Chapter Text
ACT I – The hands
Wilhelm never knew what to do with his hands. He usually let them fall awkwardly on his sides, used them as anchors to keep himself in place. He let gravity take care of them, pull them towards the center of Earth and turn them into roots. They kept him steady, frozen in one place when the whole world seemed to be moving crazily, when he wanted to spin with it.
He didn’t know what to do with them, he didn’t know what to do with his whole existence. He wished he could treat his entire body the way he did his hands, shoving them in pockets when reality became too overwhelming, curling them in fists when he needed to snap out of himself. He sometimes wished he could turn small, that he could turn his entire body into the size of a fist and just find shelter into himself.
He used his hands when he greeted ministers and royals and everyone else. He used his hands to keep his hair from falling into his eyes, he bit his nails until the edges bled. But he felt like he used his hands to do the least of what he actually wanted. He had made polite handshakes when he wanted to grasp people’s necks and scream. He had brushed his hair out of his eyes when he wanted to pull it out of his scalp. He had bit his nails nervously when he wanted to use his hands and crush his heart with his bare fingers so it would stop beating so loudly and he could finally have a moment of peace.
He had used his hands as fists that night. He had punched that guy and only later he came to realize the consequences of his actions. He would look at his hands, the hands that helped him eat and wash and get dressed and he would wonder how violent they could get, how much violence could be squeezed into ordinary things.
Wilhelm never knew what to do with his hands so he used them as a desperate act of asking for help silently, royally. Look at me, I’m drowning under a title I do not want. I’ve decided the mark I want to leave in this world is a fist.
[…]
When he first arrived at Hilerska, he desperately wanted to carry his suitcase so he had something to hold on to, otherwise, he would bite his nails and pull his hair or maybe even punch August. When they shook hands, he didn’t recognize his own flesh against the palm of a person who touched like a diplomat. Firmly but also loose, hard enough to make a deal but not enough to cross the line, not enough to create a bond.
Later, he hugged Erik in a desperate attempt to print himself into his brother’s skin. Again, he wished he could turn small and disappear into his brother’s pocket, where he felt safe. They said their goodbyes but he still didn’t want to let go. His hands had turned into tentacles. When Erik left, Wilhelm felt the weight of them by his side crushing him down. His hands were hands again.
[…]
Much later, at the party when August started calling out for him he felt the uncontrollable urge to stay hidden forever, to avoid returning back to himself the way he always did when he was with August and the royal crap he couldn’t shut up about. He wanted to stay hidden with Simon, forever or until the morning, whichever came first because sunrise is a certainty and right now he wasn’t certain about anything, not when this boy was looking at him like that.
Simon, maybe drunk, maybe completely carefree, called out his name when August was looking for him, threatening to reveal their hideout and for once, Wilhelm’s hands moved without his permission. They rested themselves on Simon’s face, in a desperate attempt to silence him. His hands had turned to butterflies, touching the other boy’s face softly, ready to fly away. Time existed between them in fragments, a moment when their eyes met and another when they looked away. When Simon had to go, Wilhelm felt his arms turning cold, missing the contact, the easiness of being this close to someone and just existing around them without the extra noise, without the trouble. His hands were hands again.
His hands were just hands but he still wanted to touch the other boy in the most subtle ways, because that was what he would ever be allowed to do. A friendly pat on the shoulder, a gentle shove. He found ways of touching Simon without touching him. A look that lasted a moment too long, a smile offered only to him. He started undressing himself of his title, wished that he could only be Wilhelm with no royal blood in his veins. This was a wish he would whisper shamefully his entire life but it had a different purpose now. Without the title maybe I can touch openly. Without the title maybe I can-
Even thinking such things was dangerous. He always wore his heart on his sleeve. Every emotion painted his eyes with a different color, a different wish. He couldn’t do this, not here, not where there were so many eyes that could see.
He tried to convince himself that he could find everything he looked for in Felice. Felice was great, she was kind and funny and he liked her, just not like that. He didn’t think of excuses to touch her skin or brush her hair out of her face. He didn’t dream of her eyes or her smile. In his sleep, he saw pieces of what he truly desired but didn’t even dare to think of it awake; soft curls and a finely muscled back and the pair of hands he wished he could hold. And the voice. That voice. Wilhelm wasn’t particularly religious but he knew that this was the kind of voice gods envy. That, he knew.
Wilhelm knew he shouldn’t want but he did. He wanted more than anything, he wanted so much it terrified him. He wanted to reach out and touch and let his hands explain everything he couldn’t find the words for. He wanted to speak in touches.
Sometimes he imagined himself saying Hey, I’m not good with words but I have two restless hands and they can care about you deeply. Let me care. Let me touch.
And Simon let him.
Their hands touched when they were on that motorbike after the football game. Two boys having fun with their friends, two boys drunk on victory and happiness. One of them felt almost normal. The other liked him just like that.
Two motorbikes and four kids and two soft hands touching, creating a bridge between them. Let’s be the connection we seek. Let’s be the closest we can to each other.
[…]
Two boys and one movie and so many others around them but they didn’t matter. They were just noise, they just existed around them with no clue of the brave boy who touched another brave boy softly, who let his heart out there in the open for the first time.
Hey, his fingers said, I can feel the butterflies.
Hey, Simon’s fingers responded, I can feel them too.
His fingertips were polite but urgent with a softness that lives only inside of sacred moments. This moment was special because it was their own but mostly, because it was the proof Wilhelm so desperately needed that this could actually work, that people could not notice, that they didn’t care enough to read behind the long glances and the wandering touches. He could actually have this, he could actually have him.
And then Sara saw. And Wilhelm realized that no matter how well he could hide his happiness and the reason for it, someone would always see.
He stood up suddenly and left as if he was hit by lightning. He needed to get out of there because he was going to break. His breath was trapped inside his ribcage like a frightened bird, desperate to escape, to fly out of his mouth. Instead, he choked on feathers.
His hand, his fist, tapped his chest, one, two, three times, in an almost successful attempt to calm himself down. His hands were hummers, breaking his ribcage, freeing the bird. When he finally took a deep breath, his hands were hands again.
Was all this the result of touching the boy who had haunted his thoughts? Or was it the realization that he wasn’t transparent, that he couldn’t act on his desire without being watched? Was it the fact that he liked a boy or that people would know?
Fear was an emotion Wilhelm was not particularly familiar with. Anger yes, sadness also. He knew panic. Panic hit fast and unexpectedly. If he could give it a shape, he would imagine it to be an object thin and sharp. Panic cuts holes on your skin, but they are not big enough for the birds to break free. But fear, fear is different. Fear is big and thick. Fear doesn’t cut you open. Fear eats you whole slowly, it gets bigger and bigger as you get smaller and smaller until you’re more afraid than yourself. Until you can’t move.
Wilhelm was afraid. He was afraid because he knew that if he gave in, sooner or later, someone would find out. But mostly, he was afraid of regretting not giving in, not giving them a chance.
Should we start a revolution, Simon? Can we?
A minute later Simon found him and he got his answer.
[…]
The video was out. Their privacy, their familiarity, their moment was out there in the open for everyone to see, everyone to judge, everyone to know. Maybe it was foolish of them to think that they could keep it a secret forever. But not like that. It shouldn’t be like that.
Wilhelm asked Simon to follow him to the locker room. They had to avoid each other, the Queen had said, in order for the rumors to die, but Wilhelm had to see him. He had to remind himself that just because the weight fell more on him because he was the heir, this had affected Simon too. It had hurt them both. Why was he unable of enjoying something without a tragedy, without a terrible thing to happen, and remind him that happiness wasn’t in the cards for him? The king’s fate isn’t to be happy. Ruling a country requires sacrifices. Wilhelm had just started to learn that.
They didn’t talk much, they didn’t have to. Mouths are useless. Words had failed Wilhelm a long time ago.
“We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know.”
There wasn’t anything else to be said. They let their feet speak. Their hands. The feeling that was growing into their hearts. I like you, he’d said on the football field. He felt the bigger word on his tongue now too.
They let their hands make the promises their mouths couldn’t keep. Wilhelm couldn’t shake off this horrible feeling, this undying worry that something was broken. His hands were too shaking to mend it, to glue it back together. Scared, desperate hands.
Wilhelm had Simon right under his fingertips but he felt as if he was already drifting away. I’m going to lose him, he thought. I’m going to lose him forever.
His hands continued touching this precious boy as if it was the last time. He wasn’t Wilhelm anymore. He was all fear.
Maybe some people are not meant for revolutions.
[…]
The art of touching is a magnificent thing. Two people decide the distance between them needs to be crossed. So they cross it. Two people decide they’re done being two. So they become one. Two people decide that touching is not enough, not for them. So they kiss.