make it easy | young royals ✓

twenty nine

Wilhelm

The water reflects the weak autumn sun, the undulating surface glassy against the canvas of the cloudless sky. His head is resting against me, and I'm running my hand through the dark ochre curls, our faces stretched into easy smiles.

"You know we're supposed to be studying right now," Simon reminds me. Our books lay astray and forgotten across the wooden pier, the pages of the book fluttering in the afternoon breeze.

"We are studying," I shrug, noting the pen in my hand which I haven't used to write anything for the past hour.

"Ow." Simon opens his eyes to look up at me as I hit him lightly with my pen. "We are talking about whether Draco Malfoy became a werewolf, that definitely sounds like studying to me."

"He did!" I start protesting, "if you think about it, in the sixth movie, he was-"

"I get your point," he holds up a hand to stop me. "But that's too far-fetched, Wille."

"Have some imagination," I tell him sulkily. I have a tendency to become annoyed at people when they don't agree with something I'm passionate about, and maybe I'm overreacting, but Harry Potter theories are my niche. I have no doubt that if the water was warmer and we were lounging in the summer sun after swimming instead of doing homework, I would've pushed him over the edge in retaliation.

Simon chuckles, "there's a difference between being realistic and making stuff up."

"I'm not making things up," I resist the urge to haul him up and dump him into the freezing surface of the water. "Seriously, Simon, everything I just said was solid proof."

"Are you like this with everyone? Or just me," he says loudly, cutting me off as I'm about to launch into another heated one-way discussion about something that's insignificant. "How did your old friends handle you? I would like a booklet with written instructions."

"My old friends loved me," I assure him. My years at my old high school were full of freedom, wild nights, and never-ending parties. I was a more careless person, definitely less quiet and less focused on my academics. I was young, and Erik was the crown prince. My image didn't affect me or much on my family, but things are so incredibly different now.

Simon exhales. "Yeah, I'm sure they did."

"Then I got kicked out of school."

"Because you were such a class clown," his face breaks into a wide grin. "Now that I think about it, I would love to see former bad boy Wilhelm being a troublemaker."

I swallow a laugh at how ridiculous he's sounding. "Simon, has anyone ever told you to shut up?"

"That was funny, you have to admit."

"Seriously - bad boy Wilhelm? Is that my boy band stage name or something?"

"If you want it to be, sure."

"No, I'm not suggesting that. I can't even sing!" After my protests, suddenly, an absurd idea occurs to me. "Maybe you should."

"Okay, now it's your turn to shut up," Simon immediately cuts me off as if the idea is far-fetched and ridiculous.

"Mutual ceasefire?" I offer.

"Deal."

After a few moments of silence, I break it after careful consideration. "You should be a singer, though."

"Why?"

I almost laugh at his clueless and modest expression. "Come on, your voice is incredible."

Simon sits up to look at me. "I haven't thought about it, to be honest."

"Is it something you want to do?"

He averts my gaze shyly, and seems almost embarrassed when he speaks again. "I mean, I have thought about it, but it's not something that's going to be a stable career."

"Would it hurt to try?" I prompt him with encouragement, knowing underneath the pretence how much music truly means to him. "You can study in university while also recording songs and sending them out to studios and companies."

"I mean, it wouldn't hurt."

"Exactly," I say excitedly. "Come on, Simon, the world deserves to hear your voice as much as I don't want to share."

"To be honest, I've been working on a few things," he admits slowly, but upon seeing my expression, quickly hurries to add: "but they're nowhere near done, so no one can hear them but me for now."

I laugh at his defensiveness. "Fine, but don't sing about me too much because that'll be too big of a boost to my ego."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

We look at each other, and I kiss him.

"That's unfair," he protests and pulls away after a long moment, his cheeks flushed, hair tousled around his face messily. "You can't just do that."

"Do what?" I ask innocently, biting the inside of my cheek to stop a smile from engulfing my face.

"Like you kissing me so I would forget to be mad at you," Simon concludes triumphantly. "It's a tactic, and I can see right through it."

"Then stop falling for it." I shrug offhandedly despite the unsteady acceleration of my heart knowing what weight his words hold: that a kiss from me is as overwhelming to him as it is for me.

Earlier today, we agreed to meet up by the lake to study for the upcoming finals before the Italy immersion trip followed by the winter break. With the window of my bedroom carefully propped ajar, I slipped between the space and landed softly onto the grass outside my room. It's becoming routine, slipping away unnoticed for hours while my bodyguards still think I'm in my room sleeping the day away.

Leaning towards each other, our shoulders touching side by side, an earphone in each of our ears. Simon chooses songs from his playlists, and we just stay like that for a while, not talking, but listening to the same tunes, watching the same vast lake shimmering under the blue sky. We're alone by the waters, uninterrupted, bathing in the solace of each other's presence.

"Do you know how to speak Italian?" Simon asks out of the blue.

"Sì."

"Okay, let's hear it then." He pauses the song, and turns to me expectantly. "Let me determine if you're fit enough to be my guide in Italy."

"Uhm," I hurry to scramble together my broken knowledge of Italian despite learning it for three years in school. Despite English, I was given an option of Italian or French. I chose Italian purely because a few google searches told me that it was easier, that was before getting introduced to the masculine and feminine articles mixed with the millions of tenses. "Mi chiamo Wilhelm, come stai? Uh - ho sedici anni."

"Good enough," Simon laughs as I struggle to put together even the most basic of sentences.

"Sorry, I know it's not as good as your Spanish."

Simon sighs, and glances towards the distant mountains. "You know, it's not easy being hot and trilingual."

"I am trilingual," I protest. "I just showed you my brilliant Italian."

"Yeah, more like trilingual in Swedish, English, and bullshit."

"Oh, come on."

We spend the rest of the afternoon like this, random and light conversations bouncing back and forth followed by periods of silence and brooding. We never managed to get any homework done as we intended, and as the sun begins to set down the horizon, the sky is a soft maroon. In the fading light, I take a photo of us kissing with the sunset in the background. It's a concrete monument to capture all the unsaid feelings and a reminder that what we have is real and not a lucid dream.

In moments so perfect and heavenly, I can't help but wonder if I'm dreaming.