But I Like You, and That is Not Fake | YOUNG ROYALS

Ice Prison ✧︎

"Hope you have a nice Christmas."

No matter how soft-spoken his voice was, the words were punctuated in a certain goodbye, six jabs in his chest firmly put and not released.

Every fiber of Wilhelm was on fire, crackling through his veins, urging his arms to reach out, to make him stay. But how could he when the conversation ended with a sullen "Thank you."

The air fell cold as Simons back was turned, his frame getting smaller farther and farther down the road.

It was harder to breathe without the sun eminent in Simon. In his curls. In his face. In his smile.

"I can't have a nice Christmas with you not in it," Wilhelm said to himself.

On the way home did Wilhelm really notice the effect winter had on Bjärstad. How trees wore the color of stone, their bony fingers ripped against the crisp blue of sky, others limp like broken wrists to the ground. How every breath drawn stung his nostrils, that the world was dying as the days mixed into nights, because even the suns stamina was defeated and couldn't go on and give rays to the now browning grass.

Reaching the palace didn't make things any better. It was always winter there, bitter and unwelcoming. A castle disguised over an ice prison.

"Life has been hard on you," His mother said, taking a seat on the velvet sofa. "My boy, I want you to relax."

When Wilhelm was silent, she added, "He isn't going to be your world forever."

His eyes darted, glaring. "As if you care. You knew it was August who taped it."

The queen sighed, her brown eyes looking away. "I already told you, there's no point in being mad. He's your cousin. We protect him, just as I have with you. We're nobility. We don't backstab."

"You backstabbed me," Wilhelm snapped. "No, not even just that. He looked down her gaze, searching for any signs that she cared, but all he found was a woman trying to seem warm. No. The coffee of her irises had long been cold. "You left Simon to be shamed. I may be safe, but nothing is there for him. No security, no help, only the public to sit and laugh at his name."

The queen grabbed his shoulders. "Don't piss on my efforts, my boy. There was nothing we could do to help."

"At least comfort his family!" Wilhelm spat. "You couldn't even do that. Instead you choose to sit behind these framed windows and pearl walls and do your royal business, because you can't seem to care about anyone who isn't of royal blood."

"I don't want to speak about this anymore," She barked. "We're going to have a nice Christmas break. Don't screw it up by talking about one boy."

Wilhelm pushed away from the couch. He needed somewhere alone. Somewhere he could think. How can she say cruel things like that, a voice thought angrily. Your mother is trying her best, another voice said. The queen is a monster, said the other.

"Willy," Her mother said.

He turned around to see her face, now watered in sympathy and thin endearment.

"He's just a boy. Nothing more."

Wilhelm stared, hands balled into fists.

"You can't even say his name." Voice already breaking, he stormed to his room.

He hated how every footstep reverberated through the gold flaked corridors, echoing out the vast loneliness of the palace. He hated the windows that gleamed in an icy splendor, wiped to the point he could see his reflection. Trapped. He hated the stale vanilla scent of the castle, oversprayed in every room. He hated seeing the potted plants everywhere he went, dusting away instead of being watered because they were fake.

But he loved the rawness of the wooden planks, some of which made a low croak near Simons staircase. He loved the tan carpet that smelled the faintest of apples and cinnamon, the sense of home in Simons house. He loved the happy cadence of voices at the dinner table, that warmed the back of his neck because of the belonging. He loved the fish in Simons room, how they were jello-orange, how they were real, just like everything else. He loved the feeling of being grounded to what was real and not for display.

"Should I call him?" Wilhelm spoke to himself. He stared at the pearl white ceiling. "God, I hate this."

He punched in the dial, the memorization of Simons number like a favorite song. Just as he was about to hit the call button, his fingers recoiled, remembering.

You need to figure out what you want.

In other words, Simon needed time off. Even if the queen approved of him, Simon wouldn't want to meet up anyway.

Wilhelm threw the phone on the floor and lay crumpled on the sheets, staring in the distance.

He couldn't cry, his tears were used up too many times. He look at the view, following the trees and slopes of the hills, but all he saw was the never ending winter. No Simon. Not even Hillerska.

He punched the mattress, then the pillow, then screamed into it. What was he supposed to do? Simon wasn't around. He couldn't wrap his arms around him and say Sorry when it was only a word that could satisfy someone only so many times.

Sorry wouldn't bring their relationship back.

"What the hell do you want me to do," Wilhelm shouted out the window. "Just come back."

In his dreams Wilhelm imagined spending Christmas with Simon and his family, exchanging gifts, talking about everything stupid, warm conversations nonetheless, hugging him, kissing him, anything to be with him again.

He imagined snowball fighting in a blizzard, then toppling over Simon in the snow and just tackling him. He imagined his smile and his warm walnut eyes crinkling through the falling ice crystals.

But dreams were fake too.