𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐧, young royals

Chapter 15: Simon

Hang Me Like Jesus,  Crawlers

15: Simon

I didn't need to hear them say it twice when the officers dismissed me. I was out of the head office in a matter of two seconds.

Storming down the halls, I made my way to Wilhelm's dorm and pounded my fist on the door.  No answer came.  He should be done with class by now, I thought.  What the hell was he doing? I was damn near about to tear the door off its hinges and smash it over his head when a gentle hand rested on my shoulder.

I flinched and spun around, and there he stood, staring down at me with wide, worrisome eyes.

"Simon, hey," he uttered softly, squeezing my shoulder.  "I was in the bathroom, sorry.  What's up?"

I sighed through my nose.  "Please tell me you talked to your mom."

"I did," he said, nodding.  "Why?  What did they say to you?"

I pushed on the doorknob and motioned at him to come inside, and we walked into his room.  I closed the door behind him.

"They're definitely onto me and Sara," I exhaled, slumping against the door, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Were they questioning you?"

I breathed in.  "Not really.  They asked a few questions about my dad, his antecedents, and such," I replied, chewing on my lip.  "They told me they already talked to my mom and my sister last night, so that'll be a pleasant chat at dinner tonight.  I told them the last I saw my father was at Saint Lucia."

He nodded along to every word I uttered, but he was only partly mindful of what I was saying, I could see it very well.  I caught his gawking eyes straying toward my bruised temple multiple times as I talked, and I thought it was a conversation I couldn't exactly avoid getting through with.

Lips pursed, he stepped torward me, slow and heedful, like his next step might set off an explosive nestled in the floorboards.  He stopped one or two feet away from me, and I was sure I could hear every breath that went through his nares and pervaded his lungs, elevating his chest, expanding his rib cage.  I stared into his irises, expectant, and he raised a steady hand toward my face, diligently tracing the tip of his fingers along the impaired skin on my cheek.

"Did they ask you about this?" he whispered breathily, meticulous eyes scrutinizing the bruise.

I swallowed, a spider of anxiety crawling down my nape, feeling so bare and vulnerable, standing under his shadow, his fingers tickling my skin.  It was as if he were holding a microscope over me, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from him.

"I told them I got hit in the face with a football," I murmured.

His eyebrows pushed together, his hand falling away from my face, something sullen and saddening manifesting in his expression.

"And did they believe that?" he queried quietly, wetting his lips, "because I sure as hell don't."

I was torn to bits by the look on his face. I couldn't escape him, couldn't help unraveling myself to him, but I didn't want to hold back now. I wanted him to see me.

"Let's say my dad wasn't too delighted to see me at his door," I whispered, jaw grinding.

His face softened in realization, mouth parting soundlessly, and a sheet of gloom descended over his expression. It was all compassion and hurt in his face until his emotions made room for a spark of anger and sourness, and his jaw clenched.

Wilhelm could see me naked, rest his eyes on even my ugliest scars, and still he would love me.  There were no other eyes in this universe, I think, that could explore every misshapen facet of me and still behold me with such care and adoration. And although this thought brought me means to open up my heart to him, it wasn't so much soothing or solacing.