
He doesn’t realize he fell asleep with his phone in his hand until he’s scrambling to get to Hillerska the next day, forgoing breakfast because he hadn’t set his alarm. His phone is on its last limb, so he shuts it down for the day. While on the bus, he stifles a yawn into the palm of his hand and watches the blooming trees flit past his window.
Upon arriving at school, he instantly senses that something is amiss.
The eyes watching his every move increase. He walks past his locker and everyone whispers into their hands, darting looks in his direction when they think he’s not paying attention. His skin prickles with goosebumps. He curls into himself, holding his textbooks to his chest and staring down at his beat-up sneakers.
When he walks into his first class of the day, every conversation falls mum as over a dozen pairs of eyes swivel to look at him. Simon shifts his weight onto his other foot. He takes a seat, sinking heavily into the plastic chair and willing himself to become one with the floor. Everyone is pointing at him. Some regard him with pity, while others gaze upon him with disdain or mockery.
Had they seen the comments on his posts? Surely, they must’ve. Is that what this is about? Was everyone in this room assessing whether he was a whorish golddigger, too?
At the last second, Wille walks into the class and makes a beeline for his seat next to Simon. He smiles at Simon like usual—the same furl of his lips that makes his cheeks bunch up. He doesn’t seem to notice the eyes watching them, or maybe he does, and he’s used to ignoring them. Did they always watch them like a hawk? Maybe this is normal, and Simon’s excessively long sleep has made him paranoid.
The eyes turn to face the front of the class when the teacher walks in, but the remnants of their gazes still cling to Simon like a second layer of skin. Simon tentatively scratches at his wrists, willing the itch to go away. It doesn’t. He digs his nails into the skin until it turns pale under his fingers—until all he can pay attention to is the dull ache when he releases it.
The day goes by painfully slowly. Simon ducks underneath every gaze, every whisper. He tries not to scratch at his wrists, but he does, anyway. He scratches until they turn red. The burn brings him a sense of relief, even if only for a few moments before it settles.
At the end of the day, Simon heads to the music room for choir practice. As it has done all day, the voices fall silent when people spot him. They pull away from their devices, shutting off their phones and tucking it into their back pockets.
Involuntarily, Simon finds his eyes drawn to August. He hasn’t seen him since the court meeting at the palace all those weeks ago. No, Simon purposely avoided seeing him, actually. He turned the corner whenever he heard August’s voice down the hall. He scrambled out of his seat and ducked out of the library every time August was a few bookshelves away. But avoiding the guy who made his life hell isn’t as easy as he thought because he’d still run into him every other day.
Now, August looks at him like he’s swallowing everything he wants to say. In his gaze, something twinkles—like… sympathy, maybe? Simon doesn’t know. He doesn’t dare stare longer than he has to.
But that doesn’t stop the eyes that have been permanently glued to him all day. Simon pulls out his phone, powers it up, and is instantly bombarded with a spam of notifications.
Rosh
[Sent 7:34AM]
yo wtf
have you seen the news?
Ayub
[Sent 9:12AM]
fuck those guys honestly. don’t mind them simon :(
Simon
[Sent 4:20PM]
what’s going on?????
everyone’s staring at me
Ayub
[Sent 4:20PM]
[attached a link]
Rosh
[Sent 4:21PM]
I’m sorry simon. we’re here if you need to talk
Simon’s phone shakes in his hand as he clicks on the link Ayub sent him.
Everything You Need to Know About Prince Wilhelm’s New Beau!
Simon’s thumbs leave a sticky residue of sweat all over his screen as he scrolls through the article. It starts with general information, like his birthday, where he was born, what his mother does for work. Somehow, they even managed to get their hands on a few of his childhood photos.
Another link underneath the article catches Simon’s eye, and he clicks it.
Simon Eriksson’s Dark Past Revealed!
The first thing he sees is a picture of his family before his parents divorced. The next picture is just one of his father.
Simon taps down the hiccups in his throat, signaling he needs to vomit what little he ate today.
At Hillerska’s 120th Jubilee, Crown Prince Wilhelm released an official statement, confirming his identity in the viral sex tape from December with fellow classmate, Simon Eriksson. Since then, Prince Wilhelm and Eriksson could be spotted wandering the premises of their school or strolling through Bjärstad together. This reveal proved to be quite the news, resulting in a myriad of homophobic protestors against the monarchy, as well as numerous supporters who were touched by Prince Wilhelm’s goal to tear down outdated traditions. Despite not coming from a wealthy family, Eriksson somehow managed to capture the dear Prince’s attention.
But is he as charming as the Prince makes him out to be?
Recent reports show Eriksson’s relation to his father, Micke Eriksson, who has been out of the family picture since Eriksson turned twelve. He has allegedly been known for having a severe alcohol and drug addiction, causing riots on the streets outside his apartment or occupying unauthorized spaces. Sources say Eriksson’s parents divorced due to these addictions, uprooting the family and sending them into turmoil. Now, Eriksson lives with his mother and sister in Bjärstad, while their dad lives apart from them.
But despite these complicated family relations, Eriksson is known to have stayed in contact with his father, visiting him regularly behind his mother and sister’s backs. Could Eriksson be sneaking around due to a secret? What is he hiding?
Some have begun speculating that Eriksson is well on track to follow in his father’s footsteps. There’s no telling what contact with an alcoholic can do to you. Others are worried Eriksson might influence his Royal Highness to join him in these damaging recreational activities.
One way or another, it seems as though Eriksson is set to destroy the monarchy’s image.
The country only hopes Crown Prince Wilhelm knows what he’s doing.
Simon scrambles around the corner, far away from the eyes, and presses himself against the cool wall. His lungs tighten until he’s smacking a hand against his chest to release what little air it holds onto.
How the fuck did they find out about Micke? The article didn’t attach any photos of him going to and from Micke’s house, which makes sense. Simon hasn’t seen him in months. This, paired with his mother’s accusations that he must be taking pills, leaves Simon scratching harder at his wrists.
Several comments sit underneath the article.
@bjarsta.andreas
This is worse than i thought. Hope the prince gets away from him as soon as possible
@midnightsorrow
I think everyone is being a little unfair. It’s not his fault his dad’s an addict
@tr1nkl3
idk what else you’d expect from a lowlife commoner
@shitsandgiggles
The prince was out of simon’s league anyway. He deserves someone on his level
The voices by the lockers bounce around him, trapping him in his little corner until he feels paralyzed. Distantly, he hears the creak of the music room door opening, signaling the arrival of several other choir members. Someone is playing something on the piano. Simons can’t tell what it is. Every sound grows further and further away from him until his only companion is silence. And the pounding of his heart in his eardrums. And the nausea inflating in his stomach.
“Simon?”
A cool hand touches Simon’s face, and Simon startles. He stops clawing at his wrists.
Wille looks back at him, a tentative smile on his face. “Hey, why haven’t you gone into the music room yet? Rehearsal is about to start.”
“Um…” Simon presses the base of his palms into his eyes, betrayed by the onslaught of tears that threaten to spill out. “I just needed a minute. I don’t know… Everyone’s staring at me today, so…”
“Oh.” Wille frowns. “Why?”
Simon shrugs.
Did Wille know already? Had he seen the news? Did the Royal Court call him regarding the article, how the commoner was fucking things up again?
Wille smiles at Simon obliviously and for some reason, Simon’s heart settles. Wille already knew about Simon’s alcoholic dad, but this article is something else entirely. This is no longer a family secret; it’s become accessible public information. But if Wille is here, his smile equivalent to the warm summer sun, then he must not have seen it yet.
The country only hopes Crown Prince Wilhelm knows what he’s doing.
It’s only a matter of time before Wille sees the article, but for now, Simon can lean into his oblivion and bask in his approval—no matter how temporary it may be.
“Hey, whatever’s going on, don’t let their stares bother you too much. You’re with me. Say the word and I’ll fight them off for you.” It’s hard to take Wille seriously when he smiles through each word, but it does the trick. His infectious smile coaxes a giggle out of Simon. He lets Wille place a chaste kiss on his lips, take him by the hand, and lead him to the music room.
A girl plays a few notes on the piano, while another hovers behind her, chortling into her hand. “I could be your revolution,” the girl at the piano exclaims mockingly. Simon immediately recognizes the notes.
It was the song he wrote and posted on his Instagram—the one Wille asked him to delete. Next to him, Wille stiffens, and he throws a reluctant glance in Simon’s direction.
The girls don’t notice Simon standing by the door, laughing with each other as they purposely butcher the song Simon wrote specifically for Wille, about their love. It was a song he had written from the bottom of his heart, no matter how cheesy it was. He’d carefully curated each note and poured every inch of himself into the song, and now he watches as people tear it apart, note by note.
Was this how everyone had reacted upon watching the video? Had he just gone and made a bigger fool of himself?
Simon shrinks into himself, pulling his sleeves over his reddening wrists.
The girls finally notice Wille and Simon standing by the door and they scramble to get up. Wille tries placing a comforting hand between Simon’s shoulder blades, but Simon shrugs him off. Their choir teacher enters the room and they all get into position. Wille tries to catch Simon’s eye one last time, only to give up when Simon actively avoids his gaze.
Even in the back row, with no one facing him, the itch reappears underneath Simon’s skin. He tries to follow along—he really does—but his throat shrinks. He can’t get any of the lyrics out. He croaks. Something wraps around his ankles and slowly drags him down, lower and lower until Simon’s ears clog. Nothing exists around him but an ominously black abyss and the thrashing of his heart in his chest. It threatens to burst out of his skin.
Thousands of people watched that video. Were all those people at home right now, laughing about it into their hands with their friends and family? Has Simon become a collective joke amongst Sweden? Paired with the recent news about his father’s addictions, Simon wouldn’t be surprised if no one was on his side anymore. Soon enough, Wille wouldn’t want him, either.
Wille wouldn’t want me.
Simon trembles as wave after wave of oncoming tears slam into him. He tries to keep them at bay. It doesn’t work. A few tumble out and thickly roll down his cheeks.
The prince was out of Simon’s league.
Kill yourself, honestly.
Simon’s lungs constrict until his esophagus closes up completely. He thumps at his chest to no avail. I’m going to die. He panics, scrambling in the abyss and reaching for something— anything —that could stabilize him and drag him out. His hands brush through nothing but air.
He sinks a little deeper.
He’s sleepy.
“Simon?”
His thoughts are overtaken by his galloping heart. All he hears is the throbbing of his skull. He can’t breathe.
“Simon. Hey.”
Something in the void reaches out and touches him, light and soft against his overwhelmed senses. He leans into it, chasing the contact until he seizes something solid. A hand. He recognizes it. But he can’t pinpoint it for some reason.
“Step away from him! Give him space!”
A voice soothes the trembling of Simon’s body, caressing his sides and grounding him against a sturdy surface. The voice trails along his neck and the side of his face until it combs through the furrow between Simon’s eyebrows. He follows it.
“Simon, can you match my breathing?”
What does that mean? Simon’s hand is guided towards the solid anchor. Something beats against Simon’s palm. It’s a chest. Underneath his hand, the chest rises and falls gently. Simon rushes to match it. His lungs burst open, and suddenly, Simon is gasping. He greedily sucks in breath after breath, urging his lungs to unstick.
“That’s it. You’re doing great.”
Wille’s face comes into focus, each of his pores becoming visible as Simon’s vision clears. Wille clasps Simon’s hand in his own, pressing it against his chest.
The room materializes before his eyes, and Simon finally notices the crowd studying him. They’re all gathered around him in a semi-circle, standing a few feet away. More eyes. More eyes are watching him.
Simon’s shirt is plastered to his torso with sweat. His heart has begun to slow, but he still feels traces of it in his ears, blocking his hearing. His body shivers minutely, twitching in protest every time he tries to relax his muscles.
“You’re alright,” Wille says. He brushes Simon’s sweaty bangs off his forehead. “I’ve got you.” He cautiously handles Simon to his chest, his fingers holding him as if he were made of porcelain. On any other day, Simon would’ve been peeved, but right now, he seeks out every bit of contact he can get. He lets Wille’s cologne wash over him, enveloping him until all of his senses are replaced with just Wille.
The choir teacher clears her throat. “I think it would be best if Simon went home for today.”
Wille nods. “I’ll walk him to the bus stop, if you don’t mind.” He deems the silence as an answer, shoulders Simon’s bag, and guides him to his feet. It’s a testament to Simon’s exhaustion that he doesn’t argue.
While exiting the room, Simon’s legs wobble like jello. Maybe if he weren’t so tired, he’d revisit the meltdown he just had. Maybe if he weren’t exhausted, he’d dwell on it until it consumed him and sent him into another panic. But he doesn’t think about it, because it’s taking everything in him to stand on his feet. Wille is his anchor, holding him in place lest he sinks into the floor and reinvites the black abyss.
It takes a few years, or a few minutes, to get to the bus stop. Wille hesitantly hands Simon’s bag over before regarding him with a contemplative look. “Are you going to be alright? I can take you straight home.”
Simon looks over Wille’s shoulder at Malin, who hovers a safe distance away from them. He smiles. The muscles in his face strain. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Maybe a nap will do me some good.”
Wille doesn’t seem convinced, but he lets it go. He wraps his arms around Simon and kisses the side of his neck. “I love you. Take care of yourself, okay? And text me when you get home.”
Simon presses his face into Wille’s shoulder. “Mhm. Love you, too.”
He suppresses a cry when Wille pulls away first. Instead, he waves goodbye, watching Wille return to Hillerska while he sinks into his heavy coat that currently does nothing to block him from the wind.
If he weren’t so exhausted, he’d cry over the guilt of Wille having to witness him at his lowest.
***
When Linda walks through the door, she startles upon seeing Simon at the dining table, picking at a granola bar he’d tried to force down his throat.
“Simon? Why are you home so early? I thought you had choir practice.”
Simon hums. “I did, but…” For a second, he thinks about telling her. He thinks about telling her of the article, of the comments, of the panic attack in the music room. But he takes in the bags under his mother’s eyes, and her protruding cheekbones from her recent weight loss—probably from stress. “Choir ended early, so I came back.”
“I… see.” She drops her keys and purse onto the table. “Well, is there anything you’ve wanted to eat tonight?”
“Actually, I was planning to drop by Ayub’s house for the evening. He invited me over to test out his new console.”
“Oh, alright.” Linda gives him a tightlipped smile. She regards him for a second, searching his face thoroughly. “Well, have fun, then. Don’t stay out too late.”
Simon pulls his shoes on. “I won’t.”
The walk to Ayub’s house isn’t long, but with the way his feet melt into the sidewalk, he might as well have been walking in molasses on his way there. Ayub answers the door after one knock, and Simon must look worse than he feels because Ayub sympathetically pulls him in for a hug.
“Sorry about the article, man,” Ayub mutters. “That was really shitty of them to do.”
Simon shrugs. He’s been doing that a lot lately. “Yeah, well, I guess that’s the life of a prince’s boyfriend.” When Ayub’s frown deepens, Simon bumps their shoulders together. “Relax, it’s not that bad. It was shitty but I can handle it. Now where’s that console of yours?”
Ayub accepts his question for the diversion it is, leading him to the living room where Rosh is already set up. She doesn’t stand up to greet him, but she does ask, “You doing alright, Simon?”
“It’s just a dumb article. So what if they're making up lies about me? I anticipated this when Wille and I started dating.” He didn’t, actually. He really, really didn’t. “It’s just easier to forget about it.” Both Ayub and Rosh consider him with pitying expressions. It makes Simon’s skin crawl. “Can you two not look at me like I’m helpless? I’m doing fine. ”
Ayub sighs and takes a seat next to Rosh. “Alright, alright, but if you need anything…”
“We’re here for you,” Rosh finishes. “Fuck those journalists, honestly.”
“Fuck those journalists.”
Rosh throws a controller into Simon’s hand. “Now sit down. I already kicked Ayub’s ass five times. Let’s see how well you hold up.”
Simon doesn’t hold up well. Not at all. Rosh beats him more than she beat Ayub. Still, he keeps going because that’s what’s easiest. He lets Rosh beat him a sixth time, then seventh, then eighth. He watches Ayub get a single victory before Rosh beats him in the next round. Simon takes all the bubbling panic and the looming sense of self-loathing and tucks it in the furthest corner of his mind. This—shutting down his feelings until it eventually sizzles out—is what he’s good at.
Even for an instant, he forgets about how everyone sees him as a golddigger; how they believe he is undeserving of Wille; how he’s destroying Wille.
For an instant, he isn’t sinking.
The sun has just disappeared underneath the horizon when Simon deems it time to leave. The evening sky is a cool navy blue, giving Simon a glimpse of a few early stars. The sun took with it any hint of warmth left in the wind, and Simon snuggles into the collar of his coat to prevent the weather from slipping into his shirt.
Only a few people are out at the moment—some people wandering with friends, others peering into corner stores. Other than that, everyone is tucked into the comfort of their homes. The faintest tinge of alcohol coats the air, and Simon wrinkles his nose when he catches the smell. A gang of guys sit by a gas station, nudging each other while passing a beer bottle back and forth. One of them spots him and realization immediately flashes on his face. Simon throws his hood over his head and speeds up.
He prays they don’t acknowledge him.
The laughter halts behind him. Then he hears footsteps against the concrete and, with it, the scent of impending drunken disaster grows stronger.
Simon fumbles in his pocket for his phone.
“Hey, wait!” One of the voices snickers, while another shushes him.
Simon grips his phone in his hand like a lifeline.
“Jesus Christ, dude! We’re talking to you.” One of them cuts him off, and Simon stumbles back. There’s three of them, all looking to be in their late teens to early twenties. One of them already has a full beard. They easily tower over him, huddling around him and blocking off any chance he has of escaping. Even if he did, he doubts he’d be able to outrun them.
“What do you want?” Simon shrinks into himself. “I don’t have money.”
One of them, his hair a dull blond, laughs in disbelief. “Shit, dude, we’re not beggars or anything. We’re just a little curious. You’re that Simon guy, right? The one that’s dating the prince.”
The guy in front of him—a man with a skull tattooed in the center of his neck—steps into Simon’s space. Simon gets a whiff of the alcohol coating his tongue. “Obviously, he is. Look at him, he’s got the same hair and everything. Tinier in real life, though.”
Simon stiffens, eyes darting around for something, anyone, that could assist him. There’s nothing but a broken glass bottle a few meters away. He closes his eyes and tries to count to ten.
“Didn’t news come out today that your dad’s some kinda druggie?”
“Wait, really?”
“Yeah, dude, it was, like, all over the news. Something about his dad being an alcohol and drug addict.”
The one with the beard claps Simon on the shoulder, pulling him closer. Simon holds his breath and carefully doesn’t flinch. “You think you could get your hands on some of those drugs for us, too?”
For a second, Simon’s panic spikes. Did they somehow discover that he gave drugs to August and the rest of Hillerska? If so, how would they know that? It wasn’t included in the news article.
Simon tries to shrug the man’s hand off him. “Sorry, but I don’t take drugs, or drink alcohol. You’ll have to find someone else for that.”
The guy with the tattoo clicks his tongue in annoyance.
“That’s disappointing.”
“Doesn’t matter, dude. The kid says he doesn’t do them.”
Simon’s getting out of here. Unscathed.
“So what’s the prince like in bed? Is he as good as you made it seem in the video?”
“Right? He made it look like he was getting it good.”
The ground opens up beneath Simon’s feet and, suddenly, he’s sinking again. He doesn’t remember the last time someone confronted him about the video—maybe that time at the party with Rosh and Ayub. It’s been months. The video felt like lifetimes ago, belonging to an age before Wille came out to the world and publicly declared Simon his boyfriend. At this point, Simon had believed—no, prayed —that people would move on from the sex tape and leave him out of it.
It was supposed to be a long time ago. But maybe he had just fooled himself into thinking so, because clearly, everyone else hasn’t forgotten it.
“Dude, he’s fucking a prince. All preppy bastards like him are bound to be lame. He probably calls it love making or some cheesy bullshit.”
The arm around Simon’s shoulders tightens maliciously. This time, Simon flinches when the man’s breath hits the side of his neck. “I’m sure we could show you a better time. You could see what actual fucking looks like with actual grownups.”
Does Wille think about the video as much as Simon? Does the video haunt him every step he takes, too, or has he moved on already, flanked by his trusty bodyguards? Because Simon doesn’t have that. He doesn’t have anything standing guard between him and the horrid memories of the video trending on every social media platform. And he’s still here, barely lit up by a streetlight at night, sinking deeper as the feeling of hands on his skin increases.
“Bet he’d look nicer in my bed than the prince’s. Right, Simon? Or is the prince paying good money to let him fuck you?”
Fucking golddigger.
Simon gets a strange sense of deja vu, remembering the times shortly after the video’s release, where grown men would follow him home from the grocery store. After one too many incidents, he had been terrified to leave his house for errands. He should’ve kept that lingering fear. He could’ve used it by now.
Simon ducks out from underneath the bearded man’s arm, his grip tight on his phone. He doesn’t know what he’d do with it, though. He wouldn’t be quick enough to pull it out.
“Look, I gotta get home. I have a curfew and all.” Simon takes a step back, oddly feeling like a meek prey cornered by predators.
“Aw, is the prince not letting his boyfriend out at night? If he was that worried, he should’ve kept a tighter leash on you.”
Simon bristles at that, his fear taking the backseat and making way for fury. “I’m not Wille’s fucking lapdog! And he doesn’t pay me to sleep with him. We do it because we’re in love.”
The blond man collapses into his friend in a fit of laughter, clutching his stomach. “Oh, God! The kid’s got a sense of humour, I’ll tell you that. You think the prince gives a shit about some guy with a druggie father and no money?” He’s so close, Simon nearly gags. “You are nothing in the eyes of men like him. He giving you a hefty sum to sleep with him? What’s your price? Five for a handjob, twenty for the mouth, and fifty for a decent fuck? Or, actually, that’s too cheap for the prince, isn’t it? I mean, shit, you think the prince doesn’t have a gaggle of bitches trying to fuck him?”
“Oh, leave him be. Kids are stupid.”
“No, this shit’s pissing me off. He gets a good lay with the prince and suddenly spews bullshit about love? Give me a fucking break.”
Choking through his blinding tears and the need to rip his skin down to his bones, Simon spits out, “It’s not my fault no one wants to fuck your ugly asses.”
One of them scoffs in disbelief. The man in front of Simon sneers, his eyes darkening and his face nearly bursting from turning red.
He grabs Simon by the collar and hurls him into the gas pump. The impact explodes up Simon’s back, sending waves of lightning bolts through Simon’s hip. He lays on the ground and coughs. The blond guy lands a kick to Simon’s ribs. Simon’s lungs collapse in his chest. Another kick near his sternum. And another to Simon’s head, right underneath his eye. He clenches his eyes shut. His tears don’t fall.
“Oh, Jesus Christ, man, really? I thought we were moving past this.”
“The kid was asking for it!”
Another kick to his shoulder. Simon’s body is on fire. He curls into himself. He doesn’t know whether to protect his head or his stomach, so he protects neither. He wonders why nothing has cracked yet. Or maybe it did. He just didn’t hear.
“Fuck, dude, at least be quick. What if someone sees?”
One of them lights a cigarette. The smell wafts into Simon’s stinging nostrils. He can’t breathe. He doesn’t try to breathe. His head goes silent. It hones in on the innumerable pain pounding along every inch of him.
It feels nice, in a way.
Simon doesn’t know how to handle the ache in his chest. He can’t tackle something he can’t see. But bruises? A broken bone? Those, he can deal with. Those, he can map out in a mirror, trace over them with the pads of his fingers. Those, he can press his fingers into and control the level of pain that shoots up his spine before it fades into a dull throb.
He can’t do that with scars on his heart.
Pain on the outside? A kick to his face? It’s better than the words of a person behind a screen.
So Simon lays still and doesn’t fight back. Fighting back would only make it worse.
All too soon, the kicks stop.
“Alright, come on, man. You’ve beaten the kid half to death. It’s getting late.”
The blond man huffs and shakes out his shoulders. He glares down at Simon before spitting at his feet. “Fucking bitch.”
He turns and walks away. The bearded one follows him, while the guy with the tattoo tosses his cigarette and snuffs it out with the heel of his shoe. “Psycho bastard.” He gazes at Simon with something eerily akin to pity. He searches through his pocket and pulls out his wallet. “Here, man.” He tosses a twenty dollar bill by Simon’s head before walking off.
Through the thick fog clogging Simon’s brain, he hears, “And here I was, wanting to try him out for myself. Fucking whore.”
Attention seeking whore.
Still, Simon doesn’t let his tears fall.
He doesn’t know how long he lays there. Maybe it was mere seconds, or minutes, or hours. The sun hasn’t come up, but Simon’s body overheats in his jacket. Every now and then, his body twitches violently before he settles, coughing through his rattling lungs. The tangy taste of blood infiltrates his mouth.
He’s so tired. Of everything.
His shoulder burns like three inch claws are digging into them when he pulls out his phone. He lays the device by his head, on top of the money, and trembles as he searches for Wille’s contact. His finger hovers over the call button.
What time is it?
He doesn’t call Wille.
He wishes the ground would swallow him up.
For a moment, he imagines never existing at all.