Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

**

The photographer’s camera clicked and flashed.

“Excellent. Turn this way, now, please.”

Wille, tucked between his mother and father, their arms around one another, shuffled to the left.

“And let’s all have a smile,” Minou said. Wille smiled. His mother’s hand squeezed his waist. He clenched his teeth together, smiling harder, wider.

“Wonderful,” Minou said, and leaned towards the photographer, who glanced down at the camera’s screen and then whispered something in her ear.

“Let’s take a quick break,” she said, smiling tightly.

Wille sighed, stepping away from his parents, his face hot. He dabbed at the sweat on his forehead, even though he knew the make-up artists hated when he touched his face. They were in the drawing room of Drottningholm Palace, standing in front of the mantle, where orange flame crackled in a fireplace that was once taller than Wille himself. Long strands of Christmas garland, adorned with red bows, swung from the brick, so lush and fresh with pine that Wille's nose itched.

It was mid-December and they were posing for the Royal Family Christmas Card, the latest activity in a whirlwind of Christmas celebrations. Every year, Wille was overwhelmed by the holiday season. Now being front and center as the Crown Prince left him even more exhausted, his head spinning as he was pushed and pulled in one hundred different directions, with what seemed like no end in sight.

Minou approached Wille and his parents, an ever-present clipboard wedged at her elbow and a blue pen tucked behind her ear. “We’ll just take a few more photographs and we should be done for the day.”

Wille’s shoulders dropped. “What was wrong with this round?”

"There was nothing wrong with the photographs, Your Highness. It's helpful to take as many pictures as possible so that we might pick and choose the best to provide to the public." Minou paused. "But, if I may make one suggestion, Your Highness?"

Wille nodded.

"Perhaps you might try and smile with less—” Minou gestured at her own mouth, “—force?"

Wille flushed, reaching up to push his hair back behind his ear, only for his hand to brush against the shorn side of his head. He was still adjusting to his new haircut, the one his mother had insisted upon soon after he returned to Drottningholm from Hillerska for the winter holidays.

“You are the Crown Prince,” his mother had said. “It’s time you look the part.”

As the barber had slid and snipped his scissors around Wille’s head, he’d watched his hair falling away through the mirror, and felt as though the last few months of Fall were also being trimmed away. Wille thought he would feel lighter, away from school and Simon and August, and now his hair gone, too, but the Palace and the presence of his mother were constant reminders of his new place in his family and in the eyes of Sweden. The pressures of being the Crown Prince only weighed more heavily on his chest.

When the barber was finished, his mother carefully inspected Wille’s haircut, turning his head from left to right.

“How grown you are,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears, and she rushed out of the room. Wille might have thought she saw something of Erik in his new haircut that upset her, but he knew better. He looked nothing like his brother. Wille’s face was all the same soft angles that belonged to his mother, while Erik had grown into the sharper features of their father.

Wille did not remind his mother of Erik. It was the opposite: Wille was a reminder that he was all that was left to preserve his family’s legacy and one day inherit the Crown. It was up to him to make sure that Erik’s death was not in vain, that Erik’s time as the Crown Prince meant something meaningful. They were all depending on him, Willie, who was nothing like Erik, who got caught in fights, who fell in love with a boy, who just wanted to be normal.

Who couldn’t even smile properly for the Royal Family Christmas Card.

Wille knew this Christmas Card was important. It was the first time they were publishing a card without Erik. He was always the star, first as a grumpy baby and a chubby-cheeked, eager toddler, then suddenly a quickly growing teenager, and finally, as he’d always be remembered, a handsome, sharp adult. Over the years they dressed Erik in flashy Christmas get-ups, patterned sweaters and puffy jackets. His gap-toothed smile and bright eyes always caught the public’s attention and adoration.

“Just one or two more tries, hm?” Minou said, and ushered Wille and his parents back together.

"We will try until we get it," his mother said, her hand returning to its place on Wille’s waist, above the cable knit of his sweater. "It just takes time."

Time.

Time was never something Erik needed. Even as a child, it was obvious that Erik was meant to be the Crown Prince, not only in title but in his personality, his manners, his attitude. Erik knew the right times to sit up straight, when to smile. He knew the right words to say and when to say them. Even when Erik goofed off, in the blink of an eye he would adjust the lift of his shoulders and the tilt of his head, and like a shapeshifter, return to being the ever revered Crown Prince.

As Wille shuffled from one direction to the next, tilting his head just so, raising his chin slightly higher, then lower, as he smiled and smiled and smiled, his movements felt out of his control, like a puppet on strings. Erik never felt this way: he was the Crown Prince, in body and in soul, and his words, his thoughts, always belonged to the Crown Prince. But Wille could not escape Minou's words. Forced. It was all forced, and Wille didn’t know how to fake it. His arms and legs grew tired, wishing Erik were there to take his place, to bump his shoulder and mess up his tediously styled bangs, to remind Wille that once this was over, they could run off to drink hot chocolate and watch cartoons.

When Minou finally gave in and decided the photographs were adequate and they would have enough versions to choose from to post on the official Royal House’s Instagram, Wille and his parents escaped the heat of the drawing room and went to the dining room for dinner. Wille spent little time with his parents, outside of his obligations as Crown Prince and these meals they had together.

“Are you looking forward to accepting the Christmas Evergreens on Thursday?” His father asked.

Wille nodded in agreement at his father’s question, scraping his fork against his plate. “Of course,” he said.

He was unsure of what else to say. When Wille was near his mother, he felt at a loss for words. They had said little to one another since Wille returned home from Hillerska for the winter holidays, and they had not acknowledged their conversation on the phone about August. His mother was fine pretending that nothing had ever happened, that Wille and Simon and that damned video were a publicity stunt of the past. The monarchy’s reputation was safe and sound, but it left a sour taste in Wille’s mouth and twisted his stomach into a painful knot.

Their dinner was otherwise quiet. It was though Wille’s parents reserved all their energy for the daytime, directing Palace staff, discussing public relations with Minou, planning their upcoming engagements. When the evening arrived, they were exhausted, hardly able to lift their forks to their mouths.

Wille stared at the chair that sat empty next to his father, where Erik used to sit. Wille remembered their dinners when Erik would visit from Hillerska. He lit up the table, updating them on school, his professors and his classes and friends, challenging them to talks about politics and the economic futures of neighboring countries, pretending he wouldn’t share gossip about the many future landowners who attended Hillerska, only to let it all out across the table anyways. He convinced his father to let him have half a glass of wine and threw food at Wille when their mother wasn’t looking. He even helped clear the table, to the amusement of the kitchen staff.

There was hardly anything worth speaking about, now that Erik was gone. His mother often excused herself early, her eyes sad and far away, like she wasn’t even in the room. She would leave Wille alone to eat with his father, who stared blankly at Wille and then down at his plate, sighing.

Wille barely had an appetite, his food tasteless. He ate quickly so that he could be alone in his room, where he stared hard into the mirror, inspecting his new haircut, his skin, his eyes. He watched as his reflection split in two. Staring back at him was Wilhelm, Crown Prince, holder of the monarchy, Sweden’s bright and gracious ruler…and himself, who couldn’t smile properly for the Royal Family Christmas Card, who wished Erik were still alive, and who missed Simon more than anything.

Simon.

Wille spent long nights staring at his phone, waiting for a text, a call, anything, impatiently refreshing Simon’s Instagram, hoping he would upload a new photo, or that a red and orange circle would appear around his profile picture, but there was only silence between them. He wondered if Simon was sending him some sort of message, reminding Wille that this is what it would be like without Simon in his life: lonely, and leaving Wille constantly wondering what Simon was up to, if he was thinking of Wille as much as Wille was thinking of him. The longer the silence stretched on between them, the harder it was for Wille to resist giving in and reaching out.

He almost sent Simon a picture of his new haircut, took a dozen selfies and tried to catch the best angle of his jaw, to make his face look casual and unconcerned, like he wasn’t trying too hard. As he took the photos, he wondered if Simon would think he looked handsome. Maybe he would just think Wille looked funny and have a good laugh.

Maybe Simon would say he missed Wille’s old hair, but he was excited to see his new haircut when they were back at Hillerska. Then Wille remembered his mother had insisted on the haircut so Wille might be more like a Crown Prince, one who wasn’t allowed to love Simon, except behind the scenes, who Simon probably didn’t love at all, and maybe hated (“I’m not going to protect the royal family just because the Prince fucks up,” he said, spitting out Prince like it was a dirty word), and Wille deleted all the pictures of himself and didn’t touch his phone for the rest of the day.

As the month went on, Wille and his parents were chauffeured back and forth from Drottningholm to the center of Stockholm, accepting the Christmas Trees from the Swedish Forest Academy, handing out Christmas gifts to underprivileged children, touring the nativity scene at the Royal Chapel. Wille was photographed and interviewed, and each time his face was plastered across the internet, each time he went viral on Twitter or Instagram, he imagined Simon scoffing at him, his family, their poshness and the fake nicety of it all.

In his mind, Wille played back the moment in the Hillerska courtyard, telling Simon he loved him, and Simon unable, unwilling to say it back. But Wille wasn’t surprised: how could Simon ever love this version of him, Wilhelm the Crown Prince, with his new haircut and his tailored clothes, his carefully practiced smile, all the publicist-approved words falling from his mouth. Doing things because he had to, not because he wanted to.

As Wille sunk deeper into his role as the Crown Prince, he wondered, what would even be left for Simon to love in the end?

**

On Wednesday night, the annual Royal Family Christmas Video was aired on television and was published across the internet.

A palace valet called for Wille just before eight o’clock, asking him to meet his parents in the south wing lounge. When he entered the room, the television was on and set to a news channel cycling through innocuous Christmas stories, and his mother and father were sitting on the couch.

“Come sit, Wilhelm,” his mother said, gesturing at the cushion between them.

Wille settled between his parents, back straight and hands carefully resting in his lap.

“The video will be on in just a moment,” his father said. A child was being handed a teddy bear from Santa Claus on the television screen.

They usually filmed a video every year, something lighthearted and fun to put the public in good spirits. Wille, his mother, father, and Erik all wishing Sweden a Merry Christmas, careening down a snowy hill in a sled and pelting snowballs at each other, baking cookies or wrapping a present on camera to donate to charity, somberly asking others to do the same, showing off how much they loved each other and the holiday season.

This year Minou and their publicists opted for a more serious tone and put together a memorial video for Erik, instead. Wille thought he knew what to expect, told ahead of time about the plans for the video, but he was still caught off guard as the news segment ended and the clips of his brother started playing on the television, overlaid by a somber song played on the piano. Suddenly in front of Wille, there was Erik as a child, before Wille was even born, decorating a tree. Erik, lighting the first candle for Advent, sitting on their mother’s lap. Erik, older now, sawing down a Christmas tree. Erik, holding Wille, his new baby brother, helping him sound out the words “Merry Christmas.” Erik, growing older, taller, more confident, laughing in the snow, arranging Christmas decorations, touring the Stockholm church, becoming so obviously, so clearly, the Crown Prince.

“Oh,” Wille’s mother said, hand gripping Wille’s knee as the final clip played. It was pulled from last year’s Christmas video, Erik in a warm sweater, happily standing in front of a fireplace, arms thrown around their parents and Wille.

“We wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!” Erik said.

Wille realized he hadn’t heard his brother’s voice in months.

The scene faded, replaced by a picture of Erik and the words “In Memory of Crown Prince Erik, Duke of Västergötland.”

Wille swallowed, tears stinging his eyes. He stared straight ahead to avoid looking at his parents, who were breathing unevenly on either side of him.

“I will tell Minou we are happy with her work,” his mother said, voice thin, before standing up and quickly leaving the room.

“Very nice, wasn’t it, Wilhelm?” His father said. Wille nodded and tried to smile, not meeting his father’s eyes.

“I better go check on your mother,” his father said. He wished Wille a goodnight, briefly rubbing Wille’s shoulder as he headed off to bed.

Wille sat alone on the couch. The television channel changed back to the news, three anchors sitting around a table, discussing the video. Wille watched their mouths move but the words they were saying didn’t register. He was too hot. The air in the room was shrinking, and there was a tightness in his chest, a heaviness spreading down his arms and legs. Erik’s watch on his left wrist suddenly weighed 100 pounds, his fingers going numb.

Wille hadn’t heard Erik’s voice in months.

Distantly, Wille realized there was a part of him that had still expected his brother to stroll into Drottningholm early one morning, to sit down at the table for breakfast and ask Wille how his semester had finished up. Like wind to a flame, the Christmas video smothered the last part of Wille that stupidly, crazily believed he would see his brother again one day.

Wille hadn’t heard Erik’s voice in months, and he never would hear it again.

Caught in this haze of his new reality, Wille almost missed his phone ringing in his pocket. He answered just before it went to voicemail.

“Hello?” He said.

“Hi Wille, it’s Simon.”

“Simon. Hi.”

“I just watched the Christmas video. Did you see it?”

“Yeah, yeah, I saw it,” Wille said, looking at the television again, scared to find his brother's face back on the screen, relieved when it was just a weather report. “With my parents.”

“How are you?” Simon asked.

“Okay,” Wille said. He ran a hand down his face, realized it was shaking. “Could you—” He sighed. “Could you tell me how you are? Just. Talk to me.”

There was shuffling on the other side of the phone. Wille closed his eyes, picturing Simon in his bedroom, settling into bed, the mattress with the creaky springs. Simon's bare skin against the checkered fabric of his soft, worn comforter.

“I’m fine,” Simon said. “Sara, too, and my mom. We played Monopoly after dinner tonight. I won, but they said it was because I was the banker and I cheated.”

“Did you cheat?”

“No!” Simon argued.

Wille leaned his head back against the couch, a small smile tugging on his lips as he listened to Simon on explain his economic theories on Monopoly, the best properties to buy, how Sara always won the money in Free Parking and the way his mom inevitably rolls three doubles and end up in jail for half the game.

Wille focused on the rise and fall of Simon's voice, the tension in his chest slipping away as Simon began to tell Wille about getting caught in a rainstorm while riding through Bjärstad on the back of Ayub's bike, the Christmas gifts he bought for his family and the pair new sneakers his mom was trying to sneakily hide from him in the coat closet, that he was looking forward to the first real snowstorm of the year but hated when he touched his bare feet to the cold floor in the morning.

Wille imagined Simon's arms wrapped around him, his head tucked beneath Simon's jaw, the words floating just above Wille's ear as Simon talked, on and on.

Eventually Simon’s words slowed, and there was a pause.

“How are you, Wille?”

“I’m okay,” Wille said.

"Okay,” Simon said. “It's late. I should go to bed.”

"Me too," Wille said. "Good night, Simon."

"Good night, Wille."

Simon ended the call. Wille held his phone up to his ear for a moment longer. He imagined Simon slipping away, but not too far, just near enough that Wille could still reach out and touch him if he needed to.

**

The sound of Simon’s voice, the fact that he called, the fact that he still cared, filled Wille with a warmth that lasted long into the night. Wille slept better than he had in weeks. As he and his parents were driven to Stockholm, the feeling continued, an impenetrable shield against his mother’s mood.

“Now, remember,” she said. “This was very important to Erik. He would not have wanted his efforts to go to waste.”

Wille clenched his jaw. As if he didn’t know. They were spending an early morning in Stockholm to meet with potential donors for The Children’s Foundation, a charity that Erik created when he was eighteen and had worked tirelessly to maintain and grow. It was not lost on Wille that this was one of the first times he was signaling his intentions to take over the work Erik had been involved with.

His mother’s hands were like hummingbirds as they fluttered in front of him. She adjusted his tie, straightened his jacket, fiddled with a stray piece of his hair. He wanted to grab her hands from the air and hold them still, but he resisted, letting her fuss until she was finally satisfied.

She was both tired and on edge this morning, seemingly too short of energy to have a conversation at breakfast, only to snap at Wille’s father over something trivial — his shoes didn’t match his jacket, his tie was knotted wrong — and chatter on with Minou about their upcoming Christmas banquet, giving up on the discussion halfway through to stare silently out the car window. Now, as they stood outside of the Börshuset in Stockholm, she was again full of energy.

The last time Wille had seen his mother this way was in the days leading up to Erik’s funeral, when she oscillated between obsessively planning the service and retiring to her room for long hours. Wille had been unsure which version of her he would get, and spent most of his time in his room or on the opposite side of the Palace.

“Last night’s Christmas video was hard on her,” Wille’s father said, offering no more explanation.

Inside the Börshuset, they were met with a sea of photographers, some that Wille recognized, hired by their publicists, and others from the general press that he had not been expecting.

“Crown Prince Wilhelm, how are you getting along after your brother’s death?”

“Your Majesty, is the Crown Prince prepared to take the throne?”

“Your Highness, is it fair to continue Crown Prince Erik’s work without him?”

Wille smiled, hands clasped in front of him. He pinched the webbing between his thumb and index finger until it hurt. He knew they were looking for some sort of reaction, easy fodder for the tabloids. He had been trained to ignore the inappropriate questions, the jeers and snipes, but he still felt a familiar anger roiling in his chest, the urge to knock their cameras straight from their hands.

They were quickly guided to the second floor of the building, where it was blissfully quiet.

“Vultures,” his mother muttered.

The mood of the morning only continued downhill during their meeting. The donors, corporate investors from Gothenburg, were more hesitant than Wille and his parents had expected. They trusted Erik and his vision, but worried that Wille was too young and impulsive to guide the charity in the right direction.

“You know how these things go,” they said. “One slip up, and the market tanks, just like that.”

Slip up.

Wille felt like all of his preparation, all the time he’d spent studying the history of the Foundation, struggling to understand Erik’s vision and how he could continue his brother’s legacy, were buried under those two words.

“We haven’t done anything wrong,” Simon had said to him. Wille was quickly learning that not everyone thought that way. He remembered sitting in the lounge last night, hearing Erik’s voice during the video, the world spinning out of his control. Simon’s phone call like a gentle hand, bringing him back to focus. If only they knew, if only they could understand: it wasn’t a slip up. It was far from it.

They left the meeting disappointed, Wille’s shoulders heavy under the weight of yet again being compared to Erik, only to not live up to his brother’s reputation.

The crowd of photographers were still in the lobby of the building, cameras flashing and voices rising, speaking over one another in a loud jumble as Wille and his parents passed.

“Your Highness, do you miss your brother?”

“His Majesty, are you happy with Crown Prince Wilhelm’s transition to the role?”

Wille’s heart was pounding, sweat prickling at the back of his neck.

“Kristina, what if Crown Prince Wilhelm cannot succeed the throne?”

Wille jerked his head up. Who had said that?

His mother was faster, tearing away from Wille and his father to rush at the photographer. She drew up closely to him, pointing a sharp finger at his chest.

“You will address me by my full title and you will not make such comments about my family,” she hissed.

“Your Majesty!” Wille’s father said, tugging her away by the elbow. She shook him away, heels echoing as she rushed from the building.

“This is a nightmare,” his mother said, once they were seated in the car. She held a hand over her eyes. “A nightmare,” she repeated, and said nothing the rest of the way home.

Later that night, Wille’s phone erupted, vibrating endlessly in his hand as the headlines and notifications rolled in:

Queen Kristina Attacks Press in Front of His Majesty and Crown Prince

Queen Kristina Slipping Off the Deep End?

Torn Apart By Grief, Royal Family Splitting Apart

Marriage On the Rocks for Queen Kristina and King Ludvig?

Wille’s face flushed. Unable to resist, he opened the articles. He stared at the pictures of his mother, caught at all angles, face furious and drawn as she confronted the photographer. There was a picture of his mother pulling away from his father, her mouth pressed into a thin line, that looked especially damning.

It was only the smallest snippet of their lives, caught out of context, but the press was already taking advantage, twisting the moment to fit their own money-hungry agendas. Why didn’t they report on what the photographers had shouted, their shamelessness, the cruel words they had said?

When the video of him and Simon went viral, the torrent of comments and speculation left Wille feeling sick. Yet again, it was as though they were not real people, but merely characters for the public’s entertainment. Wille imagined his peers from Hillerska, Felice, Simon…all of them, reading the news, seeing these photographs. His stomach rolled.

He snapped his phone shut, wishing he were anyone else.

**

The next morning arrived accompanied by thick, wet snowflakes. Wille watched them come down from the sky until the grounds outside his window were covered.

He was tired but hadn’t been able to sleep. When he tucked his head into his pillow and closed his eyes, his heart raced, thinking about what the media was saying about his mother, his terrible meeting with the Gothenburg investors, the photographers’ shouts, mocking him.

What if Crown Prince Wilhelm cannot succeed the throne?

What if? Wille wondered. It was as though that photographer had seen right through to the core of him, his fear of failure, of squandering what little of Erik’s legacy there was, and used it perfectly against him. Was his anxiety that obvious? Could everyone tell how poorly he was fitting into the role of the Crown Prince, like a mismatched puzzle piece, terrified of what the future held?

Wille shoved himself out of bed. He wouldn’t let himself think about it. He sat at his desk, body on edge, leg bouncing. He watched the flurry of snow through his bedroom window, thinking that it was almost Christmas Eve, which would be dull and terrible without Erik. Wille could already imagine his mother and father, opening presents with that same mechanical lack of enthusiasm that haunted most every one of their actions, and certainly worse now as they fought off the new rumors.

After the holidays, winter break would quickly be over, and Wille would be shipped back to Hillerska. It should have been a relief for Wille to leave Drottningholm, but his gut twisted when he thought about Simon. When they passed each other in the halls or sat nearby in class, how would Wille think of anything but the way Simon smiled when he caught Wille’s eye, the tan arch of his back in the early morning light, the way his breath caught when they kissed?

Wille resisted the urge to pace around his room, antsy. Instead, he dug through the lower left drawer of his desk for the Abba CD case. He opened it and the pack of Klonopin fell onto his desk.

Wille fiddled with it, running his fingers over each unbroken pocket of foil holding the pills. He could only remember pieces of the night he was voted into The Society: pledging the oath — How did the ship Vasa sink? Bottoms up! — the football field, where the drugs and alcohol ebbed through his body like water lazily flowing through a river. Nothing was real there, and nothing hurt. There was only the relief of Simon's arms, guiding him home.

Wille wanted to feel that way again, now and all the time. Except Wille no longer had Simon to soothe the tightness in his chest, or a brother to be disappointed in him. All he had was life as the Crown Prince, lonely, forced, under the shadow of his dead brother, so he pressed a pill out of the foil and quickly swallowed it.

For a long time, he stared out the large, two-paned window above his desk, which overlooked the sweeping grounds of Drottningholm. The sun was just short of rising, fighting against the gray tide of snow clouds. When the sun was bright and halfway up in the sky, snow slowly falling, Wille threw on his jacket and sneakers and went outside.

There were a few inches of snow on the ground that crunched underneath Wille's feet. He scooped some up and formed a rough snowball. It was the perfect snow, the kind that only came a few times a winter. He and Erik used to anxiously wait for it, hurrying outside after every snowfall, disappointed when the snow fell apart in their hands like powder, or when it was impossibly icy and useless. After the best storms, it wasn't long until snowballs streaked across the sky, hurled at each others' backs as they sprinted across the yard. Erik would build snow forts to duck behind and catch his breath, until Wille found him and dumped an armful of snow on his head. In retaliation, Erik shoved cold slush down the back of Wille's shirt until he shouted. They made snowmen, too, who watched with tiny stone-black eyes when both brothers tiredly gave in, agreed on peace with a handshake, and went back inside to warmth.

The snowball was burning in Wille's hand. He threw it. It arched casually across the grounds, and with no target to hit, landed with a thump, returning to the snow. Wille's arm felt heavier than he expected, and it turned out his body felt heavy too, and the snow was perfectly white and open. He fell onto his back.

The ground held him like a friend. He splayed out his arms, feeling the snow gentle against his jacket and as it seeped into the thin fabric of his pajama pants. The sun was bright in the sky, and he closed his eyes as it rested kindly against his face.

Not for the first time, Wille wondered what it felt like when Erik died. Maybe he felt something like this: body melting into the ground, almost warm, finally ready to sleep.

“Wille.”

Wille turned his head. Erik was lying next to him, wearing a winter jacket and a knit hat.

“Are we making snow angels?” Erik said. “Haven’t done that since we were little kids.” He threw out his arms and legs, waving them through the snow.

“Wait,” Wille said, catching Erik’s hand as it flung towards his face. “Stop. Stop it.”

Erik sighed, rolling over onto his side. Resting his chin on his hand, he said, “what’s up, little brother?”

He looked exactly the same as the last time Wille had seen him. “What are you doing here?”

Erik rolled his eyes. “It’s the first snow of the year! It’s tradition. Hey, maybe later we can convince Mom and Dad to build a snowman with us.”

“Right,” Wille said, watching Erik flop back onto the ground. “Maybe later.”

“Do you remember that one winter we all went sledding?” Erik said, staring up at the sky. “On that massive hill in Lunda? Even mum gave it a try, but we pushed her down the hill way too hard?”

“She screamed the whole way down.”

“Security had to run down the hill after her!”

“They thought we killed her!”

Wille laughed until he ran out of breath, wiping tears away.

“Erik, I miss you. I really miss you.”

Erik smiled softly at Wille. “There’s no reason to miss me, Wille.”

Wille frowned. “Erik, you’re—”

“Wilhelm?”

Their mother was rushing across the yard, dressed in only her day robe.

Wille looked at the spot where Erik had been lying, finding only fresh, untouched snow on the ground.

His mother dropped to her knees next to Wille. “Are you hurt?” She asked, touching his arms, his legs. “Are you unwell?”

“No, I’m all right,” he said, sitting up. His mother’s hand was warm where it rested heavily against his knee. She looked frightened, which Wille didn’t understand. He had only been outside for a few minutes. “I’m fine,” Wille said.

“Let’s get you inside,” his mother said, helping to lift him off the ground. His legs felt stiff as he stood, and he realized he was covered in a light dusting of snow.

Inside the foyer, his mother brushed the snow off his body, pulling on his ears, tousling his hair.

“Look at the state of you!” She said. “It’s freezing outside! What were you thinking? Going out there only in your pajamas?”

Her expression held a look that Wille had never seen before, eyes desperate and worried as they searched his face. Wille looked out the window over her shoulder, searching the yard, but it was empty. Erik was gone.

“Wilhelm,” his mother said, shaking his shoulder. That expression was still there on her face, if not worse now. She pulled him into a tight hug, sighing shakily against him. Wille slowly lifted his arms, resting his hands against her back. “What were you thinking?” She said. “Why must you do these things to me?”

Wille realized that he was shivering, despite the warmth of the foyer.

What was that saying? Shaking like a— like a lamb’s tail. That was it. He was shaking like a lamb’s tail. He wished he were a lamb, tucked up safe against its mother’s pelt, like the sheep he always saw scattered across the hills of the South coast. Fresh and new, only just born.

His mother pulled away, cupping a hand against his cheek.

His head was aching. “Maybe I’m not feeling well after all,” he said.

“Go take a hot shower,” she said, hand dropping away. “I’ll have the kitchen make you warm tea.”

In his bathroom, he started the shower and stripped the wet clothes from his numb skin. Steam filled the room, making his head grow foggy.

Do you ever wish you were young again? he texted Simon, and left his phone behind as he stepped into the water.

**

After his shower, Wille found his mother at the dining room table with two cups of tea. Her face no longer held that worried look, but instead was drawn with exhaustion.

“Please sit, Wilhelm,” she said. “I asked them to add honey to your tea, like you like.”

“Thank you, mamma.”

“Are you feeling better?”

He took a sip of his tea, chest filling with warmth as he swallowed. “I feel a bit better,” he said. The Klonopin and the heat of the shower left his body feeling slow and sluggish, weighed down by a heavy calm. He thought he could sleep for a week if he tried.

“Good,” his mother said. “It will be hard to be on your feet at the Christmas Banquet tonight if you are not well.”

Wille nodded, watching her stare down at her tea, hands still where they were wrapped around her tea cup. He was not used to her being silent: their conversations were usually efficient and to the point, with no time for quiet pauses or lingering.

Finally, she sighed and looked up at him. “I’m sorry about my behavior at the Börshuset yesterday. I should not have acted that way. I set a terrible example for you and for the country.”

“Those photographers— they shouldn't be allowed to speak to us like that," Wille said.

“Over time you grow used to the harassment.” She shook her head. “But it has been so difficult without Erik.”

Outside, Erik had looked so alive, his cheeks flushed red and bright against the snow.

“I can imagine how you must be feeling, with so many responsibilities to balance, and your brother not here to guide you through it.”

Erik had wanted to build a snowman later, hadn’t he?

“But, please, Wilhelm,” his mother said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “Please try and take care of yourself.”

Wille took another sip of tea. Any words he wanted to say were too heavy, weighing down his tongue.

“We will see you tonight,” his mother said, patting his hand once before standing up from the table, leaving her tea behind as she left the dining room.

**

That night, Wille struggled not to compare the Christmas Banquet to Erik’s funeral. From the moment he stepped into the banquet hall, he noticed how similar the two events were.

The banquet was held in the main hall of Stockholm Palace, a massive, lavishly decorated room. The guests that filled the space were mostly family and friends dressed in expensive gowns and well-tailored suits and ties. Wille expected to blink and find his brother’s coffin suddenly sitting in the middle of the room.

But unlike Erik’s funeral, Wille was the main attraction at the banquet. All eyes were on him as he moved around the room, shaking hands and kissing cheeks to greet guests, sweat prickling the back of his neck as he struggled to remember their names. Almost everyone he met offered him their condolences, leaving Wille sick and tired of saying thank you over and over again.

Halfway through the night, he was sipping on half a glass of white wine, roped into a conversation between the Minister of Employment and one of his third cousins, twice-removed, about Sweden’s possible NATO membership. Wille’s phone was in his front pocket. He wished it would vibrate. He wondered what Simon was up to. He was sure it was more interesting than this.

“What do you think, Crown Prince Wilhelm?” Ada — or was it Ella, or Eve? — asked. She and his cousin both looked up at him expectantly.

“There is a value in both of your opinions,” Wille said, but he hadn’t been listening and couldn’t comment on either of what they had said.

A heavy arm fell across his shoulders, a large gold watch sparkling on its wrist. The smell of aftershave reached Wille's nose.

“The Crown Prince Wilhelm, my great nephew,” his Great Uncle Sigvard said. “Ladies,” he nodded, and began leading Wille away and towards his mother on the other side of the room. “How are you, my dear boy?”

“I’m well, thank you,” he said, shaking away Sigvard’s tight grip on his shoulder.

“Your Majesty,” Sigvard said to Wille’s mother when they approached. “It is excellent that you and the Crown Prince are doing well. And Ludvig, as well!”

“Thank you, Sigvard,” Wille’s mother said.

“Excellent, excellent. It is excellent, however, we are very concerned about the past year’s cycle of press,” Sigvard said. “The public fighting, Erik’s passing, the — video taken at Hillerska, and now we are hearing suggestions that the King and Queen’s marriage may be under unmanageable stress.”

“Those rumors are quite unfounded, as I’m sure you can imagine,” Kristina said. “Ludvig and I are doing well, as always, and Wilhelm was incorrectly identified as being in that video.”

“Regardless,” Sigvard said. “I recently spoke with the Prime Minister. She is very concerned that the current state of the family is damaging Sweden’s stability.”

“Ludvig and I were unaware, considering we had not been a part of such talks,” Kristina said, her hand tightening against the stem of her wine glass.

“There is talk that this has all been a threat to the status of the Party. There might be an opportunity for the Moderates to regain their status during the upcoming elections. It is an uncomfortable possibility.”

“Well, the Prime Minister should not be concerned as there is no threat to Ludvig and I’s marriage, and Wilhelm is upholding his role as Crown Prince.”

Wille’s mother glanced at him, and Wille nodded emphatically. 

“That is all well and good, Kristina, but such concerns are certainly not unmerited.” Sigvard turned to Wille. His face was very old, and small, frameless glasses sat on top of his wrinkled nose. “I hope you, young man, understand it is your responsibility to appeal to the public.”

“Yes, Uncle Sigvard. Of course.”

“For the Party to regain their footing, there can be no more lollygagging, Wilhelm. No more— indiscretions of a certain nature. You know, there is a very nice girl currently attending Hillerska. Vera Damberg. Have you two met?”

Wille clenched his jaw. “No, not yet.”

“Her father is the Minister for Finance. She is of quite high status and she acts very respectably. I wonder if there would be some benefit to the two of you meeting and enjoying one another’s company. It would be something to reflect well on the Riksdag.”

“Perhaps Vera and I will have courses together in the new year,” Wille said. His wine glass was still half full. He thought about gulping the rest down as an excuse to escape this conversation.

“Son,” Sigvard said, blunt, as though sensing that Wille was not taking him seriously and needed to be scolded. “Erik was a fine Prince. He respected his title, and we are expecting you will do the same. We cannot afford to be embarrassed any longer.”

“Thank you, Sigvard,” Kristina said, squeezing Wilhelm’s forearm so tightly it had begun to ache. “Perhaps we will make a connection with Vera and her family. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

“And in the meantime, you might reflect on the importance of discretion, Your Highness,” Uncle Sigvard called out to their backs as they retreated. Wille deposited his wine glass on a caterer’s tray as he passed by, sweeping out of the banquet hall and through the front door. Cold air burst across his face.

He spun around, hearing his mother’s footsteps close behind him.

“Why did you let him speak to me that way?” Wille said.

“I was not expecting to have such a conversation tonight. We cannot be instigating arguments at our own banquet, Wilhelm!”

“It was not about avoiding an argument. It is because you protect yourself and others more than you ever protect me!”

His mother’s eyes flashed. “That is simply not true—”

“He said I was an embarrassment, that I’m indiscrete," Wille said, voice thick as he repeated Sigvard's words. Insults, masked as friendly advice. "You should have stood up for me.”

“You are the Crown Prince now, this is how your actions will be interpreted. This is the attention you will receive for the rest of your life. It is not always fair.”

It was the response Wille had expected from mother, words he had heard over and over, but frustration still rocketed through him. “What about the rest of our family?" He said. "Our cousin, August, has done the most to damage our reputation, but he can live his life however he likes!”

“He is not the Crown Prince, Wilhelm. That is the difference.”

“Erik was the Crown Prince and he was never treated this way.” Why was he so different from Erik? Why did it feel as though his life was a never ending battle against being the Crown Prince, against the monarchy? Like waves of the ocean, sweeping him under, again and again?

“Erik acted very respectably his entire life. He had nothing to be embarrassed by.”

Wille’s face was hot. “Do you agree with Uncle Sigvard? Am I an embarrassment to the family?”

He stood, watching his mother press her lips together, considering her reply. He waited for her words to hit him. 

“You are not an embarrassment, Wilhelm. Of course, your actions may have left us embarrassed, but you are learning—”

“What is there to learn?” Wille threw his arms out, as though offering what was left of him. “I transferred to Hillerska, I left my friends behind, I denied that I was in that video, I stopped speaking to Simon, but it’s not good enough. They will never stop comparing me to Erik, but I’ll never be like him.” He wrapped his arms around himself. “He should be here instead of me.”

His mother exhaled, a wounded sound. “You cannot say things like that!” Her eyes searched his face, distraught. It was the same way she had looked when they were standing in the foyer early this morning, Wille covered in snow. He wondered if she were replaying that moment, seeing it from a new perspective.

She swallowed and stepped back. “We must return to the banquet. We can speak about this later.”

She held out her hand. Wille thought about turning away and leaving, catching the late bus to Bjärstad and knocking on Simon’s door, falling into his arms when he finally answered. His phone was heavy and silent in his pocket.

He took his mother’s hand, and they went back inside.

**

The day after the Banquet, the southern wing of the Palace was quiet. The staff were busy with their final Christmas preparations in the other wings of the Palace, and his mother and father were away attending the Annual Christmas Opera in Stockholm. The Opera promised a long day of song and then an afterparty loud with stuffy politician’s opinions on the diplomatic relations of the country.

Wille usually stayed at Erik’s side during the afterparty, listening to his brother complain about Conservatives and how to avoid the dissolution of the monarchy, which would be nothing but tragic. One year, the Opera and afterparty ran long and boring, and Erik and Wille staged their escape, wandering the dark concert hall until they came across an empty balcony overlooking the stage. Ducking behind the theater seats, they passed a stolen bottle of mulled cider between them. Wille remembered that Erik had a girlfriend, then, one of the first of several, and it was all he wanted to talk about.

When their mother finally found them, furious, Erik and Wille were drunk as sailors, shouting and singing their own opera songs off the balcony to the empty stage.

Wille told his mother he wasn’t feeling well after the Banquet and wouldn’t attend the Opera. It wasn’t a total lie: Uncle Sigvard’s words and Wille’s argument with his mother afterwards were still rolling around in his head, and he was exhausted. He was thankful he stayed home, but he could already see tomorrow’s headlines, the tabloids and news outlets noting his absence. They would wonder if he was unwell, or speculate that he was already unable to handle his new responsibilities as the Crown Prince, sinking under the pressure. They might call him an embarrassment, like his Uncle. The worst part was, they wouldn’t even be wrong.

In the afternoon, Wille left his room and wandered the southern wing, walking down the hallway until he turned right, slowly approaching the door to Erik’s childhood bedroom. Erik hadn’t lived there in years: he spent most of his time boarding at Hillerska, and after graduation, Erik moved to Haga Palace to live independently as the Crown Prince. It was close to Stockholm University, where he was finishing his studies, and then he was expected to marry and raise his future family there.

As any respectable Crown Prince should.

The wooden doors of the bedroom curved high over Wille's head. He hesitated, hand hovering over the doorknob. Was it wrong for Wille to go inside Erik’s room without him there? Were any of his things even still in there, or had they been moved out along with Erik to Haga, leaving behind only more ghosts?

When they were young, Wille and Erik spent plenty of time in each other’s rooms, but as Erik got older, he wanted more and more privacy, and allowed Wille in his room less and less. It had been years since Wille had seen the inside of Erik’s bedroom. Wille wondered if it would help him understand Erik, how he had grown into being the Crown Prince so easily, so simply, without feeling like his world was slipping out from under him.

Wille leaned his head against the door, squeezing his eyes shut. He opened them, hoping Erik would be there, but the hallway was empty.

Wille sighed and pushed open the door, entering the room. The floor was swept and the bed made, like the cleaning staff had been in.

The closet was half open. Inside, Wille trailed his hands along the assortment of left-behind dress shoes and sneakers resting on the floor. There were pieces of clothes still hanging on the rack, some button up shirts and jackets, and Wille pushed his face into the fabric, inhaling. Underneath the smell of dust and mothballs, he thought the scent of Erik's cologne was still there, and his throat ached.

As Wille stepped away, he noticed a maroon silhouette tucked away in the far corner of the closet. The jacket from Erik’s Hillerska uniform.

Wille shrugged it on. The shoulders were broad and the arms too long. Wille watched the sleeves slip past his hands and fingers and felt strangely absent from his own body.

Erik’s desk was still scattered with objects: a cup of pencils with their erasers chewed off and old, wrinkled school notebooks filled with Erik’s neat print, the handouts of long past school assignments, even a report card from when Erik was in Year 8 with notes from an old tutor. They were all things that didn’t really matter, once they were over and done with — solved math equations, that geography class Erik got a “B” in and complained about for weeks, notes on English and History and things forgotten — but they did matter, didn’t they, Wille thought. They meant that Eric was alive, once. He was here.

Wille fell heavily onto the desk chair and tugged on the desk drawers. The old wood screeched open. Most were empty, except the widest, middle drawer. Wille rifled through it and found a small, half empty bottle of Vodka and box of condoms. Wille snorted, thinking of his brother drunk and sneaking a girl back to the Palace under the nose of not only the staff, but also their mother.

Wille noticed a picture frame on the shelf of the desk. It was a picture of him and Erik, both young, arms around each other’s shoulders. They were outside, standing in their swim trunks, but Wille couldn’t remember when or where the picture was taken: it must have been some vacation, probably on the coast of Spain, where they often spent half their summer on the beach.

Wille stared at the photograph. A cold sweat washed over him, his stomach rolling. He needed to get up, he needed to leave, he never wanted to be in this room again, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t stop staring at Erik’s face. His vision was blurring. Why couldn’t Wille remember where the picture was taken? Was he starting to forget?

He wouldn’t forget— he couldn’t forget. Erik was the Crown Prince, forever, always, and Wille was— Wille was also the Crown Prince, and the two could only co-exist in such a way because Erik was dead, but Wille was here. Wille was here.

He rocketed up from the desk chair, pressing the framed photograph tightly to his chest. He swept up the rest of the objects on the desk into his arms. The notebooks and papers, the Vodka and condoms. His jacket coattails flapped behind him as he left Erik’s room, slamming the door behind him.

Back in his own room, Wille dropped Erik's things on his desk and found his phone. Simon had finally texted him back. Wille had almost forgotten he’d even asked him in the first place, but the answer to his question, do you ever wish you were young again? seemed more important now than ever.

Simon (16:34): Sometimes. Especially around Christmas.

Wille’s heart was in his throat. His phone vibrated in his hand.

Simon (16:35): How are you?

Wille found his reflection in the mirror, standing with his hand clenched around his phone. He was swimming in Erik’s too-big jacket, his cheeks flushed and wet.

He didn’t respond.

**

Erik was sitting at Wille's desk. He held the empty bottle of Vodka up to the light, squinting through the glass.

“You’re back,” Wille said. His head was floating away from him, like dandelion seeds in the breeze, but a hundred-pound weight pinned his body to the floor.

"Round on your feet there, Wille? I thought we were going swimming!"

"Swimming?" Wille asked. His brother was no longer in his winter clothes, instead wearing just a pair of swim trunks and flip flops.

“You might have at least shared,” Erik said. “Since this used to be mine.” He waved the bottle around, then clunked it back onto the desk. It rolled away and clattered to the floor.

He began rummaging through the mess scattered across the top of the desk.

"Sunscreen…sunscreen…" He muttered. “Where’s the sunscreen?”

“We can’t go swimming, Erik,” Wille said. “It’s December.”

Erik yanked open the drawers, then slammed them shut, unable to find what he was looking for.

“Junk, junk! It’s all junk!”

He swept an arm across the desk, scattering the papers and notebooks to the floor.

“Erik,” Wille said. “Please. It’s too late to go swimming.”

“You’re right.” Erik sighed, falling down cross legged in front of Wille on the floor. “We’ll just have to go tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry I went through your things,” Wille said.

“And I thought I was the nosy one,” Erik smiled. Wille watched as Erik leaned forward to ruffle his hair, feeling nothing. “It’s okay. Just don’t use those condoms, they’re half a decade old by now!”

Wille stared at his brother’s face. His eyes were so green. They were so bright.

“Erik, I really need your help.”

“I know, little brother. I know.”

“What do I do?”

“You need to figure out what you want.”

Wille frowned. Why did that sound so familiar?

“I know what I want,” Wille said. “But I’m not allowed to have it.”

“You still have time, Wille,” Erik said. “You still have so much time.” He swallowed, picking at one of his fingernails. “Earlier, you said you missed me. Why’d you say that?”

Because you’re dead, Wille thought. You’re dead but you’re in my room.

“I don’t know,” Wille lied.

“I feel like I miss you too,” Erik said. His face flickered, a shadow, there and gone, there and gone again, like a candle sputtering out. “But you’re right here.”

“I’m right here, Erik,” Wille whispered, but the words felt wrong. The floor was slipping out from under him, the ceiling of his room expanding, hurtling wildly towards him. No— he was hurling towards it, he was spinning out of control, too close, useless to stop it. The air was sucking through his ears.

You have so much time. You still have time.

His hands reached out, grasping. There was nothing to hold.

Don’t go, Erik.

Wille gasped and woke up, rearing up from his bedroom floor. He dry heaved, but nothing came up. He fell back to the floor, hardwood cool against his cheek.

“Fuck,” he sighed.

His phone vibrated next to his ear. He scrambled for it, throat aching as he swallowed, finding Simon’s name across the screen.

“Simon?” He said, voice hoarse. He cleared his throat. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay? You called me three times, Wille. It’s four in the morning.”

Wille squinted out his bedroom window. The sky was a dim orange, not yet bright.

“I didn’t realize,” Wille said, closing his eyes. His head was throbbing, his brain trying to escape through his skull. His room was a mess, all of Erik’s things strewn across the floor, the Vodka bottle lying nearby, open and empty.

“Wille?”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Are you drinking again? Drugs?”

“I forgot about our vacation,” Wille blurted.

“I— what? Whose vacation?”

“Erik! Erik and I’s vacation! Why can’t I remember?” He smacked his forehead. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you.”

“My parents are fighting, and the Royal Christmas Card is shit, and Uncle Sigvard wants to get me a girlfriend—”

“Wille,” Simon interrupted. “Is anyone there with you?”

“Erik keeps showing up, but he keeps leaving,” Wille said, feeling suddenly like he wanted to cry.

"Where are you? The Palace?"

Wille squinted at his bedroom light. He was so tired. He needed to shut the light off and go to sleep.

“The Palace,” Wille said, shoving himself up from the floor. He stumbled as the room spun, then regained his balance. “Fucking— Drottningholm Palace and the— the fucking Evergreens.”

“Are you in your room?” Simon asked.

“Yes,” Wille said, finally reaching the wall with the light switch, flipping the room into darkness. “I want to go to bed.”

“Don’t go to sleep, Wille,” Simon said.

That didn’t make any sense. Wille wanted to sleep. His bed was all the way across the room.

“Talk to me. Tell me about the— the Evergreens.”

“We put them in the Palace,” Wille said. “There’s a whole Academy, just for trees.”

“Where do you put the trees in the Palace?”

Wille finally made it to his bed, falling onto the mattress. He sighed. It was so soft and warm. It reminded him of Simon.

“In the Pavilion,” Wille said, eyes shutting.

“I’ve never seen the Pavilion,” Simon said. “What’s it look like?”

“Big," Wille mumbled. "For the tourists. I'll show you around some time.”

“Wille, try not to fall asleep. Please.”

“I’m so tired,” Wille said. “I miss you. I wish you were here.”

“If you stay awake, I’ll be there.”

“Everything is terrible, Simon,” Wille said. “I can’t fix it.”

“Wille—”

His hand went limp around his phone as he fell asleep.

**

When Wille woke up, it was daytime, the sun reflecting bright white against the snow. He was sweating, buried beneath his heavy comforter and twisted up in Erik’s Hillerska jacket.

He swung his legs out of bed and he tried to remember what happened last night. After coming back to his room from Erik’s, he read the text from Simon, asking how he was. Had Wille responded? No, he couldn’t decide what to say. They had hardly talked since Hillerska, and Wille didn’t want to have their first real conversation while he was upset about Erik. Instead, Wille stayed in his room, skipping dinner to go over Erik’s things, drinking the last of Erik’s Vodka, reading his school notebooks and old assignments, looking for a hint, a secret, something about what Wille should do next.

Wille hadn’t found anything. Disappointed and halfway drunk, he remembered the Klonopin, the soft embrace of the snow, and Erik there, laughing, and decided to take another pill.

After that, he couldn’t remember.

He checked his phone, but it was dead, so he plugged it in and went to brush his teeth. His mouth tasted terrible, which Simon would have made fun of him for.

Back in his room, Wille turned his phone on, watching the screen light up. In between random Instagram notifications, he had two missed called from Simon, and a string of texts:

Simon (04:28): Wille, pick up your phone.

Simon (04:35): Wille??

Simon (04:48): At least text me back, please

Simon (05:05): Come on

Simon (05:15): You better not be dead

Simon (05:28): Wille

Wille looked around his room, memories slotting into place. He rubbed a hand over his chest as his heart began to thud hard in his chest. Pulling up Simon's contact in his phone, hovered his thumb over the Call button.

He shook his head, writing a text message instead.

Wille (10:42): I’m sorry. I’m not dead.

Simon (10:45): ???

Simon (10:45): You scared me

Simon (10:46): I was up all night waiting to hear from you.

Wille shoved his head into his pillow, muffling a shout. He hated that he made Simon worry. He couldn’t remember half of what he’d said to Simon, but he was sure it was embarrassing, if not completely incoherent.

There was a soft knock on Wille's door.

“Yeah?”

"Your Highness, are you feeling better?” One of the palace valets called through the door.

“Yes, I’m fine now,” Wille called back.

“Your mother has requested to see you after lunch. She asks that you wear your riding clothes."

“Sounds fine, thanks!”

Wille sighed, looking down at his phone.

Wille (1048): Can we talk on the phone later?

Simon (10:52): I’m not sure

Wille (10:52): Okay

**

Wille halfheartedly cleaned up his room, shoving the empty Vodka bottle into the back of his underwear drawer and hiding the pack of Klonopin. He showered away his hangover, then tugged on his riding breeches, tucking them into boots. He hadn’t ridden since the summer before enrolling at Hillerska, although he’d walked by the stables on campus enough times to have had to resist the urge to duck inside and visit the horses.

He knew that Simon’s sister, Sara, was a stable hand and loved horses, especially Felice’s Thoroughbred. Wille wondered if Simon also liked horses, if knew how to ride, or maybe Wille could show him sometime, if they could ever be friends again.

Wille imagined Simon, a set of reins held tightly in his hands, thighs flexing and confident around the wide belly of a horse.

Wille flushed, finding his riding gloves and tucking his helmet under his arm. He hurried down the stairs of the South wing.

**

Wille and his mother traveled to the stables at Solliden in Borgholm, where the hilly fields that grew lush and danced with wildflowers in the summer were now layered with the sparkling frost of December, stretching long towards the horizon.

They swung atop two dressed black Fresians and thundered them down the bridal paths, twisting and winding between large-bushed broadleaves and beeches still shivering away their copper leaves. Icy pools of still water crackled beneath the horses’ hooves and invisible animals skittered fearfully away into the brush.

Wille tucked close to the long, elegant length of his horse’s neck, urging him faster, harder. These riding trails, where he had spent long afternoons and sunny weekends while young, were as familiar to him as the halls of Drottningholm. He was soothed by the winter sky, dim blue and streaked with gray clouds, and the sharp wind that whipped his cheeks red and cooled his throat.

Like a hawk flying low, Wille’s world narrowed down to the rhythm of a three-beat stride, the huff of the horse’s breath, the give and take of muscle tensing and releasing as Wille pressed his feet against his stirrups.

When they reached the edge of their land, which overlooked a long, frozen stretch of the Kalmar Straight and even further, the small villages that lined the waters, Wille urged his horse to a trot and eventually a final stop. He dismounted and tied the horse to a post at the edge of the trail.

“Good pony.” Wille clucked, kissing Roffe’s forehead.

Wille listened for his mother, hearing the amble of her horse several yards behind.

He fished his phone from the saddle bag. No messages from Simon.

Wille combed his hand through Roffe’s mane, which was crimped from being recently braided. He admired the shine of his deep black coat, the unblemished leather of his saddle. He thought of Simon and his fish, the tank that fit snugly on his computer desk, his house and his bedroom, small and cozy. Just enough for a family to fit inside of, warm and comfortable.

Wille checked his phone again, sighing, and zipped it back up in his saddle bag.

His mother and her horse came around the bend. She dismounted and tied up her horse next to Roffe.

“You are riding so well, Wilhelm,” she said. “Perhaps we should keep a horse at the stables at Hillerska for you.”

“Thank you. I’ll think about it.”

Wille wrapped his arms around himself, the breeze carrying the water’s chill across the air. He did not know what to say to his mother, after their conversation outside the banquet hall.

His mother sighed. “Wilhelm, I am sorry about our conversation with Sigvard. I understand that you have been upset these past few weeks. I know it has been difficult without Erik, and that you think August deserves some sort of punishment." She paused. "And I'm sure that you must miss Simon.”

"I wish I hadn't denied that it was me in the video with him," Wille admitted.

"But you did the right thing, Wilhelm. It would not have benefitted you or any of us if you were engaged in such a scandal. Think of what your Great Uncle said! Even after releasing your statement about the video, there is still so much scrutiny against us.”

It benefitted us, Wille thought. It was always about us. It was always on our terms.

"Except now Simon wants nothing to do with me," he said, voice thick. "He hardly speaks to me, he doesn't want to spend time with me."

"I'm sure he's not so much upset with you as it is hard for him to understand the many responsibilities that come with being the Crown Prince."

As usual, their conversation was circling the point, but never reaching it: if he had to live like this, he didn’t want the responsibilities of being a Crown Prince. He wasn’t sure his mother would ever understand the difference between privilege and punishment.

"I wish Erik were still here," Wille said instead, kicking at the ground. "He deserved to be the Crown Prince. He was perfect."

"Erik was not perfect, Wilhelm,” his mother said, shaking her head. “There are many stories you do not know.”

Wille frowned. “What stories?”

His mother closed her eyes, inhaling, as though she needed a moment to prepare herself. "When Erik was young, he did not understand the responsibilities, the consequences of being Crown Prince. While he lived at Hillerska, he drank, he snuck away from his security to go out to parties. He was often irresponsible, and did what he wanted to do. But through his mistakes, he learned."

That hardly surprised Wille, after finding the Vodka and condoms in Erik's desk and after watching the way the third years at Hillerska drank alcohol like it was water. Of course Erik would have partied, too. Wille held back a smile, imagining his brother crawling out his bedroom window to sneak off in the middle of the night.

"Early on, there was a girl,” his mother continued. “Erik thought he had gotten her pregnant. One month she was late, and the pregnancy test from the pharmacy came back positive. It turned out to be false, and she wasn't pregnant, but it made quite an impression on Erik."

“Erik never told me this,” Wille said, feeling lost. "What would have happened if she had been pregnant?"

"Erik would have married her, and he would have raised the child. There was no other choice. But he wasn't prepared to do that. He wanted to refuse, although we would not have allowed it.” She scoffed, shaking her head. “Think, Wilhelm, of a child being born out of wedlock to a seventeen year old Crown Prince. Imagine how that would look, the attention it would bring.”

Wille pictured Erik, sitting in Minou’s office, sick with worry that his girlfriend was pregnant. He imagined Minou, with her steepled fingers, and their mother, hands clasped in her lap, face somber as she delivered these same words to him, as she laid out Erik's future.

"It's always about our reputation," Wille said. "It's never about us, or what we want."

His mother sighed. "Every time we are not thoughtful, or insolent, or impulsive, we make the monarchy look weak. It gives power to those who think the monarchy should not exist. If our rule were to end, we would lose everything we have, Wilhelm."

But what did Wille have, if not Simon? He remembered talking on the phone with Simon after the Christmas video, the way his voice had soothed the most unsettled parts of him. It was Simon who let him catch his breath for the first time in his life. He was the only thing that Wille wanted, and the only thing that he didn’t want to lose.

"We would lose everything because your choices made you dependent on the monarchy and nothing else!" Wille said.

"They are not choices! They are responsibilities bred from tradition.” His mother’s voice shook. “They were handed to me at a very, very young age. I didn't ask for them, they were given to me. And they will be given to you. If you love this country, you will respect that. Caring for Sweden is larger than any of us."

How had Erik felt, hearing these words? Did he find it unfair? Did he want to run away, to escape, before he suffered the same fate as their mother, forced into this terrible, traditional life? Or did Erik accept that this was the world he had been born into, that his fate was set in stone years and years before he was ever born?

Wille shook his head. "It shouldn't have to be that way."

Wille loved Sweden, and he cared for the people here. But he was starting to realize there was life to live beyond that.

"It is a lesson that Erik learned, and one that you are already learning,” his mother said. “If Erik had his choice, he never would have married her, and we would have an illegitimate child vying for the throne."

"If he loved that girl, he might have married her eventually, if he had time to make his own decisions," Wille argued.

"They broke up only months later, and he hardly spoke of her again! He thought he was in love, like every teenager does. But the current state of our hearts cannot overpower the reality of our situation, Wilhelm. One changes, and one will stay the same. I understand that, Erik eventually came to learn it, and you will too."

"It is different between me and Simon," Wille insisted. It hurt, imagining that his feelings for Simon could ever change.

“You think you love him,” his mother said, and Wille was surprised to hear that his mother’s voice was not patronizing, or angry. If anything, it was sad. Cautious.

“Oh, Wilhelm,” she said, holding him by the upper arms, squeezing gently. “You are so young.”

"I know what I want," he said.

His mother’s eyes traced his face, searching. “You must be sure,” she said. “You must be more sure than anything. Until then, please be careful. Please think of us, and think of Erik, too.”

The meaning behind her words was not yet clear to him. Was he imagining the sound of concession, of permission, in her voice?

“And Wilhelm,” she said. Although it sounded like an afterthought, she stared hard into his eyes. “Do not think you are less deserving of this than Erik. He would be proud of you.”

He nodded, stepping back from her grasp. He felt wrung out and chilled from the weather.

They returned to their horses, where he untied Roffe and swung onto his saddle. He slipped his feet into the stirrups, hands tightening around the reins. He wanted to ride hard and fast, until he was long past the rolling lowlands, the mountains and the shuddering lakes, until the sky turned from blue to some other color, and he was far, far from here.

**

Back at the Solliden stables, Wille and his mother passed their horses off to the stable hands, and Wille followed after them into the barn.

He found the Arabian mare in her stall, tossing her head. She snuffled as Wille approached.

“Hi, Margot,” he said, rubbing his hand against the long patch of white that stretched from her nose to the top of her head, bisecting her otherwise chocolate brown coat.

“I think she’s lonely without Erik,” one of the stable hands sighed. “We ride her, of course, but she doesn’t get nearly enough attention as she used to.”

Margot whinnied as if she agreed.

On the drive home from Solliden, Wille thought about his brother, the Erik he knew and the Erik from his mother's story. He thought about the girl Erik may or may not have been in love with and was almost tied to forever. He thought about Erik’s empty room, the untied shoes in his closet, the dust gathering on the windowsills. He thought about Erik’s Hillerska jacket, and the last time Erik ever wore it, and he thought about Margot, alone in her stall. He thought about Stockholm, and every brick, every length of sidewalk, every road and highway and stretch of pavement Erik had walked and drove and lived upon.

And Wille thought about himself, too, watching his reflection as it rippled against the car window, and wondered how someone was supposed to be not a Crown Prince, but a little brother without an older brother there to guide them.

Wille thought about Simon, his smile, his thumbs rubbing against Wille’s knuckles.

There was so much in this world for a person to save, and so much for them to leave behind.

When they were nearing Drottningholm, Wille’s phone buzzed.

Simon (17:22): I’ll call you later tonight

**