𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐧, young royals

Chapter 28: Simon

Cigarette, Shaya Zamora

28: Simon

I still remember the days we were happiest.

Days that left me wistful.  Blithe in his eyes, beaming with innocence.  When days burned through like cigarettes, and the September sun kissed the lake's waters every evening.  When the nights were dim and starless, but still the grass glistened under the moonlight.

He was the first boy who'd made me feel seen and touched, like I belonged in the world.  Young and foolish, we were. And I wish we'd taken our time more.  I wish we'd listened to our minds and drawn out the weeks and months instead of squeezing as much of each other into such a short era of time.

From the moment I met Wilhelm, I became hasty, esurient, and impatient.  And, well, in the fall, even the leaves had fallen for him, hadn't they?  Our connection had been so new and lively, and neither of us had felt anything like it before, so we'd plunged headfirst into what we believed could've been a fleck of stability in our lives. We barely knew each other, yet we'd sent all norms and archetypes and every ounce of forbearance in us to hell the second our paths crossed.

And it had damn near been our downfall, I think.

But we'd learned so much from each other, and it was beautiful, yet terrifying, yet inspiring. I'd taught him to fight, to reach into the core of his fears and anxieties, and Wilhelm had taught me depth and perception, made me see the world through a different lens.  It was wonderful yet unseemly.

He who'd let me be warm in the crook of his arms at night, who'd touched on my every scar and whispered sweet remedies at me while dusk laced the day.  He who I knew was chained by his own battles, too, who'd broken his skin of porcelain, nail-deep into his flesh, when that deep, ardent self-loathing ripped at his veins.

How could this ever be wrong?

I knew he'd hollered and sunk in his bedsheets and mustered oceans in his eyes at 3 in the morning, too. I knew he'd hit cement countless times and drank until he was sick and dumb, kissed the toilet seat and cried. I knew he, too, had felt the cool-tiled bathroom floor against his cheek and wished to be swept away from the world.

I was lost, screaming and trashing until I felt inferno in my lungs, bleeding until I went dry. I was messed-up and crooked, but all it took was one glance into the deepest, darkest shades of me, one glance at my figure, high-up on that ledge as I lost my footing, for him to plunge into the blackness and seize my hands.

Wilhelm was a semaphore, the blink of a lighthouse at a wrecked ship.  He was salvation.  Slowly, meticulously, carefully, he was fixing me.  He was fixing me even though his walls were crumbling, and it was terribly dangerous.

I longed for all of him.  When his hips were sinking between my thighs, and his nails bit into my flesh, soft breaths that took the shape of my name reaching my ears, my mind cleared.  But it wasn't only sexual.  I wanted all the brightest and darkest of him.  I wanted earthquakes in my chest, floods in my head, forest fires in my stomach.  It's what a drug does to your soul, really.  Wilhelm drank his drug every week-end.  I kissed mine on the lips at night.

Draw a picture of my soul, and it is cluttered fragments of him and I.

How could we ever be wrong?

God, let us never be apart again, I hoped, grazing on the piano keys without pressure. Let us share a scent to our home and lay on his carpeted floor, share sweat-shirts as white snow sets upon the windowsill. Let us hold each other through many more restless nights, scream and fight and then make up for it all.

Oh, tell me, how could we ever be wrong?

sorry for this useless chapter, i needed to write to get my mind off things

also i started writing a wilmon enemies to lovers story called entertain on my account, so check it out if you're interested lol