make it easy | young royals ✓

twenty three

Wilhelm

He appears different somehow, unlike the boy who had joked with me on the pier by the lake so carelessly just days prior. I inspect Simon as he picks at his food, head down with reticence, brushing off my feeble attempts at conversation.

I'm carefully reflective of my actions, but I don't expect him to remain uncommunicative with me about them. I've taken steps that took all my courage and strength, yet he remains bitter and cold for the aftermath. I don't prod him for details or an explanation, and instead, guiltily wishes for an outlet of distraction from the grim days.

A film plays on the wall-mounted TV in the common room later, and we're beside the couch on the floor, our shoulders barely touching. The room is dim with only the screen's light reflecting off the boys' faces, and in the dark, I feel it. The tension, winding its way between us. When my hand finds him, he lets me, and together, we're giddy with the possibilities. The boys around us watch the film attentively, but we let the night take a spin of its own in the darkened room.

Blushed cheeks, a heave of shuddering breath, we're lost in the spinning cosmic.

***

I hold up the bottle almost triumphantly, my cheeks rosy from its immediate effect. My throat burns with fiery anticipation.

Tonight, we get drunk to forget.

The room steadily floods with heat as I'm aware of it, and we're laughing, head tilted back in a careless chuckle. The endless prattle, a childish grin, the night matures tentatively. Our fingers touch as he passes the bottle to me, and although we feel it, we fight it. There's something inside of us that's terrified of the chance of a feverish love, and we reject the idea even in a state of drunk insanity.

Still, we lose.

His hands possess a mind of its own, and under a warm blanket of mindless intoxication, we forget the expectations of the world. We stumble through the trapdoor to an undertow of newness and familiarity, and later I would find that I'm forever going to remember the heat his touch left on my skin.

Its permanence is jarringly esoteric.

***

In the coming days, my mother will speak to me again two weeks after our initial disagreement. We're walking across the grounds this time, and without having to turn around, I'm aware of the presence of her bodyguards and mine, strolling at an even pace out of earshot. The late autumn wind whips the loose threads of her scarf mercilessly, and I stare at the thinning of the trees, the flaming auburn leaves disintegrating with a dooming decline.

I don't tell her that in the days that follow the quarrel, Simon remains inscrutable despite the numerous attempts I've made to speak with him. He abruptly sat with Sara during math class one morning instead of me, and it continues to remain like that for the next few classes. When I bring it up at mealtimes, he brushes me off, conjuring up something resembling an excuse that she needs some tutoring.

I feel his gravitational pull shifting to others, and maybe he doesn't think I notice, but I sense the withdrawal and coldness whenever I approach him. He's different when we're alone, more like his old self. I recall reading in the unwavering sunlight one afternoon, his head in my lap as he dozes off into a calm sleep. I stroke his hair, overwhelmed simply by his vulnerable company.

"How are you?"

I consider my mother's question, and decide on pure honesty. "Lost."

"Do you truly know what you want?"

"I don't know anymore," I admit.

***

Confiding in Felice eases the burdensome weight on my chest, and after my long-winded rant, she remains silent. We're between the shelves of the library, my back against the books, and her sitting against the wall. The carpet muffles the hardness of the ground, and rain thunders ebulliently outside, washing the world in a gloom of grey and indigo.

"Is it possible that your mother is threatening him?" Felice says finally.

I stare at her, wondering why the possibility never crossed my mind previously. It's like my mother to do such an atrocity, and with Simon's sudden disinterest, I want to believe it's due to an external influence rather than my own flaws.

Rubbing the back of my neck with exhaustion, I breathe out a trembling 'maybe'.

"Look, if it's anything else, Simon would definitely talk to you about it. You know how he is, he'll never keep his feelings suppressed," Felice goes on, seeing my subtle disbelief. "I just think this whole miscommunication - I mean no communication and unwilling to talk is so unlike him."

"You're right," I agree.

"Exactly, but it would make sense if your mom said something to him. Then he would have no choice but not to say anything to you, because if you find out, you'll confront your mom about it. And who knows what the consequences are for the both of you when you do that?"

"So he just decides to leave me guessing, then?" I laugh bitterly. "If only he can just talk to me, Felice!"

She reaches over and takes my hand in support. "I know this is so hard, Wille, but it's not your fault."

"Thank you for being here for me," I nod appreciatively. "What do you think I should do?"

"I guess talk to him about it?"

We exchange a glance, and she covers her mouth to stifle a laugh.

"Sorry - okay no, that wouldn't work," she corrects herself. "Let me think."

"If I can't even talk to him, then what the fuck am I suppose to do?"

Felice looks away. "Make your mom believe that you choose the crown over him."

"No," I say at once.

"She won't pester Simon anymore if you do."

I don't want to let her get the satisfaction of winning, but right now, I'm drowning on both sides of the spectrum. My mother's winning, and I'm nearly running out of air.

***

I would say I'm a person who fears confrontation, but I corner him one evening by the empty staircase with unwavering determination.

"Is my mom paying you off so you don't see me anymore?"

Fear, then irrational anger flashes in his eyes darkly. "What?"

"I said, is my mom paying you off so you-"

"Fuck, I heard you the first time," Simon cuts me off curtly, and continues to push past me to walk up to the second landing.

I block his way with a firm stance. "Simon."

"Wille," he reciprocates with a tone resembling annoyance.

"Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

Taking a step closer, I search his eyes for a hint of guilt. "You know what I'm talking about."

Silence.

"You didn't even give me an explanation," I say with disappointment. "You could've at least told me so I didn't have to second guess myself for the past week."

He exhales, and fidgets with the button of the sleeve of his shirt distractedly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You chose whatever she promised you, didn't you?"

"Stop saying stuff like that."

"I was willing to give up the crown for you."

"Wille, you just don't understand-" Simon begins, concern and hurt etched across his face. It physically pains me to see him go through such poisonous emotions and knowing I'm the root of them.

"I'll tell her I choose the crown, and you keep up your end of the deal with her," I say bluntly. "That way, she has no excuse to do anything to interfere with our lives."

Simon furrows his eyebrows. "So this is the end?"

"This is the beginning."

I press my lips to his with a crushing impatience, knowing that we've just made a deal with the devil. We'll do anything to keep this youthful love alive, even if it means lying to everyone around us just to be together.

If the lies unfold, I don't dare imagine the pending tragedy.