Chapter Text
They say a group of stars is called an asterism. Wilhelm was of the opinion he had just lost his own.
He just wanted to be held.
He couldn't voice these thoughts though and he certainly couldn't act upon this foolish desire. When was the last time his mother had swept him into a hug, something that didn't feel forced and choreographed, an act that appealed to the happy families behind the cameras who desperately wished to mirror the royals they looked up to? Who had been the first person to draw away from his touch, and why did everyone else follow in their footsteps? Why should Simon be able to wrap his arms around Wilhelm and then abandon him like everybody else? How could Wilhelm entertain himself with childish fantasies - even if it was only for a little while - and believe that everything was going to be okay?
These questions sat heavier than stones at the pit of Wilhelm's stomach, a weight that screamed at him to do something, destructive or kind, impulsive or mature, dangerous or safe. It seized his mind with thunderous fingers and threatened to claw apart his consciousness, resting against the back of his eyes in the form of a thousand unshed tears.
Tantalising dreams and memories morphed into one and slithered up his spine like unwanted vines, wrapping around his heart and squeezing until all the breath was stolen from his lungs. They played like broken records behind his eyelids, an endless, torturous loop of images that highlighted the worst fears slinking about in the dark depths of Wilhelm's soul.
What if you had admitted it was you in the video? What if you weren't such a coward? What if the video had never been released in the first place? What if you had never fallen in love? What if you didn't like boys? What if you hadn't met Simon in the first place? What if Erik was alive? What if you weren't?
When Wilhelm was young, his aunt had used to be the mother he'd always wanted and yet never actually obtained. Whenever he'd created an idiotic excuse to visit her, he would sit on her extravagant leopard print rug as she threaded her acrylic nails through his bond bangs. Those hours were his favourite; tipping his head back into her tranquil touch as he lost himself in the vivid stories that would roll off her tongue.
One day, when Wilhelm finished school early and escaped the palace, his aunt had already been waiting for him by her alabaster door when he knocked. Without even waiting for him to catch his breath, she'd sunk to her knees on the velvet carpet and cupped his face with impossible tenderness. Then, with the most serious look that Wilhelm had ever seen on her face, she'd told him something he still couldn't forget.
"One day, you'll lose it all. One day, you'll understand sadness in a new light. One day, you'll feel pain like you never have before. But sometimes, when things feel like they are falling apart, they are actually falling into place. You need to remember that. Just because life could've been different, it doesn't mean it would've been better. Go home, Wille. Go home."
Three hours later, she was found dead.
Wilhelm drew his knees up higher to his chest, somehow curling in on himself even more than he was before, a feat that should've been impossible. It had been three days since the Incident, the event that would haunt Wilhelm for his entire life. The video was detrimental to Wilhelm's status, reputation and mental health, but it was nothing compared to what had happened afterwards. Why did humans always remember the worst things in life? Wilhelm certainly wasn't an exception. The heart breaking affair was tattooed into his memory, chiselled into his heart, a tiny shard of glass that made up the rest of his invisible personality.
The countless gazes searing into Wilhelm's back were almost as heavy as the weight of his mother's words - a constant pressure on his countenance. The cacophony of voices and conversations woven like a twisted tapestry around him threatened to engulf him whole. They were caught up in their own lives, their own perfect bubbles, unaware and uncaring of the way Wilhelm's world was splintering to pieces around him. Unaware and uncaring that they had caused it.
Wilhelm's hands tightened on his rumpled bed sheets, knuckles white and stark against the silk fabric.
Simon's saddened face swam into view. He was dressed in those scruffy, mismatched clothes that were so irrevocably Simon that Wilhelm almost forgot his remorse for a moment. The other boy looked tired, a little worn out, as if the world had tested his patience too many times and he couldn't summon enough anger to combat it's cruelty. Wilhelm thought he understood. He didn't think he deserved to.
He abruptly switched off the music playing in the background - it wasn't offering him the tether that he needed - and opted for digging his nails into his palm, a little too hard.
They exchanged words, greetings, almost accusations that ate away at Wilhelm's soul every minute that pain-stakingly ticked by. He wanted to say so many things that refused to come out, wanted to scream and scream and scream until the world crumpled to shredded paper around him, until the tornadoes of his rage and the seas of his sadness emptied into the shell of what the world used to be, reducing the once beautiful landscape to carnage. He wanted to claw and bite and struggle and kick against his future's unrelenting, terrifying hold on his life. He couldn't do this, he couldn't be King, he couldn't smile like everything was okay when his bones were shattering and his heart was breaking and his blood was thrumming and no one was listening—
Wilhelm inhaled sharply, looking down at the bloody crescents embedded in the soft tissue of his palm.
Simon drew him out of his mind and into a hug, warm and alive and real, the way the other boy would always be. Wilhelm could smell vanilla spray on his voluminous curls, the same spray he always complained about using but wore anyway. The scent didn't clash well with the tacky cologne he must've doused himself in at the last minute, but who was Wilhelm to judge? He'd barely remembered to shower since the whole fiasco had erupted to life. Standing there, in the unwavering circle of Simon's arms, for just a snatched, stolen second, Wilhelm felt truly safe.
His scarlet palms came to rest on his heart, where he listened to the tell tale beat of what should not exist.
Fingers digging into the inky coat that Simon was wearing - his favourite coat, a fact which had been dramatically shared for no reason after a heavy make out session - Wilhelm whispered the only words that had ever felt real, the only words that he sincerely believed, the only words that were coming from him, not the person the crown was molding him to be.
I love you.
Even now, seventy-two hours later, the words echoed in his skull, a taunting melody that reminded him - every single fucking time - of what came afterwards.
I hope you have a nice Christmas.
In one swift motion, Wilhelm threw himself to his feet, balling his hands into fists. He couldn't do this, he couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't—
Live.
He felt so swollen and bloated inside, so incapable and inconsequential, so defeated and hurt. Everybody would notice if he was gone, but nobody would care. The same way they hadn't cared about Erik. It was all misplaced affection, false condolences, fake tears. They were all fake.
He was too.
They'd mourn for a week, probably even less, and then they'd find another heir. Wilhelm had countless cousins who would be more than happy to fill his shoes. Maybe the crown would even go to August. In a fucked up, sickening sense, that would be oddly fitting. Anyone would do a better job than Wilhelm himself.
If only Erik was alive. Erik had adored the crown, had craved the responsibility, had sturdy hands that cupped the weight of the sky without any reluctance or sign of struggle. Erik would know what to do. Erik always knew what to do. Erik was funny and kind, smart and educated, sincere and beloved, sweet and tactful, charismatic and comforting. Erik was—
Dead.
Erik was dead.
Oh.
Oh God.
Wilhelm bolted towards the bathroom, barely managing to sink to his knees before the bile in his throat released. His fingers came to grip the cool surface of the seat, knuckles whitening as he held on for dear life. As soon as the vomiting ceased, he gently laid his head on the plastic that ringed the opening. A film of tears settled over his eyes, blurring his surroundings and enlarging the ever growing lump in his throat as reality distorted. Where was he, who was he, what was he?
A monster.
Wilhelm tossed back his head, letting the cool wind sweep through the golden waves of his hair. The view steadily slipping by outside the window was beautiful - clear azure skies, syrupy sunlight, gorgeous greenery and stunning scenery - but Wilhelm would much rather annoy his brother. Letting his eyes flit to Erik's face, he carefully surveyed the older boy, frowning when his gaze caught on the speedometer. "Why are you going so slowly?"
No, no, no. Wilhelm placed his hands over his ears, biting back the scream bubbling up his throat.
"I'm not going slowly, you imp," Erik scolded, swatting Wilhelm's arm absentmindedly. "I'm just taking precautions. You don't want to be reduced to a splatter on the sidewalk, do you?"
Tremors shook his body violently as he lowered his head into his arms, muffling his sobs determinedly.
"What's the point of having a fancy ass car if you don't ever use it?" Wilhelm groaned, raising his feet up onto the sleek black dashboard of the extravagant car. Erik gazed at him disapprovingly but didn't comment, one of the only people in Wilhelm's life who didn't eagerly abuse every tiny situation where they could criticise him.
"Fuck!" Wilhelm shouted, smashing his fists against the bathroom mirror, watching like a madman as glass rained down around him, hitting, landing, breaking, cutting. The pain felt amazing, so amazing.
"Erik's slow." "But Mum, you know Erik's like a snail." "Come on, don't be a sloth!" "You wouldn't know the definition of fast if it was staring you in the face." "One day we're going to get chased by murderers and you'll still be obeying the speed limit!" "I'm going to be late, hurry the fuck up!" "He was going too fast, and he lost control—"
"Erik's dead."
"It should've been me," Wilhelm whispered. All the anger abandoned him suddenly, swept away by a large wave of clarity. "It should've been me."
It's my fault.
It should've been me.
Possessed by an abrupt urge to do something, Wilhelm gathered the glass into a semi neat, tidy pile. Then he knelt before it, bowing his head in the process and sliding his hands together.
"God, if you're up there, please bring Erik back. Please. Please, please, please, please, please, please. He's the best person I know....knew. I can't do this without him. If there's anyone who deserves to live, it's him. Please. I'll do anything. Take my fucking life, I'm the one who doesn't deserve to live!" He pressed his face into his knees, a broken word all he had left to offer. "Please."
Silence.
Sometimes Wilhelm imagined what Erik would've felt before he died. The blinding lights, the screech of metal meeting tarmac, the screams of passerbys, the car alarm droning on and on, the sharp pain, the fear and desperation.
Sometimes Wilhelm imagined what would've happened if he was in the car with Erik.
It would've been a nice way to go. By his brother's side, like he had been his entire life.
He was so fucking stupid, so fucking selfish. He'd refused to come home that weekend, denied himself of his last chance to see the person he loved most in the world. Who knows, maybe if he'd gone home Erik would've never gotten into that car, too preoccupied with other activities.
Then there was Simon. Simon who was beautiful, Simon who deserved the world, Simon who had touched Wilhelm's soul in a way nobody else had come close to achieving, Simon who glowed brighter than Wilhelm burnt, Simon who he had betrayed and disappointed. Simon who didn't love him. It was okay. He didn't love himself either.
Yeah.
It would've been better if Wilhelm had been in the car.
But maybe it wasn't too late.
The fluorescent lights overhead outlined the wickedly sharp edges of the glass that littered the floor. It would be so easy to rid himself of the suffering he was currently undergoing. So, so easy. Too easy. Blessedly easy.
With trembling fingertips and a hammering heartbeat, Wilhelm gently clamped his fingers around the largest shard of glass that he could find. He slowly pulled it out of his messy arrangement and lifted it up to the light. A tiny sequence of a million rainbows glittered languidly within the silvery depths. Rainbows. An irony unparalleled.
It was dangerously beautiful.
Just like someone else he knew.
Someone else who didn't want to know him.
In one fluid, impulsive motion, Wilhelm savagely brought the glass down on his wrist. A pinnacle of white hot pain bloomed to life in the location, making him suck in his breath as tears sprung to his eyes. It hurt so bad.
Good. You deserve it.
He brought it down again.
This is nothing on the pain you give everyone around you.
Again.
You're just a waste of space, a waste of oxygen.
Again.
Erik died because of you.
Again.
You should be dead instead of him.
Again.
Nobody would care if you died.
Again.
You're fucking useless, just a liability, a burden.
Again.
Simon doesn't love you.
Again.
I don't love you either.
Wilhelm abruptly dropped the piece of glass, shuddering uncontrollably as his muscles locked tightly together and cramped, refusing to obey his demands. Agony, a torrent of unbelievable, scorching agony engulfed him, consuming every inch of his body. His mind, on the other hand, remained blissfully empty as static blinked in and out of his vision, the corners of his world already darkening a little. Damn. Who would've thought dying would hurt?
Oh.
He was dying.
That was the first time Wilhelm admitted it to himself, the first time he acknowledged it out loud. He was dying. He was dying, and it was on purpose.
He was dying. He was going to die. He wasn't going to see the sun ever again, or taste his favourite food, or behold Simon's beautiful caramel eyes. He wasn't going to learn how to drive, or hit his seventeenth birthday, or see the next season of his favourite show. He wasn't going to hear anyone's voice, see anyone's smile, be the cause of anyone's happiness. Maybe it had been a brash decision. Maybe he should get Malin and—
And give up his chance to see Erik again.
No. He could never do that.
Wilhelm rested his head on the cold floor of the bathroom. It reminded him an awful lot of the time on that football field, where he'd broken down and been put back together by Simon's soft touches and concerned glances. But there was no Simon this time, no saviour who would run out to help him and make it all okay. That had once been Erik's job, and then Simon had filled the shoes for a little while and now— now Wilhelm had nobody left in the entire world who cared about him. Strangely, he understood that. He wouldn't care about someone like himself either.
No one would have to care about him any more.
He was starting to believe they never had in the first place.
He was also starting to believe that that was for the best.
After all, he was leaving, permanently. It wouldn't do to break anyone's heart in the process. He had already done enough damage as it was.
Carefully curling up into a little ball, Wilhelm placed his cheek against the cool, scarlet floor and let the darkness take him. The last thing he saw before the world faded to black was the sight of a boy up on a stage, someone who smiled like an angel and sang like one.
I don't think we've met properly. I'm Wilhelm.
Simon.