Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Prince Richard?”

Richie heard them on the other side of the door, but the voice sounded more like a fly on the wall rather than a real person who moves and breathes. Thoughts raced through his head at one hundred miles an hour, blending in with the regular snowy-white haze that seemed to cloud it at all times. Richie was sweating. He could barely breathe, and it felt as though he were being crushed from the force of every wall around him. A deep sense of dread filled him from head to toe and he could feel it trailing down his arms in the water from the sink he had tried to drown his hands in.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror, hands clasped on the sink’s porcelain frame, droplets of water falling from his hair, his nose, his glasses. He tried to take a deep breath to sustain himself, but the nagging voice on the other side of the door interrupted his thoughts again. He stopped mid inhale.

“The car is here.”

A short pause, in which Richie let out the last of his breath he held.

“We need to leave as soon as possible.”

Richie ignored them again, hoping that they’d just go away, but he knew that they wouldn’t. It was the guard’s job to protect him, and after the shit he had gotten himself into only minutes prior, he needed all the protection he could get. He raised his head again to stare intently at his reflection in the mirror. He glared with slitted eyes at the nasty bruise that was beginning to form around a cut on his cheek, and his tousled hair that stuck up snobbishly this way and that.

A forceful knock on the bathroom door jostled him out of his own thoughts and Richie whipped his head around, hurrying towards the door. He kept his head down, staring at his shoes. Two guards stood outside waiting for him, and as he hurried down the hallway, white-noise still running rampant in his head, they followed close behind. Richie had every sense in the world to turn around and tell them off, yell at them, tell them that nothing really mattered all that much and that he could get into the car just fine himself, but he held his composure as best he could. Although he knew that if his mother saw, she would scold him indefinitely. His back was slouched and he was walking fast and he was staring at the floor and had a wound on his face; the very epitome of un-princelike.

The noise from outside wasn’t even muffled by the roar of the car’s engine as Richie ushered himself into the back seat and slammed the door shut. He grumbled something under his breath, something he hoped the female guard who made herself comfortable next to him didn’t hear. He glanced at her, and he couldn’t even be bothered to remember her name. Claire, maybe? Amanda? Whatever, he didn’t really care. They all looked the same, in the same stupid shitty clothing style, and most of them blended together in some sort of weird, fucked up smoothie in Richie’s memory. In one last desperate attempt to drown out his thoughts, Richie put in his headphones and turned on his music, full volume. He rolled his head back on the headrest and sneered out the window as the occurrences of that night flooded through his head.

He had been invited to some sort of high school party, and his attendance had been deemed highly necessary by his peers. So he went, tagging along with the few friends he did have. Other party-goers swarmed him immediately, asking for pictures, autographs, hugs. Richie had been taught, ever since he was little, to be wary of things like this, so he had just started denying them flat out. Someone ended up diverting Richie’s attention to another boy who had just arrived. As Richie looked up the stairs his eyes darkened. He wasn’t sure what this other boy’s name was– it seemed like he had a real problem with remembering things like names– but he knew that he was trouble.

Richie wasn’t sure who yelled first, but he did know that he threw the first punch. Or rather, the first headbutt, and everyone else’s cameras had seemed to have caught it, too.

The next noise to snap Richie out of his thoughts were the incessant flashes and clicks of paparazzi cameras waiting at the nearest intersection to maybe catch a glimpse of the prince and his escorts. As the mob came into view and the clicking and camera flashing got louder, Richie blocked his face from view with his hand. He cursed himself for it, knowing that it was a bad look to dissuade the press, according to his mother. But everything was bad according to his mother. Nevertheless, he let his hand fall back down into his lap as the car was swallowed up by the concrete tunnel ahead of them.

“Prince Richard?”

That fly again.

“Prince Richard? Hello?”

Richie took his earbud out and the music ceased. He turned his head to meet the eyes of Samantha– that was her name– and hummed.

“What?”

She handed him a paper, placing it in his lap when he didn’t offer his hand. “Here.”

Richie took it in his hands and looked it over for a moment, confused. “What’s this?”

“Your speech to the nation. Your script.”

Richie’s grip on the paper increased and he felt it crumple in his grip. His brows fell into a strict line and he bit the inside of his cheek.

“Seriously?” His tone was laced with fury that he tried to keep contained. He watched and felt his anger rise as Samantha nodded.

“Yes, seriously.”

After waiting for another second to make sure it really was real, Richie scoffed and hit the paper against his leg, almost as if he hit hard evough it would disappear and this would all end up being some shitty dream.

“No way.”

He heard Samantha sigh beside him. “The queen says you must address this yourself.”

Richie’s eyes scanned the paper and he felt his head begin to spin. “For that reason, my parents and I have decided that I will enroll at the Hillerska Boarding School?” He read, word for word. He looked back up and Samantha was nodding along, as if she had known about this plan for months.

“But I havn’t spoken to my parents,” he argued. Deep down, though, he knew that it was all in vain. When his mother decided on something, she was never going to reconsider.

“I’m sorry, but it’s already been decided,” Samantha said. Her voice was filled with that fake-sympathy that made Richie’s blood boil. He despised fake sympathy. He had been dealt doses of it his whole life.

“Seriously?” He hissed. “When was that? All of my friends are here.”

Samantha sat silent, her hands crossed dantily in her lap, as if she hadn’t just delivered news that would send Richie’s life into an unending spiral of everything unknown and unwanted.

“Don’t I have a say in this?” Richie continued, feeling tears well up in his eyes. The tears that he had hated, had been born being taught to hate. “I don’t want to go to a stupid boarding school.”

Samantha flinched at his outburst and Richie heard her sigh again. “You can take it up with the queen, Prince Richard.”

Richie reached under his glasses and wiped his tears away as best he could.

—

Richie hated the feeling of makeup brushes on his skin. He hated the feeling of the concealing makeup seeping into the cut on his cheek. He hated the feeling of sitting in that stupid wooden chair where the carvings in the back dug into his shoulder blades and made him bruise.

“Did you go over the speech?” His father asked, who sat in another identical chair beside him with seemingly no issues on how much it hurt. Or maybe, Richie thought, he had just been inflicted with it for so long that he had grown numb to the pain. A shiver rolled down Richie’s spine as the thought of it traveled across his mind.

“Yes,” he answered, a mumble as the woman doing his touch-ups lazily brushed the makeup over his cheek, spewing some stray bristles dangerously close to his mouth. “Everyone will know I’m not being sincere, Dad.” Richie fiddled with his fingers in his lap. His father sighed.

“You have to exude some sort of sense.”

Richie scoffed. “A sense of what?”

The king opened his mouth to reply but the distinct sound of the queen’s shoes on the tiled floors raised their attention. She walked over to them, two royal guards trailing behind her, one on either side. She walked up to Richie’s side and stared down at her son for a moment before hooking her fingers under his chin and swiping a finger over the newly-covered wound.

“Let me see,” she said, before Richie pulled away.

“Mom, I won’t go to that boarding school,” he said, hoping the fear in his voice would elicit some sort of emotion in his mother, perhaps making her reconsider. But it was to no avail, because his mother’s expression stayed the same; strict, blank, and somewhat void of positive emotions.

“It’s already been decided,” she doubled down, trailing her fingers along the top of the chair to stand on Richie’s other side. His head and gaze moved along with her.

“Not by me,” he insisted. His mother’s eyebrows furrowed and her lips shot into a straight line.

“Just be quiet,” she snapped. Richie felt his anger rise once more.

“Can’t I decide where I live? I just want a normal life.”

The queen leaned down to meet Richie at eye level and rested her palms on the armrest of the chair. Richie glanced down at her fingernails that curled around the auburn wood. They were ruby red, like the bright blood he’d seen in movies. It made Richie’s skin crawl as he remembered how those rubies felt when they were lashes across his cheek.

“If we cannot protect you in these situations, we’ll have to make sure they don’t happen.”

Richie sighed and rolled his eyes, turning his head away from his mother. She stood up and held her hands out in front of her, those red nails taunting Richie every time they tapped against one another.

“Hillerska will help give you routine and the right type of friends,” she said. Out of anxious habit, Richie raised his hand to nervously chew on his thumb nail, exhaling deeply. As his mother’s sentence trailed off, she took note of the bad habit and with a hiss, hit her son’s hand down from his mouth. “Stop that.”

Her harsh noise made Richie flinch and he looked up at her meekly, bringing his hand back down to lay still on his lap.

The screeching of the double doors made goosebumps rise on Richie’s skin. He took a step into the room, nervously noting the cameras, lights, and boom mics that were set up and collecting dust.

“Our family has gone to Hillerska for generations,” his mother was saying as he followed her into the room. “It was a mistake to let you choose another school in the first place.”

Richie wanted to gnaw on his finger again but he kept his hands firmly in the pockets of his dress pants instead.

“Even though Ray is the crown prince, you do still have responsibilities. Remember, being a prince is not a punishment, it’s a privilege.”

Being a prince is not a punishment, it’s a privilege.

That was a sentence that Richie had been trained to tell himself every morning, but as he grew up and really began to realize, it became the sentence that lined his journal, scrawled in messy red ink and dotted with teardrops that smudged the page. But in an effort to not get into any more trouble, Richie only nodded and sat down on the couch, tugging at the lapels on his jacket as he shuffled closer to the edge of his seat. His older brother, the much more regal and polished Ray, sat down beside him and placed a quick, reassuring hand on his knee, which made Richie feel at least a little bit better. He couldn’t get too comfortable before the coordinator stepped in front of them and motioned for him and Ray to swap places. Begrudgingly, Richie got up and sat down where his brother had just been sitting, once again anxiously ajusting the collar on his jacket. Somewhere deep in the room, a camera clicked on.

“We’re live,” someone said monotonously, and that was Richie’s queue to begin. He cleared his throat for extra longevity and sincerity.

“Well, I…” he stumbled over his breaths, the blinking red light on the camera flashing just outside his peripherals, making it harder to focus. Not to mention how loud every other noise was becoming, as if someone was slowly turning the dial up to max volume. Richie could hear every air conditioner, every bird sing outside, every chair that was being pushed underneath the table in the next room over. He could hear his own heart beating in his own damn chest and he felt like he was dying. But a small voice in his head reminded him that he was already too much of a disappointment to fail on this, so he cleared his throat again and eyed the camera lens.

“I would like to start off by saying that no one is more disappointed in me than my family.” He fiddled with his sweat-covered fingers in his lap and hoped that the camera wasn’t angled that far down. “And most of all, myself. This past year has been very tough for me. Since my confirmation last summer, I have been given a more official role as prince.”

Richie swallowed a cup of saliva that formed in the back of his throat. Every word he was saying didn’t feel real, it didn’t feel like him. Because really, it wasn’t. He hadn’t written anything in this speech at all. Even the word prince made him taste bile along his tongue.

“This has come with added pressure,” he continued, “and that has resulted in me acting irresponsibly.”

He felt the punch colliding with his cheek again. He hoped the camera didn’t see him flinch.

“I apologize for this, and I assure you that it will not happen again.” Richie took another deep breath. One word repeated like a siren in his head; Hillerska, Hillerska, Hillerska. “I would also like to announce that I, together with my parents, have decided that I will immediately transfer to the Hillerska Boarding School. I will continue my education there.”

The cameras clicked off, and the flashing red light vanished from Richie’s eyes.

—

Richie tugged at the seatbelt that was strewn across his chest while adjusting his glasses on his nose with his other hand. He glanced over to Ray in the driver’s seat, who was languidly gazing out in front of him, both hands clasped around the steering wheel. Rapidly, the car approached the front gates of the school, decorated with Hillerska Boarding School along the top of the gates. They opened for the car, and Ray began to speed off up towards the strikingly white building that towered over the grasslands, ranges, and waters below.

Finally, they reached the front of the school and Ray parked, pushing the car into stop and unlocking the doors. The two of them exchanged a quick glance before rising to their feet and stepping out of the car. Richie readjusted the collar on his dark blue jacket and buttoned the sides of it together before shoving his bony hands into the pockets of his dress pants. He followed his brother as Ray greeted the people who stood in front of the school’s big double entrance doors.

“Crown Prince, how nice to see you again,” an older woman said. Her voice was motherly as she reached out to shake Ray’s hand.

“Great to see you too, Annette,” Ray beamed, turning to the much younger fellow on Annette’s right. Stringy, corn-coloured hair fell down just to his shoulders, dusting his red blazer. His eyes were a striking shade of blue that, even from where he remained, Richie could see their colour shine in the sunlight. He walked up to gingerly shake Annette’s hand as she welcomed him. He tried to smile but it didn’t fully form.

Ray hugged the other boy and laughed. There was something about him that Richie seemed to recognize, and only when Ray said his name did Richie remember.

“Gary, so good to see you.”

Gary Barkovitch. Richie knew exactly who it was. His second-cousin. Or third, maybe? He couldn’t remember. Gary turned to him and smiled, stepping out of line to get closer to him.

“Richard,” he drawled. “Long time no see, huh?”

Richie nodded just to be polite, but he really had no idea when the last time he had seen his whatever-numbered cousin had been.

“Hi, Gary,” he said. Gary tapped on Richie’s cheek where the makeup was still hiding the scar. He clicked his tongue.

“Ahh, it’s hardly noticeable. Zuck?” He called over his shoulder and another boy ran over hurriedly before Gary turned back around to introduce him. “Emmanuel Zuck, son of the owner of Zuck Investments.”

That all meant nothing to Richie, but he forced another polite nod. As Zuck— who, Richie noted, must’ve preferred being called by his last name— approached them, he reached out and shook Ray and Richie’s hands, smiling. When he fell back beside Gary, he slouched. Gary tapped him on the shoulder and whispered something from the corner of his mouth. Richie was pretty good at lip reading; Gary had told Zuck to ‘straighten up’.

“You have bags, I assume?” Gary asked, once again addressing the princes. Ray nodded, and Gary snapped his fingers, which must have been set up as a queue for Zuck to run and grab them, because he quickly disappeared to the back of Ray’s car and flicked the trunk open.

“Let’s go inside,” Annette said, and each with a curt nod, the boys followed her. Richie watched as Ray wrapped his arm around Gary’s neck and dug a playful fist into his chest. Gary hugged him in return.

“It’s great to be back,” Ray said gleefully. Gary responded with a laugh and;

“It’s awesome to see you.”

Richie trailed behind, unsure on whether he was wanted or not, and a little bit uneased by the closeness between Gary and his brother. He resorted to kicking a larger pebble along the path until he got to the concrete stairs, where he discarded it and followed the others. He stopped, turning back down the stairs to help Zuck with the bags.

“I can take that,” he said, extending an arm, just trying to be helpful. Richie knew how heavy his bags were.

“It’s okay, I’ve got it,” Zuck insisted. Richie tried to mumble something else, but a reporter who had been standing nearby waved her hand.

“Wait, wait, wait. Can we please get a picture of the princes and their cousin bringing in the bags?”

Richie looked over at her and tried to conceal his sneer as Zuck dropped the bags on the ground and scurried away out of the camera’s view. Richie knew the drill; he stepped in beside Gary while Ray stood on the other side. Gary picked up one of Richie’s bags and faked his weakness, pretending the sheer weight of the bag was hauling him down so much he could hardly stand. Ray laughed, but the mock didn’t appeal to Richie all too well. He reached out to take the bag, brushing against Gary’s hand.

“I can take the bag,” he said.

Gary looked down at him and shook his head, still clutching onto the handle. “No. It’s okay.”

Determined, Richie reached for the bag again, this time more forcefully. He hoped Gary would just give up the nice-guy act and let Richie carry his own damn bags.

“Let him do it,” Ray said. Richie nodded at first, thinking his brother was on his side, but with another tug on his suitcase and a stern glare from his brother, he dropped it and poked an anxious, shaking finger at his glasses instead. He tried to adjust himself for the picture, but he was overwhelmed. The wind was blowing in his face, he could feel every single rock and pebble that lay underneath his shoes, his wrist tingled from the loose thread in his jacket’s lining that faltered over his skin every few seconds. He could still feel the brush of Gary’s sturdy hand against his own and his brain tricked him into envisioning some sort of virus trailing up from the touch to his brain, infesting it with something he couldn’t stop.

“Can you widen the frame?”

That fly on the wall again. That’s how they all sounded, even the laughs of his brother and cousin from directly beside him sounded merely like buzzing that left his ears ringing and his mind a hazy, jumbled, confusing mess.

“Richard?”

Richie glanced at the reporter, who gestured for him to smile. He tried his best and hoped it worked, feeling his lips curl up at the end, moving his freckled cheeks upwards towards his eyes. The camera flashes felt like bombs and the clicks sounded like gunshots and Richie wished he could just make up and that this would all be just another bad dream.

“All done. Thank you.”

Damn fly.

—

Hillerska’s hallways were lit by natural light, streaming in from the open windows that lined the walls. Richie’s breath tingled as he followed his brother inside the line of people that stood waiting for them. They all dressed in the same maroon blazer and gray dress pants, with a white shirt and blue striped tie underneath. Richie gulped as he watched Ray shake their hands, nodding at them all in unison. His stomach lurched— should he know all these people? Surely not, but the thought still commandeered him and he quickly stopped himself from tripping on a bump in the carpet. As Richie stepped up to the first man in the row, he reached out to shake his hand while the man introduced himself.

“Mr. Englund,” he said, bowing down slightly as Richie’s hand dropped back down to his side. Richie continued along the line, the same boring routine for every person who was standing there.

“Anna, housemistress.”

“Goran, housemaster.”

“Isabella, housemistress.”

“Could we get a shot of the prince shaking the headmistress’s hand?”

Richie cleared his throat as the same reporter from before directed him towards Annette, who greeted him with a smile. It made him feel a bit more comforted at least, as he stepped in beside her. But the reporter tilted her head and shot Richie a disapproving glare and asked if they could switch places. Everything was always the goddamned same. Richie had been doing this since the moment he knew how to walk and it angered him to no end.

“Jesus, fine,” he muttered under his breath, switching to Annette’s left. She held out her wrinkled hand to be shaken and Richie took it, hoping that the sweat that beaded his palm didn’t give the headmistress the same degree of discomfort as it gave him.

“Last pictures before the school choir will welcome the prince,” the reporter said. That made Richie’s stomach flip. He didn’t need a grand entrance, nor did he want one. He just wanted to be accepted normally, as if he were just another student. But he hadn’t been born into that life, so as the double doors to the church opened, he followed Annette inside. Heads that lined the church pews turned to get the first look at the princes as they entered, and Richie forced his head stable. He heard the rippling whispers between the students and he heard his name a handful of times, with that stupid title placed in front of it.

“That’s Prince Richard.”

“There he is, isn’t he cute?”

“Has Prince Richard always worn glasses that big?”

“I hope he talks to me, I don’t think I’ve ever heard his voice.”

“Prince Richard, look over here! Look at me.”

Richie exhaled heavily and sat in his assigned seat as the cameras flashed in front of him. He thought he might go blind. Ray sat on his right and Gary on his left, the latter knocking into Richie’s shoulder with his elbow as he adjusted the pins of prefect titles on his blazer. Richie gazed around the room, unintentionally meeting a girl’s eyes from across the other row of pews. She grinned and leaned into the friend beside her to squeal out a note that she had been noticed. Richie hadn’t even seen the school’s choir settle up at the front of the stage until he heard their muttering voices between each other. He scaled his eyes down the rows of students on the stage until he noticed Felice. She waved at him and he smiled, waving back. Relief cascaded over him. He recognized someone, at least.

“You know her?” Gary asked, his eyes darting from Felice up in the choir to Richie back down on the bench. Richie shrugged.

“I guess. I don’t know. I mean, we went to the same preschool.”

“Her dad’s quite loaded, isn’t he?” Ray asked. Gary let out a breath and nodded.

“Exactly.”

Richie looked up at him as the choir began to hum in unison. His brow furrowed.

“I’m going to marry her,” Gary said, seemingly quite sure of himself. Uncomfortably so, Richie thought, as he shuffled nervously. He glanced back at the student choir.

“You’ll have to stop sleeping around, then,” Ray joked, lowering his voice. Gary chuckled.

“The trick is to lay the foundation while they’re still too insecure to object.”

Gary’s remark earned a repressed laugh from Ray but Richie couldn’t bring himself to twist it any other way than how it sounded.

“Felice is modern nobility,” Gary continued. It took everything in Richie’s power to not tell him to shut up. Thankfully, though, that was the last he said on the subject.

Richie’s eyes scanned the choir again, dragging and bored. His breath hitched in his throat when one boy in the back row caught his eye like a bait hook to a fish. He was tall, shoulders broad and arms strong. His hair was a beautiful sunlight blond, which Richie could have mistaken for pure white with the way the lighting of the church fell over it. His eyes seemed to be a bright, icy blue; nowhere near the heartstopping, searing shade of Gary’s but they seemed to draw Richie in even more. The boy’s brows were furrowed in concentration as he lifted his head up. Richie’s heart leapt; he was going to sing.

And he did, his vocals reverberating off the walls of the church. Richie could feel his heart beating in his chest and he couldn’t help but keep his eyes fixed on the boy whose name he didn’t even know yet. It was a song he’d never heard, but this boy sang it so beautifully and flawlessly that Richie felt like he’d heard it every single day throughout his whole entire life.

Slowly, he felt his lips curl up into a smile as he stared at this boy, just watching him. His eyes were fixed out in front of him, not looking around at the crowd of students and teachers in the pews, but his expression was an endearing mixture of excitement and concentration that made Richie’s heart rush. His mind told him never to look away.

—

Richie bit on his thumb nail again now that his mother wasn’t here to stop him.

“Could you stand closer to each other, please?”

Following the photographer’s orders, Richie stepped in closer to his older brother’s side, still not dropping his hand from his mouth. It was a bad habit that he’d tried to quit, but it always kept coming back, especially in nervous situations. He had been having a lot of those lately. Richie felt his brother lean down and whisper something in his ear.

“We run on the count of three.”

Confused, Richie tilted his head, blond bangs falling into his face from the wind curling through the trees above them.

“What?”

Ray didn’t explain anything further, simply began to count. As soon as ‘three’ left his lips, Ray bolted up the hill towards the trees, startling the reporters from their camera-infused trances. Richie’s legs worked faster than his mind and he ran sharply after his brother, thrilled to finally ignore the persistent calls of the journalists they had abandoned at the bottom of the hill.

“I’ll meet you by the car!” Ray called, stumbling down the other side. Richie laughed and followed him, feeling at least somewhat free since he had stepped foot on the terrain of the school.

—

“It didn’t occur to you that they would search the place before the prince arrived?” Gary interrogated. Percy and Rank, the two other third-year students, cowered beside him. The three of them had remained in the church, standing just beside the pews while everyone else went about their days.

“We weren’t able to get anything in,” Percy explained. “The security service scared the staff.”

Gary raised a brow and held his hands clasped behind his back. He let him continue nonetheless.

“I needed a doctor’s note just to bring in my medication,” Percy said, glancing nervously over at Rank for a nod of agreement. Gary sighed in disappointment and shook his head.

“Fuckin’ unbelivable. I promised Ray I’d take care of Richard, and I want to give him an initiation.” He glared at the two of them, eyes drawn to slits. “Do you want the future king to remember you as the legends of the decade, or as losers who couldn’t even make a fucking toast to the prince happen? Huh?”

Percy and Rank backed away slowly, hugging their arms close to their chests in defeat. Footsteps echoed on the stage and Gary swiveled around to watch as the student choir filed out of the room. He nodded his head respectfully to each of them who passed, smiling especially bright as Felice walked past him and brushed her hand along his waist. The last student in line grabbed Percy’s attention.

“What about the non-res?” He asked. Gary and Rank both followed his gaze, watching as the boy left the church room. Percy bumped his shoulder and grinned, flashing white teeth as he turned.

“Nice voice,” Percy said. His voice was laced with some concoction of envy and displeasure. The boy looked at them over his shoulder, made a face, and left them without a reply. He picked up his pace and disappeared down the seemingly neverending hallway.

“He’s bound to know someone who makes moonshine,” Rank said. Gary shoved his hands into his pockets and fiddled around with some loose fibers in the stitching. Percy laughed, a real hyena-cackle.

“Do you remember when he came up to us the first week all ‘what’s up?’,” Percy choked, still through a fit of giggles. “Makes me vomit. As if we’d have anything in common.”

Gary, not laughing, reached out and whacked an open palm against Percy’s shoulder. He glanced up at the doorway leading outside as ideas turned like clockwork within his mind.

—

There was a picture of all the old graduated prefects on the walls leading towards Richie’s assigned dormroom. He trailed his eyes over them all, all filtered black-and-white. It gave all the students a dark, ghastly look to them, with their serious expressions, static poses, and emotionless eyes. If someone told Richie they were obituary photos he wouldn’t have even thought twice about it. He made a mental note to not walk down this hall at night.

“Wow, I’m jealous,” Ray laughed as they entered his room. “I had to share until my third year.”

Richie exhaled, running a hand through his hair and taking in the room which would most likely be his one and only safe haven for God knows how long. He stepped inside fully, thanking the housemistress under his breath as she closed the door behind him. Ray sat down on the bed on the left side of the room. There was a short silence.

“I don’t think I’m gonna be able to survive three years here,” Richie said, completely honest. He hoped his voice didn’t come out as shaky as he thought it did. Ray tilted his head in thought and lay his hands on his legs, one palm resting on each knee.

“Just copy the first-years and listen to your third-years,” Ray told him. Richie sighed and leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He plucked at the threads on his red sweater and rolled his eyes.

“Oh, you mean do what Gary tells me to?”

Ray nodded.

“Fuck that,” Richie seethed, pulling a thread. “He’s so annoying.”

Ray’s shoulders sagged up and down as he heaved a sigh, shaking his head.

“Gary is family, Rich. You can trust him like a brother.”

Richie could feel his negative emotions getting the better of him again, but he already felt claustrophobic in the confines of the tiny dorm room. The anxieties that riddled his nerves weren’t making it any better. He pushed himself off the wall with an angry grunt and began to pace around the room.

“Who the hell can live like this,” he growled, “for three fucking years?”

“It isn’t just about you,” Ray said, leaning forward on the bed. Richie, glancing over at him, could see his brother’s brow furrow. “Everything you do has a reflection on us as a family, Rich, so you have to stop being so selfish.”

Richie heaved a breath and stopped pacing from door to window. Instead, he stood motionless in the middle of the room, feet shuffling nervously on the hardwood floor. He rubbed a hand over his flattened chest, feeling the heat transfer from his sweater to his palm. His other hand flew up to adjust his glasses on his nose. They hadn’t been skewed, but his mind told him to fix them anyway. With all the sweat building up on the bridge of his nose, he was sure they’d start to slide down soon anyway.

“It’s not that difficult,” Ray continued. Richie wished he would take a hint and stop lecturing him. “You have to learn to keep up appearances.”

Richie opened his mouth to retaliate, but his attention was unceremoniously divided between the rising conflict with his brother and a curt knock at the door. Ray turned his head and rose to his feet, pulling his jacket down so it ended at his waist. He met Richie’s eyes and gave him a look, one that Richie knew all too well. He stepped closer into Ray’s embrace.

“We’ll see each other soon,” Ray promised, muffled as he dug his nose into Richie’s hair. Richie sniffled, noise obscured by the rustling of hands on fabric.

“Do you really have to go?” He asked into Ray’s shoulder. Trying to detangle himself from their mess of limbs, Ray slipped away. Richie kept himself connected by their chests.

“Yes, Rich, I have to go now,” he said, trying and failing to repress a hearty laugh. Ray dropped his arms from Richie’s shoulders and tried to push him away, but Richie was stuck and intent on not budging at all.

“Why?” He whined. “Don’t leave me.”

He cursed himself over and over to control his tears.

“Seriously, I have to go,” Ray said.

Finally, Richie let him. His arms swung down to his sides again and ran cold at the loss of contact. Ray set his fingers around the door handle but turned back to Richie before making any effort to turn it.

“Remember,” he said, dipping his head. “The faster you adapt, the easier your life will be, hmm?”

Again, Richie tangled a hand through his hair, feeling the short strands tickle his fingertips. It had gotten mussed from their hugging match. He tried in vain to force a smile, and it seemed to work well enough because Ray turned his wrist to open the door and stepped out into the hallway. The door shut after him, and Richie stood in front of it until the sound of his brother’s footsteps disappeared down the desolate hallway. Richie shifted to his right side, his left. He was alone again.

—

Billy Stebbins slammed his locker closed. Hoisting his backpack over his shoulder, he brushed past the crowd of students that merged themselves by the front doors. He stepped into the fresh air and began to make his way down the gravel path, fingers hooked underneath the shoulder straps.

“Hey, socialist boy! Wait up!”

Billy didn’t even have to turn around to know who was jogging up behind him; he knew that voice, and it made his blood boil. Gary Barkovitch fell in beside him, slowing his jogging speed. Billy met his eyes with a scornful look.

“Billy.”

“Huh?”

“My name is William. Billy?”

Billy had gotten so used to all the nicknames the on-campus students had developed for non-res kids that he hardly even felt the need to introduce himself officially. He would always just be a non-res kid, one of the poorer ones, looked down upon by everyone who stepped on granite floors and had dollar bills flowing from their pockets. But, Gary was a prefect, so he introduced himself anyway.

“Billy,” Gary repeated, holding out a hand to be taken. “Gary. Pleasure.”

Billy eyed his hand but didn’t shake it. He glanced around, searching for cameras or a group of Gary’s friends snickering somewhere where they thought he wouldn’t be able to see.

“Is this some sort of prank?” Billy asked. Gary shook his head.

“No. I just wanted to say hello. I don’t believe we’ve ever met?”

Bullshit, Billy thought.

“I’ve been here for more than a month, but sure,” Billy chuckled, picking up his walking pace. Gary didn’t leave, kept right on jogging beside him. The hair on the back of Billy’s neck stood up as he raised his hackles.

“I need your help,” Gary said. “Do you know anyone who can get some booze?”

His question made Billy’s head spin. His eyes widened, but he kept his head straight and didn’t let his curiosity show.

“Surely you must have some contacts,” Gary continued. “My regular dealer is out of town. How do you people get drinks?”

You people. Billy swallowed a curse out on his tongue. He finally stopped walking and turned on his heels to face Gary. His brows were widened in suspicion. There was something in the way Gary’s bright eyes shifted from side to side that made Billy believe that there was something more sinister lying within his words.

“What? You think every non-res is some sort of dealer?” He accused. Gary rolled his eyes, and it was obvious he was trying to be playful but it just came off like he would rather be anywhere else. He didn’t deny anything, which settled his opinion stark in Billy’s mind.

“It’s for the initiation party. For Richard,” Gary said. “If you can get me a contact that can sell us drinks, I may make a substantial exception and invite you to the party.” He stuck out a finger and prodded at Billy’s chest. “Hardly any first-years get an invitation.”

Billy hated himself for stopping to consider it.

“Someone like you at a party like that?” Gary hooked. “Wouldn’t that be fun, huh?”

A voice deep inside Billy’s head took out a mallet and knocked some sense into him. Without another word, he huffed and walked away, pushing violently past a low-hanging tree branch. It whipped back towards Gary and Billy wished it would’ve broken away and planted itself like a stake in the prefect’s chest. Gary called after him.

“Can I count on you?”

Billy ignored him.

“Huh?”

—

Felice fussed the mangled reigns on her horse’s saddle, trying to regain control of the animal as he whinnied and kicked up clouds of sawdust and dirt.

“You’re all making him nervous,” she hissed at the other riders, who all stood back towards the edge of the barn. Each one of their horses were alert and at the ready. Felice swallowed a curse as her horse tried to buck her off again.

“I’m sorry, Felice, but you will have to sit this lesson out,” the instructor told her. “Sarah, can you help Felice?”

Felice seethed under her breath as another girl got up from the bench and moved up slowly to shift herself into the horses’ field of view. Almost immediately, Felice’s steed seemed to settle down and his whinnies turned into soft brays and his kicking ceased completely. Feliece just watched helplessly as Sarah pet long strokes down the horse’s muzzle, mumbling nicknames into his short fur. Felice hoisted herself off the horse’s back and took the reins in her hands. Sarah glanced at her as she placed her feet on the ground and climbed onto the steed’s back, combing her gloved fingers through its mane.

Unclipping her helmet, Felice stepped out of the way of the other riders. She glared at them. Who said they deserved all the talent? She waited and watched until the session was over before she made her way into the stables. Sarah followed close behind, guiding the horse in after her. Felice shut the door behind them as Sarah took out the brushes and began to glide them gently over the horse’s brown pelt.

“I can groom my own horse,” Felice said, knocking her boot against an empty bucket on the stable floor.

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Sarah smiled. “I like doing it.”

Angered— almost seething— Felice marched towards her and snatched the brushes from her hands.

“Do you want me to pick the hooves, at least?” Sarah asked, her voice meek. Felice sighed.

“Yeah, because I’m sure they’re oh so dirty after five minutes in the riding hall.”

Sarah hummed to herself and bent down to hold the horse’s hoove up, tilting her head as she inspected it for cracks and defects.

“I meant no,” Felice hissed. Sarah almost jumped back and snapped her fingers together silently. Another pair of footsteps echoed along the wooden stable walls.

“Sarah?”

Felice glanced over as Billy Stebbins called for his sister. She tried to smile at him, but almost hoped he didn’t notice. She was pretty sure her face just contorted into something that was far from friendly.

“Almost done,” Sarah said. Felice interrupted her before the question she knew was coming next.

“There’s nothing else for you to do. You can go home.”

Sarah muttered a goodbye and as the echo of their footsteps became less and less, Felice heaved a sigh and lay her forehead against the horse’s side. It kicked its front leg and whinnied.

“She shouldn’t talk to you like that,” Billy said, hoisting an arm around his sister’s shoulders. Sarah simply shrugged and kicked a fallen leaf out of her path.

“Wasn’t about me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Billy retorted. Sarah bit the inside of her cheek.

“I don’t care.” It was an obvious lie and Billy huffed. “She lets me ride and take care of the horse however much I want.”

“I just don’t want you to get treated poorly again,” Billy said. Sarah thought for a moment while Billy turned his head to look at her.

“It’s better here than it was at our other school,” Sarah noted. “At least no one picks on me here, really. I won’t need to redo a grade again because school scares me.”

A few paces in front of them, the bus they were walking to catch revved its engine, a last warning. Billy kicked up his feet and jogged towards it, with Sarah running beside him. They stepped into the bus, heaving to catch their breath. Billy flipped open his wallet and showed the driver his bus pass before following his sister to the seats in the back.

“Just promise to tell me if something’s wrong, alright?” He said, sitting down in the aisle seat. Sarah nodded from her spot nearest to the window, and Billy knew that was all the answer he was going to get, so he rested his backpack on his lap and leaned backwards.

“I’m not used to being popular, Will,” Sarah sighed. Deep down, Billy knew that she was right. They had never been popular, and he was sure that it would always be that way. There was nothing special about the Stebbins family, really. He knew it was harder for his sister, though. Even just the thought of that hurt. The bus cycled through a few more stops before halting in front of the local public school, its brick walls standing high and foreboding.

Billy stuck his head above the seat in front of him, trying to see over the crowds of students hurrying into the bus. His eyes widened as he spotted his friends, arguing before they got on the bus about who was going to sit where. They noticed him after far too long, and Pete finally raised his hand and smiled.

“Stebbins! What’s up, man?”

Billy shrugged as Pete and Collie sat down beside him, shifting their bodies closer so that they could talk over the growing noise of the bus. Collie glanced Billy up and down.

“Do you have to wear that uniform every day?” He asked. Billy stifled a laugh and rolled his eyes.

“No, it’s only because Prince Richard started today,” he replied, teasing the prince’s name so it turned long, drawn out, and childish. Collie and Pete exchanged glances and smiled cheekily.

“Oooh, Prince Richard,” Pete teased, and then, while pretending to tip a non-existant hat: “Your Majesty.”

Collie hit his fist gently on Billy’s knee. “Is he as much of a loser as he seems?”

Shrugging again, Billy pulled his backpack closer to his chest. He draped his arms over top of it. “I don’t know, I never got to talk to him.”

Collie’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Did you see the video of the fight?” He reached behind himself to pull his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans. Billy shook his head.

“No.”

Collie swiped through multiple videos saved in his phone before landing on a specific one. The thumbnail was a concoction of bright green party lights and a mob of various party-goers. Collie pressed play and the three of them huddled in closer to watch.

—

The pictures on Felice’s phone lit up her face in the dim bedroom, the other light glowing only from a lamp in the corner and the ambience flickering outside the room. She scrolled aimlessly, gazing at the plethora of photos of the prince she had kept for herself. She zoomed in on one that she thought lit up his jaw in a perfect way. Felice traced down the skin of his cheek with her finger, imagining that it felt as soft as it looked. She sighed to herself and shamelessly unbuttoned her jeans and was just about to slip her hand into her pants when a high-pitched cry of annoyance from the bathroom alerted her. Felice made quick work of re-buttoning her jeans as her roommate exited the bathroom wrapped in a towel, long, wet hair dripping down her back.

"How insane is it that this place costs like twenty thousand dollars a year and yet the showers run cold after two seconds?"

Felice sat up in her bed and rolled her eyes, humored by her roommate's grievances. Maddison turned around, her hair slapping against her back as she whipped herself around.

"I guess I should be thankful that we don't have to share like the rest," she grumbled, bending down to pick up her sweater from the chair under the desk. "Do you think the prince shares?"

Felice, genuinely unsure, mumbled out some sort of response she hoped would suffice as her opinion. Maddison hoisted the sweater over her head and turned to raise a brow at Felice.

"Do you think royal dick is different than regular?"

She seemed like she wasn't joking at all, and Felice’s brow furrowed up in disgust.

"Ew, Maddie," she hissed. Maddison laughed.

"What? I'm not the one watching porn."

"I wasn't," Felice said, trying to veil her displeasure that her cover had been foiled so easily. She turned her phone upwards so that Maddie could see as she walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, pushing her hair over her shoulder as she did so. "Look."

Seeing obvious pictures of Prince Richard on Felice’s phone screen made Maddie's eyes widen.

"Oh my God, Felice, you have to stop stalking him," she said, and when Felice bit her bottom lip in exasperation, she continued. "Why are you even so obsessed with him? You don't need him. You're from, like, the richest family ever."

"Because he's royalty," Felice stated, dropping her phone back down on her chest, face down. Maddie cocked her head and Felice shuffled uncomfortably as her still-damp hair began to drip a wet spot onto her blanket.

"Okay," she drawled, "but if it's all about him being royal, why don't you just hook up with Gary? He's obviously into you, and they're like, cousins, right?"

Felice sat up fully, back against the wall and tucked her feet in a crisscross on top of the covers.

"No, second cousins," she corrected. Maddie groaned dismissively as Felice rambled on, all while leaning over and pulling Maddie's hair from behind her shoulders and tying it up in a ponytail with an extra hair tie from around her wrist. "First of all, I have to be strategic. I'll be at this school for three years, so obviously, I don't want to be labeled a slut."

Maddie nodded. "Obviously."

"Secondly, Gary isn't part of the Royal Family like Richard is. Even if he's related to them."

There was a quick moment of silence as Felice leaned back from adjusting Maddison's hair.

"I don't get it," Maddie admitted, laying her hands out behind her to hold her balance. Felice sighed and urged her point some more.

"Gary’s kids won't be princes and princesses, Maddie."

Maddie stuck out her bottom lip and shook her head from side to side as if she was contemplating what Felice was saying, but Felice knew that the probability of it actually getting through to her was slim to none. Maddie rose to her feet and began to make her way to the door, laying her hand on the handle before realizing that Felice wasn't following and turning back to her. She raised her brows in confusion.

"You're not coming to dinner?"

Felice waved her off and lay back down. "I'm not hungry. Go ahead."

Maddie shrugged and left. Laying on her back, Felice’s eyes rolled around the room for a while, trying to capture something to focus on. Her gaze landed on a picture of her horse that stood up on her desk. It lazily reminded her that she had to post something about the stables, or she was sure to get a call from her mother wondering what was going on. Talking to her mother was just about the last thing Felice wanted to do. She opened her phone and scrolled through her photos from the stables she had taken recently, finally deciding on one and typed out numerous captions, deleting one after the other until she just decided to lie.

A great day at the stables <3

As she suspected, the influx of comments rolled in soon and she mindlessly tapped through them. She finally saw one from her mother, which thankfully meant no call that night. But it got overwhelming quickly and she rested her phone back down on her nightstand. She turned her head to the door as she heard multiple pairs of footsteps running down the hall and an unintelligible conversation about bets on what dinner that night would be. Suddenly, Felice was hungry again, but had no amount of energy left in her, so she sighed and rolled onto her side, arms folded underneath her. She tried to close her eyes and conjure up an image of Richard, but her mind just couldn't place anything together. She pulled out her phone again and turned off the light.

—

"The forks go on the left side of the bowl," Sarah instructed, glancing up at Pete as she poured water into each glass, going around the table once, twice, three times, just to make sure there was the same amount in every glass.

"Right," Pete corrected, fixing his mistake as Sarah pushed past him to get to triple check the last cup. With a sigh, Billy turned into the dining room, placing a bowl of pasta in the middle of the table.

"Here you go," he muttered, pulling out his chair and sitting down. Pete and Sarah did the same as the sibling’s mother entered, laying out napkins on a pile for everyone to grab.

"How's your aunt, Peter?" She asked. Pete, while spooning himself a bowl full of pasta, smiled.

"She's doing fine. She sends her love."

"How was work?" Billy asked, sprinkling shredded parmesan overtop of his dinner. His mother nodded.

"It was fine. How was school?"

Billy nodded and swallowed his bite. "It was good. Fine."

Sarah looked up at him with a scowl. "Can you stop that?"

Billy exhaled, stifling a chuckle. "Huh? Stop what?"

"You're a noisy eater," Sarah said, gesturing in his general direction with her fork. Just to spite her, Billy smacked his lips and tapped his fork against his bowl.

"Stop it, that's gross!" Sarah laughed. Their mother laughed, but gently kicked her son's leg under the table.

"Please, William."

He rolled his eyes but complied, pushing the container of parmesan over towards Pete. "Do you want some?"

"How are things at the stables?" Their mother asked, directed towards Sarah. She nodded, swallowed, and replied:

"Good. I enjoy it."

"What about the other girls? Have you made any new friends, or..?"

Sarah exhaled softly. "There are boys there too, Mom."

"Of course."

"But, no. No new friends, not really. That reminds me, though. I need new britches."

Her mother's expression turned concerned as she sipped her water glass. "Yeah? But what about the ones we bought, the ones you have?"

Billy, suddenly more interested in the conversation between them than his argument over whether or not cheese was good on pasta with Pete, turned to observe.

"They're falling apart. That's what happens when you buy cheap ones, they don't last as long."

Billy shifted a glance over at Pete while his mother sighed.

"It's ridiculous to spend so much money on expensive clothes just to impress people at school, hon," she said, trying to reason. Sarah shrugged one shoulder.

"But that's not the point. They're falling apart. I can't use them."

Angry, Billy hissed. "You've become such a snob, Sarah." His comment earned him another kick under the table and an unamused glare from his mother.

"That's not what I meant," Sarah sighed. She twirled another clump of spaghetti onto her fork. "Stuff like that mattered a lot more at Marieberg than at Hillerska."

"But... it was more diverse," her mother said, gesturing towards the boys. Seeing her motion out of the corner of his eye, Pete blinked, unaware that he was now seemingly part of the conversation. Billy watched him nod, agreeing.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Sarah argued. "A diverse bunch of losers, who will never amount to anything?"

Billy brow furrowed. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Just chill."

Sarah hazed an angry glare around the table before she shot up out of her seat and carried her empty bowl to the kitchen sink. Her voice faded in and out as she moved from room to room, coming back to grab her cup, napkin and utensils.

"Can you stop nagging me?" She was saying. "I just want to go to school in peace and quiet, so therefore I don't need any friends. Understand?"

Her irked footsteps became quieter and quieter as she left for her room, and Billy could see his mother flinch as his sister slammed the door. He rolled his eyes, but continued to eat. The after-argument silence fell around them, and in a desperate attempt to break it, Billy cleared his throat.

"We've been invited to a party," he mentioned. His mother looked impressed.

"Really? Is it organized by the school?"

Billy nodded, although he could have been lying, considering Gary hadn't handed him all the details in a wax-sealed envelope.

"Yeah, but some third-years are preparing it. Not all first-years are invited, but we are."

His mother smiled. One of her real smiles that warmed Billy’s heart when it spread across her face. He liked making his mother happy.

"How nice! So things are better than she says?" She nodded towards the hallway Sarah had departed to. Billy nodded.

"Yeah I think so."

—

A harmony of voices drained out everything else inside the dining hall as the boys began to filter in, standing behind a readied chair at their respective place along the table.

"The prince's initiation is tomorrow. It's gonna be wild."

"Who's gonna be there?"

"I'm not sure. Ask Barkovitch, he'll know."

"Quiet! He's coming."

Nervously, Richie stepped into the dining hall, and it was as though everyone's speakers had suddenly been turned off. The chatter within the room vanished, and all eyes set on the prince. Gary stood at the front of the table. Being one of the third-years and the school's prefect, he had free reign.

"Hi," Richie said, unsure as to where he was supposed to be along the table. "Can I sit with you guys?"

Gary smirked and shook his head, faking disappointment. He gestured down towards the end of the table.

"Mm, sorry. First-years sit down there." He looked Richie up and down. "Even if you're the prince."

Really, Richie wasn't expecting any special treatment at all. He was silently glad he hadn't been getting any. He ducked his head and pushed past the third-years, hissing under his breath as he heard them snicker at Gary’s remark about his status. At the end of the table, Richie pushed in between two other boys, who audibly gulped at either his presence or the shoulder-against-shoulder contact. Or both.

"How do the meals work?" Richie asked, assuring himself deep inside that the other boys would just treat him like one of their own. He hoped his nervous fidgeting wouldn't let that show. The boy next to him, who Richie thought was named Pearson, responded.

"Well, first we're waiting for the housemaster. Then the third-years get served, then the second-years, and then us."

Richie nodded, gripping his fists together behind his back, mirroring every other boy who stood around the table. "What happens after dinner?"

"We've got what's called 'workies'," Pearson replied, and the tone in his voice displayed just how much 'workies' seemed to get on his nerves. "Then we have free time. We can play games or work out if you'd like. Or study."

"It's usually boring as hell," another boy across the table— Adam White, Richie knew, though he much preferred going by his nickname of ‘Curly’— spoke up, jutting himself into the conversation. A curly-haired boy beside him, Patrick, chuckled and agreed.

"Yeah, it's really boring as hell."

Glancing in between them, Richie shrugged. "Sounds pretty sweet to me."

Curly and Patrick’s expressions shifted and they both adjusted their posture, whether they realized it or not.

"Oh, yeah, definitely," Patrick settled, "it's awesome just to chill out."

Richie was on to them like a moth to a light, and he grinned. "I was kidding."

Two heads bobbed up and down across from him, willing to agree with whatever the prince said.

"Yeah, so were we," Curly said, giggling through his vibrant embarrassment.

Richie chuckled as Patrick and Curly exchanged glances towards each other.

"You're allowed to have your own opinion, you know. You don't have to agree with me just because I'm the prince."

He cringed internally at his own use of the label he had grown to hate. Patrick smiled anxiously and nodded his head before the dining hall door slammed shut and every boy's chest puffed out in attention as the housemaster walked up to the head of the table. He cleared his throat and rested his old, wrinkled hands on the back of his chair.

"Good evening, gentlemen."

A chorus of "good evening, housemaster," rang around the dining hall.

"As you've noticed," the housemaster began, "we have a new housemate here at Forest Ridge House."

Richie shuddered as he felt all pairs of eyes turn to focus on him.

"Let's all make sure to make the prince feel especially welcome."

He felt as if they were digging into his soul, trying to see if he would break. He tried his best not to, and simply gave his stare a spot to focus and didn't blink, careful not to lose it. As if they were programmed to know what to do, every boy standing along the table shifted their closed fists from their back to their front, curling their fingers together, preparing to pray. Richie quickly copied everyone and was happy he finally had an excuse to squeeze his eyes shut.

"Dear Lord, bless the food on our table, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen."

Just like before, a mixture of different "amens" circled through the group as everyone raised their heads and blinked their eyes open.

—

"Did my dad get the drinks for you for the Midsummer party?"

Pete’s voice was contorted by static on the other end of Billy’s headset.

"Yes. Sorry, man."

Attacking an NPC and picking up its dropped loot, Billy swore under his breath. It must have picked up on the mic, because Pete hummed.

"Why? What's up?"

Billy sighed and adjusted his legs on his bed, so that they dangled down off the side. They grazed against the carpeted floor of his bedroom.

"Well, it was just..." His character turned down a corner and Billy opened his inventory, switching the weapon he held. "...some guy at school asked if I could get drinks for some initiation party, but that's it."

"The one you got invited to?"

Billy nodded, but realizing that the mic didn't pick up movement, he clarified. "We're not exactly invited, per se, but if I get the booze, I may be able to bring Sarah. She needs some fun."

There was a few seconds of lag before Billy heard Pete’s sigh from the other end. His in-game character had just been killed, so Billy wasn't sure if the sigh was a reaction to that or to his statement.

"Okay, man. But stay away from Mickey. You always seem to get depressed after seeing your old man."

Billy knew that he was right, and it hurt him to admit. He hummed in reply and lay down on his bed. He reached up to pull the mic attached to the headset closer to his mouth.

"Hey, I think I'm done for tonight. Play more tomorrow?"

—

Richie couldn't get comfortable. His bed felt like a sharp-edged stone, digging into his shoulder blades and rubbing the skin off of his back whenever he tried to move. With the blanket he was too hot, but without the blanket he was too cold, so he settled for a decent medium where he had one foot and one arm outside of the blanket. His head raced with thoughts, bad thoughts that he just couldn't keep at bay. He glanced over to the alarm clock on his bedside table. 9:32pm. It felt way later. But maybe just because his mind was running wild, and it tended to do that later into the night.

Richie pulled his phone from its charger and opened his messages, scrolling down a little ways to find his mother's contact. He hadn't spoken to her since he left the palace, and it felt like a heavy weight had been dropped on his back to even see her name on his screen. Feeling tears well up in his eyes, he typed out a message anyways. At least if they had a conversation through texts, he wouldn't have to hear her voice.

Please, Ma. Let me come home.

Not even a few seconds later, his heart fell.

You will feel better soon.

Deep down in the pit of his stomach, Richie knew that wasn't true. But he repeated it to himself as he shut off his phone and flicked off his bedside lamp, plunging himself into darkness. He felt fat, wet tears drip down his cheeks and he didn't bother to reach up to wipe them away, instead letting them fall, drip, and form into a cold pool on his stone-hard pillow. He took off his glasses and rested them on his bedside table before he lay his cheek on the darkened spot of fabric and tried to count sheep. It was no use, though; all he could count were the days left he would have to rot in that bed.

—

The scratching sound of the chalk on the chalkboard made Richie’s eardrums tingle. He drummed his fingers rhythmically on his leg, trying to stop it from bouncing up and down uncontrollably. He stole a glance over at his desk partner, Zuck, who was the same boy who had helped him with his bags when he had first arrived. He seemed nice enough, and Richie was comfortable around him, but every classroom still felt like a prison cell. The teacher was drawling on and on about laws and the justice system, and Richie had only just begun to get his brain quiet enough to listen.

"So we've all agreed that murder is the worst, followed closely by child molestation and rape…"

The teacher moved from one end of the chalkboard to the other, and Richie raised his head from watching his pencil tap on his notebook.

"Now," she continued, her voice so void of any emotion that it was hard for Richie to keep himself interested. "Tax evasion versus welfare scams, both of which are two less sensitive issues."

She drew lazy circles around every word as she listed them off, the chalk dust from the end of the point falling down like snow onto the floor. She turned around to face the class, dusting off her hands on each other as she set the piece of chalk down at her desk.

"What are your thoughts?"

Beside Richie, a boy named James Ewing raised his hand. Their teacher nodded in his general direction.

"Yes, James?"

"Well, tax evasion suggests the person has made a lot of money. That would mean that they have contributed to society, created jobs, etcetera etcetera."

Richie watched as one boy from the front of the classroom turned to hear James’s thoughts more clearly. His heart leapt as he recognized the face. It was the same soloist from yesterday's choir that Richie had caught himself admiring. His hair was less neat today, which Richie deduced to the fact that he wasn't in the line to perform, his bangs falling into his face and wisps flying out this way and that. His eyebrows scrunched up as he listened, seemingly deep in his own thoughts. Maybe as a counter to James’s suggestion, Richie hoped. He wanted to hear his voice. But his hopes amounted to nothing as his teacher moved on, addressing another girl who sat at the back of the room.

"Alright. Stella, what are your thoughts?"

"Welfare scammers give nothing back. All they do is take, so I think that's worse."

Another arm shot up beside Richie, and Patrick butted himself into the debate.

"If taxes were lower, though, companies would not have had to move overseas. Take my dad's estate, for example. They struggle to make ends meet due to all the high taxes."

There was an exhaled laugh from the front of the classroom.

"Billy, do you have an opinion you'd like to share?"

Billy.

"Well, personally, I think it's a weird question," Billy admitted. Richie watched him intently, how his shoulders moved as he spoke and how, even from where far back he sat, he could still see the dimples on his cheeks when he smirked. "Why is it 'evasion' for taxes, but 'scam' for welfare?" Billy turned around, pale eyes shooting daggers at Patrick. "It's okay for the rich to cheat, but not the poor? It's not called 'welfare' for the rich. It's just 'deduction'."

Richie watched intently as Billy held up his hand and gestured towards Patrick. "You. Do you know how much your dad receives per year in EU subsidies?"

"And what the fuck does your dad do, non-res?" Patrick sneered, flicking his pencil back and forth between his fingers. Beside him, James chuckled. Their teacher called out a "watch your language!" but Billy just turned back around and faced her. He shrugged.

"I think everyone knows who the biggest welfare receivers are."

His voice sounded different when he wasn't singing. It was more rugged, like the feeling of gravel underneath the sole of a shoe. An accent tinged his words, but Richie couldn’t quite place where it might originate from. Billy seemed to plan methodically what he was going to say in his head before he said it, so that he could speak and prove his point without any stuttering or backtracking. Sturdy, all-knowing and confident. Richie gulped and took his eyes off of him. For now.

—

Richie was getting bored of the off-white and brown walls of the dining hall. The way the sunlight hardly ever lit up different parts of the room. How it was always so full, even when it wasn't time for a meal. He tapped on his plate as he stood in line behind Patrick, eyeing out specifically what he was going to take for himself. As Patrick moved aside, walking back to his spot at the table, Curly and James in tow, Richie filled his plate with what was left of the lunch food that had been served. Considering first-years got served last, it was only really scraps that were left. But Richie never really got very hungry, so scraps were good enough for him. As he looked up from the food table, he trailed his eyes down the table, taking note of everyone who was there. Gary, Rank, Percy, Zuck, Hank, James, Patrick, Curly. Someone at the end caught his eye. Billy was sitting just at the end of the table, seemingly poking and prodding at his mashed potatoes with his fork. Intrigued to finally have a chance to speak with him, Richie walked down towards the end of the table and pulled out a chair. The soft scratch on the floor sent Billy’s attention upwards, and his eyes met Richie’s.

"I didn't know you belonged to Forest Ridge," Richie said, unfolding his napkin and placing it on his lap. Billy shrugged, looking down again to push the wandering peas away from the meatballs and gravy. His plate hardly looked like it had been touched at all.

"I don't," he hummed. Richie tilted his head, pushing away the bangs that flopped over into his face.

"But you're eating with us?"

"I am," Billy hummed, shifting his chair closer to the table. "Non-res kids have to sit somewhere."

Richie inhaled and pushed out the same breath, glancing around somewhat nervously.

"I don't think we've properly met," he said. "I'm Richard."

In an effort to appear more casual than he felt inside, he reached up to scratch at a made-up itch on his temple. Billy smirked with the side of his mouth, displaying a loopy grin and half a set of teeth. Richie could see that his canines— at least the one on the left side— could be classified as fangs.

"I know who you are," Billy told him. Richie shook his head but said nothing.

"I'm William," he dipped his head back and finally took a bite of his mashed potatoes. “Billy is fine, though.”

“I liked what you said back there, Billy,” he remarked, watching as he swallowed. “Well said.”

Billy glanced up at him through his eyelashes while he made a mountain from his remaining potatoes. He stabbed a meatball and put it on top, letting the gravy it was covered in roll down the sides. He kept his head dipped down.

“Why didn’t you say so in class?” He asked. Richie shrugged and dug his tongue in between his molars to inconspicuously check for lost bits of food. He cleared his throat.

“Well, I would’ve. But I’m not really supposed to talk about politics.”

Billy chuckled, flashing his fangs again with another smile. This time, Richie could confirm that they looked sharp as needles. “Sort of useless to have you in a law and ethics class then, huh?”

Richie opened his mouth to reply, but a voice from the third-year end of the table scratched at his nerves and he closed it again.

“Richie? Can you come over here and join us, please?” Gary asked, leaning back in his chair so that Richie could see him behind the row of boys sitting at the table. At his request, the talking seemed to go quiet, only the sounds of knives and forks hitting plates ricocheting off the walls. Richie glanced back towards Billy, who reached for his water glass, lifted it to his lips, but didn’t take a sip. Richie stood up, taking his plate in both hands, utensils crossed over each other on the side.

“I’ll see you later, yeah?” He said. Billy looked up and nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

Richie meandered over towards the front of the table where Gary sat. There was only one empty chair beside Rank, and Richie lay the fingers of his right hand across the back of it.

“Hi. Can I sit here?”

Gary shook his head and nudged Rank in the side. “No. Rank, move over.”

Obeying his prefects orders, Rank shifted seats so that Richie could take the one right beside his cousin. As much as he didn’t want to— curing himself internally for giving in so easily all the while— Richie pulled out the chair and sat down, laying his plate out in front of him.

“We’ll make an exception today,” Gary said. Richie could tell his smile was forced by the way his cheek muscles contorted. He looked like a cat about to sneeze. “You can sit with us. The grown-ups table. Great, huh?”

As Gary lay his arm across Richie’s shoulders, letting his hand drape down his arm, Richie desperately wanted to say that it wasn’t. He felt suffocated there. He had only asked the first night because he didn’t know what else to do. He would much rather sit anywhere else. He would much rather sit with Billy and hear his voice again. It hurt him, simply because he didn’t know why that was what he wanted the most. He looked up nervously and met Gary’s piercing, perma-frost eyes.

“I had to rescue you from your situation,” he grimaced, gesturing with his head towards Billy, who, when Richie looked over, was still plucking at his food. Pearson, who had been sitting to Billy’s left, was trying to build up a conversation, although Billy didn’t look even half interested. Richie heard amused giggles from the other third-years. They all seemed to be under some sort of spell when it came to their prefect, always laughing at his jokes and going along with his teasing and scheming.

Richie’s blood boiled in his stomach but he forced himself to smile, hoping it would make him fit in. That was all he ever wanted, really, but he knew it would be difficult to achieve, especially when he felt himself unable to tear his eyes away from the other end of the table.

When he looked up for the fourth time, Billy was leaving through the back doors.

—

Billy paced back and forth in front of the fountain at the top of the concrete steps. He had hoped the sound of the trickling water would calm his nerves but it worked only to make him more tense. His muscles froze as he heard Gary’s voice become louder and louder, closer and closer.

“Get him to the palace before the party,” he was saying. “We need to be alone with him to swear the oath.”

Following close on his tail, Rank remarked: “The whole gang from the house will be at the initiation.”

The third-years dodged past Billy as though he were a ghost. Billy shifted around to watch them walk for a few seconds before jogging down the stairs to catch up. He cleared his throat, which seemed to capture Gary’s attention, because he turned around and dipped his sunglasses lower onto his nose.

“Excuse me, Gary. Can we talk?”

It took Gary a second to reply. Awkward glances were shifted between Rank and Percy.

“Sure,” he finally said, sighing and pulling his sunglasses off entirely. He folded the arms of them together as he gestured towards the gravel path. “Go ahead,” he told his companions. “I’ll catch up with you.”

While Rank and Percy jogged away, muttering something between each other, Gary sauntered up to Billy, who stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He fiddled with a coin that had been left inside, turning it over in between his fingers.

“If you let me and my sister come to the party, I’ll get you that booze you want,” he said, lowering his voice so no one overheard. Groups of students were crowded across the front steps of the school, huddled in their own little duos and trios, talking amongst each other. Billy had glanced around for Richard, but hadn’t seen him outside.

Gary laughed and shoved his sunglasses into his pocket. “For real?”

Billy nodded.

“Okay,” Gary smiled. “Awesome. We won’t go blind from your moonshine, I hope?”

Billy hissed at the stereotype and dodged Gary’s somewhat friendly prod in the side. He laughed it off. “Just kidding. You’re a good socialist!”

Although Billy was able to dodge the first attack, he was unable to spring away from Gary’s wiry hand tousling through his hair. Billy growled under his breath and took a step away.

“Make sure we stay in touch, okay?” Gary finalized, backing away towards the gravel path below the stairs. Billy nodded, unwilling to say anything else. So without another word, Gary swiftly jogged down the path to meet Rank and Percy, who were almost just two dots in the distance from where Billy stood.

—

Billy’s father lived in a townhouse complex where ivy ran up the walls of every building and every window was shut, their curtains closed. There was a small, rundown park in the middle of it, with overgrown trees and bushes lining what little playground equipment there was. Heaving a sigh, Billy held the door open for a trio of children running outside before entering into the musty stairwell. It smelled like cigarettes and piss, and Billy was pretty sure that wouldn’t change once he got to his dad’s apartment. He dragged himself up the stairs, stopping himself from reaching out and grabbing onto the handrail. It was obviously meant for support, but it looked like it needed support itself. It was more rust than paint, and was hanging onto the staircase for dear life.

Finally, after turning a corner into a hallway lit by only flickering overheads, Billy came face to face with his father’s apartment door. He stood there for a second, wondering if his father saw the shadows of his feet from underneath the crack in the door, or if he was breathing so loud that he could hear him over the television. He reached out and knocked on the door, seething as his knuckles came back smudged with black soot.

It took only a few seconds until the door opened and the familiar, yet hauntingly unknown face of his father stared back at him. He blinked, eyes softening, before contorting again.

“William?”

Billy held his lips together in a straight line, already shaking uncomfortably.

“Hi, Dad,” he tried to sound happy. “Can I come in?”

Quickly, as if he had never been asked before, his father stepped out of the way and held the door open.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course, come on in,” he said. Billy stepped through the door, invited with the pungent smell of beer and the hazy fog of cigarette smoke. He didn’t mention anything, just tried to hold his breath. Once he was far enough into the apartment, his father closed the door behind him, and Billy exhaled, realising that he really had to do what he came here for now. There was no backing out. As he began to kick off his shoes, his father noticed his backpack.

“Did you come from school?”

Billy nodded. “Yeah. Short bus ride, so it’s nothing.”

He cursed himself for spilling that information, because now that he had shown himself once, he was bound to get invitations to come over every damn day now. Once his shoes were off, Billy’s father led him into the living room. The walls were stained yellow and the couch was strewn with beer bottles and blankets with holes in them, cigarette burns freckled along the cushions from where his father had been too lazy to lean over to the ashtray sitting stark on the coffee table.

“Sorry about the mess,” he apologised, grizzly voice lowering. “I wasn’t necessarily expecting company.”

Stepping over what seemed to be a broken glass shard, Billy tried his best to wave it off. “It's— it’s fine.”

“Sit,” his father said, indicating towards a mostly-clean armchair in the corner of the room. Begrudgingly, Billy took a seat, resting his backpack on the floor. He hoped he wouldn’t be there long enough for it to absorb the scent of smoke and booze.

“So, how are things?” His father asked, bending over to clean up a mug full of cigarette butts and the ashtray, which was full of even more of them. Billy shrugged, watching him.

“They’re good.”

“Your mother? And Sarah? How have they been?”

“Also good.”

“Do you want coffee?”

Billy didn’t, really, so shook his head, but he knew from the look on his father’s face that he was about to get served a mug anyway. Deciding to change the subject from his life to his father’s, he asked: “How’s your back? Feeling any better?”

From where he had disappeared into the kitchen, Billy’s father grunted. “Better. I got new medication, so it doesn’t hurt as much.”

Billy nodded, although he knew his father couldn’t see. “That’s nice.”

He reappeared soon after, carrying two cups full of coffee, the steam circling above the mugs in whisps, and a plate of cookies that looked as if they had been sitting out in an open box for months. Billy smiled and whispered a thank you, but didn’t reach down to grab any as his father set them down on the coffee table. He pushed away an open package of cigarettes to make room. Ashes sprinkled onto the floor beside Billy’s feet and he brushed them away.

“Do you like your new school?” His father asked, still bombarding him with questions. Billy’s brain was full with everything but the answers. Nevertheless, he nodded.

“Yeah. It’s fine,” he whispered, twirling his fingers in between each other in his lap. He gulped and readied himself before taking his eyes off his hands and looking at his father. “I need your help with something.”

Across from him, his father’s eyebrows shifted. “Okay?”

“I know that you sell booze,” Billy admitted. “Everyone knows.”

His father’s face fell, but Billy resisted his falling heart. “I need some for a party. Not for myself. I— I don’t drink.”

His father exhaled, chuckling. He tapped on his knee rhythmically and nodded. He seemed to be smiling, but his face was so distorted from anything Billy remembered from when he was a child, that it was anything but a kind gesture in his eyes.

“I remember what it was like,” his father sighed. “Trying to impress a girl.”

The assumption made Billy cringe. He dug his nails into the palm of his other hand until they left ugly pink crescents.

“I’m gay, Dad.”

His father shook his head, returning his gaze down to the floor. “Right, sorry. Some cute guy, then.”

Billy bit the inside of his cheek and twitched his nose; the two things he did to suppress a smile. He was sure the blush that formed along his cheeks was obvious, though. There was silence for a moment, muted out only by the quiet television that hung on the wall, playing some sport highlight that Billy didn’t give a shit about.

“Yeah, what the hell.”

Billy shifted his head upwards as his father slapped his knees and stood up. “You can count on your old man. Huh?”

Standing up as well, Billy realized that his father was moving in for a hug. He reached over and accepted it awkwardly, cringing at the feeling of the big hands on his back that he knew had hurt him years ago, but now acted so inviting.

“Please don’t tell anyone that I was here,” Billy whispered into his father’s shoulder. He smelled like the house did, but stronger. It wasn’t the house’s scent, it was his, that he had projected all over everything for years. “It’s best that way.”

He felt his father nod, “alright,” before pulling away. “I get it.”

Billy wasn’t sure if he really did.

—

Dirt and leaves and strands of pulled up grass were knotted through Richie’s tousled hair, obscuring its colour from bird’s nest brown to a darker, richer, almost dirt-coloured mess. His bones ached, and he still tasted the mixture of beer, vodka, and everyone else’s concoctions in the back of his throat. He struggled to catch his breath, his body still recovering from the adrenaline rush that came with his Forest Ridge House’s initiation process. In front of him, Gary stood with a sly smile, holding out his hand.

“Repeat after me,” he said, reaching out to hold Richie’s head and drop his neck downwards into a circle with the other house members.

“I swear…” he paused for dramatic effect. “...to always honour the proud traditions of Forest Ridge House.”

Inhaling and exhaling deeply, Richie did as he was told, staring blankly into Gary’s harsh gaze. “I swear to always honour the proud traditions of Forest Ridge House.”

Gary’s expression shifted from a smirk to a cheshire-cat grin. “Once a brother…”

“Always a brother…”

The hair along Richie’s neck rose as he heard his mother’s voice in his head. Being a prince is not a punishment, it's a privilege.

The group pulled away from the circle, standing under the light of the low-hanging disco ball in the middle of the ceiling. It shone around the room, cascading its light over the walls and floor. The pattern made Richie’s eyes hurt behind his glasses.

“Congratulations on making it through your initiation,” Gary said, puffing his chest out. “Welcome to the Palace.” He reached out and gently pushed Richie backwards. “Sorry if things got a bit rough. We figured you didn’t want any special treatment.”

Even though Gary was right, Richie wouldn’t have objected this time. He could already feel a bruise forming on his back from when he had been shoved against one of the trees outside.

“We’ve got some pretty girls coming later,” Percy nudged. “Go get changed. Your uniform is ready for you.”

—

Richie hadn’t been to a party since he had gotten into the widely publicised fight, which really was only a week ago. He still felt a little awkward in the loud, overwhelming environment, glancing around worriedly every so often. He wasn’t sure what he was keeping an eye out for, but he was sure he would know it when he saw it. Reaching over, he grabbed a red solo cup from the table and filled it with the fruit punch, bringing it up to his lips to take a sip. He observed the other partygoers. Groups of girls taking photos together, boys roughhousing and various couples battling tongues in every corner. Richie’s head hurt and he gripped tightly onto his cup before heading over to the couch where Gary sat. When his cousin noticed him, he raised his own cup, hands unsteady from the overtake of alcohol.

“Your only mistake that night was being around the wrong people, Rich,” Gary said as Richie sat down, hoisting an arm around the back of the couch. Richie leaned in to hear better. He could smell the booze on his cousin’s breath and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“I get that you wanted to feel normal and all,” Gary continued, gesturing blindly with his cup all the while. “Go to an ordinary school, meet ordinary girls, and go to ordinary parties. But hey—” he jabbed Richie in the side, “—how did that work out, hmm?”

Richie swivelled his tongue around in his mouth and raised his solo cup to take another drink, inspecting it through the dim green party lights to make sure the ice was still floating.

“Ordinary people will never accept you as one of them,” Gary said. He motioned towards the hoard of people in the party, moving like zombies as they circled from group to group, from table to table, from drug to different, harder drug.

“Here, you’re among equals,” Gary smiled, flashing his teeth. “Here, we could murder someone, and no one would say a word.”

Richie’s nerves arose, and he decided to laugh it off.

“Come on,” he chuckled. But Gary’s face devolved into an intense, serious look, and he dipped his head.

“I swear.”

Richie shuffled uncomfortably.

“Who wants to be ordinary anyway?” Gary asked, and Richie had to stop himself from actually answering that question. He shifted his head away, desperate to find somewhere to escape from the one-sided conversation he had found himself wrapped up in.

As though it were fate, someone pushed past the streamers in front of the door and grabbed Richie’s attention. His name lay on the edge of Richie’s tongue, but he didn’t dare utter it. He watched studiously as Billy glanced around at all the lights strewn up across the walls. The girl who walked in with him, who Richie deduced to be his sister, grabbed a pre-filled cup from a second-year student carrying a platter full of them.

Billy hardened his gaze on Sarah as she held the cup between her hands. She shrugged one shoulder.

“What?”

From somewhere across the room, a voice sneered: “who invited them?”

Beside Richie, Gary let out a laugh. “I did. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, you know what I mean?”

Richie’s gaze followed Billy as he dotted awkwardly around the room, hands shoved into the safety of the pockets on his jeans. With a silent urge from Gary, Richie’s attention snapped away from the boy across the room and he cleared his throat, raising his cup to the crowd.

“How did the Royal Ship Vasa go down?” He yelled, standing up from the couch. “Bottoms up!”

Loud cheering rang around the party room as Richie poured the rest of the drink down his throat. Now came the time of night where he wished the fruit punch was alcoholic, so he hollered and jumped over to the drinks table, refilling his cup with a screwdriver, doubling the amount of vodka. He ducked his head back to drink it and lurched at the sharp feeling of the liquor dripping down his throat. For his second one, he added more orange juice.

Sarah fumbled her way through the back hallways, pushing past groups of wandering people and stacks of random, empty cardboard boxes. She tried to stay steady on her feet and pushed her long hair out of her face. Feeling ethereal, the lights seemed to glisten above her rather than flicker, and the bass-boosted music sounded far away when it was actually just one room over. As she approached the end of the hallway, another sound alerted her and she peered past a group of boxes. Felice sat on a stool beside the wall, bent over and retching every few seconds. Laughing through her drunken haze, Sarah ran over and began to drag Felice’s hair away from her cheeks.

“Do you need help?” She asked, reaching around to Felice’s other side. She meekly shook her head.

“No,” she hissed, spitting down onto the ground. She waved out a hand behind her. “Just don’t tell anyone.”

Sarah giggled. “Why would I? It’s just gross.”

Nodding, Felice agreed, and turned her head to the side to look at the other. “You’re pretty special,” she noted. Sarah shrugged.

“I have Aspergers. Have you heard of it? I’ve also got ADHD, but that’s not as special.”

Felice rolled her head, seeming like her fit of vomiting had come to an end. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it,” she said. Looking down, she took a strand of hair in her fingers and ran them through it. “My hair, is it wavy?”

Sarah cocked her head.

“Yes,” she said bluntly.

“Do you know how long it takes to straighten it?” Felice complained, slurring her words in a drunken sentence. Sarah stepped towards her and unhooked a golden beret from where it had begun to fall out of her hair.

“Here,” she said, readjusting it so it was symmetrical with the other. “If it takes so long, why do you do it?”

“I have to,” Felice confessed, gently throwing a hand up in the air. Sarah shook her head, moving back to inspect her handiwork.

“No, you don’t. You look pretty anyway.”

Felice dipped her head and smiled, giddy at the compliment. Her cheeks were flushed pink from her alcohol-induced state and as she tried to stand up, her whole body shook. Sarah jumped forward to catch her and chuckled.

“Come on,” Sarah laughed. “We need some fresh air.”

She herded Felice over towards one of the windows, dropping her hand and unlocking it. She pushed it open and gestured for Felice to climb up, holding her hands up to help as she did, movement still altered.

Three drinks later, Richie was, in short, gone. He was hardly able to stay on his feet, and whenever he walked he would only bump into things, so he decided to simply camp out beside the drinks table and observe. Slowly but surely the haziness in his vision lifted and he could blink his eyes back to focus easier. A figure brushed past him which shifted his gaze to the side. His shoulder bumped into Billy’s side— Richie had never noticed how tall Billy was— as he turned, and the booze in his system upped his confidence.

“Hey,” he said, downing the rest of the liquid in his cup before dropping it to the floor. Billy had to glance down a little bit to meet his eyes. Richie observed him, eyes directed towards the ring of glow sticks that lay atop his head. Richie had his own, more like a sash around his chest and shoulder.

“How’s it going?” He asked. Billy looked around and jutted his bottom lip out. He shrugged, but it was shortened because his hands still lay dormant in his pockets.

“Good. Good,” he said, just loud enough to be heard over the loud music. Beside him, Richie nodded twice and rang a hand damp with condensation through his hair and rubbing at the spot where his glasses lay on his ear. Shuffling his feet on the concrete floor, Billy gestured towards the exit.

“I’ve gotta go,” he told Richie, mumbling this time, before he walked away. He flashed Richie a smile before he went, which held Richie’s desperate plea for his attention. As he watched Billy go, the haze in his mind cleared and he jogged after him, pushing past the few streamers that were left dangling in front of the exit door. In an effort not to startle him, Richie called out.

“Hey, wait.” He extended his hand and brushed his fingers against Billy’s arm. The taller boy stopped and turned, blinking in the dim light. “I was actually just about to go outside. Wanna come?”

With a curt nod and nothing more, Billy pushed past Richie and crawled up onto the windowsill. The latter watched as Billy pushed through the open window and disappeared into the unlit night outside. Richie followed him out and breathed in the fresh air, de-clouding his senses and helping him sober up at least a little faster. In front of him, Billy’s shoulders moved as he chuckled.

“That’s my sister,” he said, pointing towards two shadowy figures a few paces in front of them. If he squinted, Richie could make out Felice’s figure. He hummed inquisitively.

“Is she friends with Felice?”

“I didn’t think so,” Billy said, shaking his head as the two girls tripped over an exposed tree root, catching their balance before they fell. Richie could hear their laughter drift back towards them.

Finally, Billy and Richie found a spot to sit down. They rested in the small divot behind the front steps of the so-called ‘party house’. It was a trench just deep enough for them to sit comfortably and not be seen by others on top of the steps. Richie, with his head resting against the stone, hummed quietly. He searched through his brain, trying to remember all the words to Billy’s song from the day he arrived at Hillerska. The first time he had seen him.

“It takes a fool to remain sane…” he whispered, voice shifting depending on whether or not he knew what lyrics were coming up next.

Beside him, legs curled up towards his chest, held there by his fists locked together in front, Billy smiled slightly, reciting the song in his own head. Only he knew it better, and listened to where the prince struggled. He glanced over, merely to look, but his eyes remained focused on Richie as his head still rested on the fixture behind him. His eyes, hidden behind thick-rimmed glasses, were a dark amber, the same colour as a shadowed bird’s nest, although Billy wasn’t sure if they had any flecks of brown or green. He hadn’t gotten that close yet. Richie’s cheeks were dotted with freckles, like the shrapnels of stars he gazed up at, dotting the night sky overlooking them. His chestnut hair, flecked with dirt, was cut short on his head, picking up every sliver of light that came from the building's windows and the moon above. His lips were chapped slightly, but he ran his tongue across them as he smiled. The hand-made sash of interconnected glow sticks around his chest was beginning to dull, the light draining from the chemical mixture inside of the plastic. The lapels on his jacket were scuffed with dust and grime and there was a stain on his shirt.

“What’s the next line?” He asked, blinking. Billy laughed and held his gaze on the prince.

“Every morning, I would see her getting off the bus…”

Beside him, eyes still planted upwards, Richie laughed with his mouth closed, shoulders bucking. Having been given no queue to stop, Billy continued reciting the lyrics.

“The picture never drops, it’s like a multicoloured snapshot…”

Finally, Richie raised his head from the stone behind him and blinked, his gaze falling down to the torn up grass he sat on. Breaking the newly made silence, Billy asked a question he had longed to know the answer to: “What did you think?”

“About what?”

“About my singing.”

Richie’s freckles moved as he smiled and let out a deep exhale, as if he was reminiscing. “It was nice. I heard… all the different voices,” he said, words still slurred every so often. Billy ran his tongue over his teeth as he listened.

“It was like every single person up on that stage, everyone next to you, was lost in their own voice. In the music. Know what I mean?” Richie’s dull eyes were focused on something far off in the distance, or maybe he was staring at nothing in particular, instead recounting that day and replaying it in his head.

Billy smiled. “Totally.”

“And then, like, you sang,” Richie continued, shuffling his feet in the dirt-covered grass. “And you… you sang the loudest. And I could tell that you…” he let out another breath and rolled his head around in a circle, ridding his neck of any pains. “... you were singing from your heart.”

Billy swore he could hear his own heart beating. He could feel it, ready to jump out of his chest and cling to this other boy’s. But he wasn’t just some other boy. He was the prince. And Billy supposed that that fact had never really dawned on him, and now the placement of his glow sticks made sense.

“Do you like it here?” Richie asked. He broke his neverending gaze into nothing to shift his eyes to Billy, who swallowed. It took a moment for him to reply, but it wasn’t really a reply at all.

“Do you like it here?” He cross-questioned. Richie’s chest rose and fell with every impending breath, and Billy watched as his eyes moved back and forth, as though he were questioning himself.

“Yes,” Richie finally replied, but the underlying tone of his voice had Billy skeptical. He had a clue that he was lying, but his interrogation went no further. So he simply nodded and smiled.

“Good.”

From somewhere above them, a familiar voice called out the prince’s name.

“Rich?” Gary.

Even though he was just on the brink of being sober, Richie’s reaction time was quick. He pulled Billy down by his jacket sleeve, ducking behind the stone wall and down into the trench.

“Shit, get down,” he hissed, voice low. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Rich?” Another call.

Billy couldn’t focus as Richie had the fabric of his light autumn jacket digging into his fist, still pushing him down and making sure they couldn’t be seen, even in the dead of night. Hardly any light flowed from the windows down into this spot, so the two of them were hidden within the darkness and the stone barrier.

“Rich? Richie?”

Richie’s eyes shifted upwards to Billy’s crown of glow sticks that sat atop his head, unmasked by his short hair. He seized his head in an open palm and shoved him down gently. “Down. You’re glowing.”

Billy stifled a chuckle but it still rattled his shoulders as Richie’s hand dropped from his head and into his lap, the other still gripping his coat.

“He’s probably making out with someone,” a voice from above muttered, words slurred. It could have been Percy, but Billy suspected that it was Rank, although he hardly knew the third years from each other. Intent on listening in to the third-year’s conversation, Richie held up a finger in front of Billy’s lips, which earned him another short laugh.

“Making out?” asked the other voice. This time it was Gary’s again. “Did he leave with someone? Did he leave with Felice? But we were a group.”

Daring, Billy careened his head up to sneak a glance at the prefect and his companions. Richie pushed him down again after another call of his nickname.

“Rich?”

Smirking, Billy whispered the nickname back, just quiet enough so that nobody on the stairs could hear him, but just loud enough to get Richie to hit him gently, panicked.

“Rich!” Billy laughed.

Richie shot him a glance, brow furrowed in the concentration of holding himself taut on the ground, composed. “Shh, don’t do that.”

“Rich?” Another from atop the hill.

“Rich!” Billy teased, this time louder, almost breaking into a laugh.

In a flash, Richie had a palm overtop of Billy’s lips, shushing him incessantly. Through the muffler that was his hand, Billy still laughed and Richie had to push him deeper into the trench. As the footsteps of the third-years faded away into the distance, so did Billy’s chuckles, and the pair descended into silence again. Their breathing seemed heightened and loud, but perhaps that was because it was one of the only things they had to listen to. Or maybe it was because their bodies were mere inches from each other, legs tangled in an awkward mess on the ground, chests almost touching. If they moved closer by only a few docile movements, their noses would have brushed together. Billy glanced down at the prince’s hand on his lips just as Richie moved it away, drifting it down the side of Billy’s cheek. He could feel Richie’s breath hot on his skin, and as his eyes shone in the moonlight, Billy found himself entranced again.