Chapter Text
Realistically, Simon knows all of this is his fault.
He lowers his gaze from the open locker in front of him to the small round ball of paper that jumps off his sneaker. He swiftly turns to locate the oh-so-creative offender, but of course they're long gone in the multicolor stream of students milling in the hallway.
It doesn't come as a surprise to him that he isn't accepted, or isn't the most sought-after company. Unlike Sara, Simon stands by what he believes in. Warm pride pools in his chest at the thought — he slams the locker a little bit harder than he intends, cheeks stinging with short-lived awkwardness. He's been trying to unlearn that lately, the awkwardness.
At sixteen years old, Simon needs to stop shrinking. For his first ever cause for rebellion, Simon has chosen what some may say is a high-stakes game. Carried out against his mother, primarily, and Sara — the traitor, though he didn't know that yet — Simon hasn't hidden his vehement distaste for the Kingdom of Sweden ever since Linda mentioned it a year ago.
"Auntie Daniela says they can take me on at her hospital in Bjärstad. Her boys are feeling at home there. Come on, Simon. You'll get opportunities—"
But Simon didn't want to hear about any opportunities, or the fabled Bjarstad. With hot angry tears in his eyes, he stormed out of the room, through the shabby-looking hallway that seemed to shake with each step, so much so that the cutlery in the kitchen clinked. Outside, the hot midday air burned his nostrils and made his tears feel hotter than they were. Why should he leave everything he'd ever known, every friend he'd fought to make, behind? Just because his mom said so?
Now, a year later, the steam had worn off, leaving a brash sense of prickly discomfort under his skin. Simon has spent eight out of the last twelve months in denial about the move. He protested with all his might — refused to learn the language, defiantly walked out of the room every time Linda and Sara started looking through apartments up for rent, cradled his comic books to his chest as Linda pleaded with him to "come to his senses." God, could he not have some dignity left to his name? Couldn't a few tattered comic books fit in his suitcase?
Simon is calmer now, and almost a year older. He managed to smuggle his comic books into the country and he's still decidedly shitty at Swedish — both are equally precious achievements, a true testament to his integrity. However, books, along with his petulance, only stretched so far in terms of helping him deal.
Letting out an exhausted sigh, Simon trudges towards the math classroom. That's the one lesson he fears the most; not even Swedish can instill in him this level of helplessness. The Swedish teacher is somewhat more accommodating. One part of Simon wants to be annoyed with her sympathetic gaze and generous offers to stay after class so she could break down his embarrassment of a homework assignment for him. Yet he does need the help.
The maths teacher, Magister Andersson, is another beast entirely. Simon would think his fault-finding was entirely racially motivated if it wasn't for the fact that he is absolutely terrible to everyone.
Having made it inside just in time, Simon's entire face falls — Ayub isn't here today. Ayub is the sole reason why Simon hasn't been kicked out of school yet; as far as Simon can tell, Ayub is funny (if his English meme recitals are anything to go by), easy-going and, most importantly, not mathematically compromised. The kindness of his soul stretches out to Simon in the form of copied homework and cheating. If someone inspires any gratitude in Simon in this old red-bricked building full of pompous rich bastards, it's Ayub.
But today, Simon's face pales with each new step as he walks to his desk — not only is Ayub absent, there's another student occupying his spot.
Wilhelm. The life of the school, the son of someone important doing something important in the government. All Simon knows — all that Ayub communicated to him in only slightly broken English — is that Wilhelm is universally loved. Apparently, he's great at rowing. The girls dream of Wilhelm taking them to prom. He's acing all his tests. He's got many friends and teachers love him. By all accounts, Wilhelm is the IT boy around here.
Simon sighs as he plops down next to Wilhelm at the desk. It's not that he hates him — god, that would be a cliché. Yes, Simon is stubborn, but he also wouldn't hate a person he knows nothing about. However, some points are detracted due to the very fact that he's, simply put, not Ayub.
From the corner of his eye, Simon can tell that Wilhelm has acknowledged his ungraceful arrival. Simon sees him run his fingers through the sandy blond fringe, making the sweetish scent of his perfume ripple through the air. Simon can feel Wilhelm's gaze on his cheek. Well, this marks the first time Simon wishes Magister Andersson would be here, but the old prick is probably busy scolding someone for running down the hallways.
"Hej," he hears Wilhelm say in a hushed voice in Swedish, "Simon, right?"
Startled — because why the hell is Wilhelm suddenly chatty? — Simon turns to face him. The boy's face actually glows with a mix of curiosity and urgency. "Right," Simon replies. He knows how to say that much.
It's not that he hasn't spotted Wille before. It's hard to miss him — the boy towers over almost any other student, all broad shoulders as he dashes through the crowds in the cafeteria, probably jumping the line. Because kids like him always think they're the chosen ones.
Right now, Simon doesn't detect any malice coming from Wilhelm, so he schools his features into something friendlier, only expecting that the exchange will taper off. But because Andersson is still nowhere to be seen, he feels forced to return the pleasantries.
"You're Wilhelm," Simon continues in English. He's about to be put through Swedish hell for this maths class as it is, so excuse him if he chooses not to make a simple conversation any harder than it needs to be. He's a bit embarrassed that it comes out more as a statement than a question. At times, all three languages coexisting in his head start to mix and match, in a discombobulating way, fucking up his pronunciation and tone.
Wilhelm seems to take notice, judging by the soft giggle he lets out, still staring at Simon. It's become clear that Wilhelm is one of those people who just love staring at others, making them uncomfortable all over.
"Wille," he shakes his head, "No one really calls me Wilhelm."
Riveting stuff, Simon thinks to himself. He still doesn't want to seem rude, yet he feels helpless holding a conversation with Swedes.
If he really allows himself to sink to the bottom of his despair, it comes down to this: Simon is mentally exhausted from trying to keep up, trying not to feel lonely in the vortex of people. He misses when it felt like him and Sara were a team, when Simon still had friends who he could joke with in the language that has run through his veins since the day he was born.
But it's not the time or place to take those kinds of excursions, certainly not in front of Wille.
The door bangs loudly, announcing the arrival of Magister Andersson, and Simon politely nods at Wille, turning away to face the board, bracing himself for impact. Wille's eyes follow the movement, as if refusing to leave Simon's face. Simon is too exhausted to care.
***
Simon tells himself he's okay with the shape his pastime has taken now. Curled up on his bed with a comic book in his hand, he scans the strips he's seen a hundred times before. He's yet to figure out how to find the newest volumes in Spanish — there probably is a way, maybe local online shops carry some.
In many regards, Simon's readiness to inconvenience himself stems from his very objective logic: if he starts operating by the rules of this "new" life, say, buying comics in Swedish, the "new" life becomes his reality. He has lost, then. He's going to become just like Sara.
Sara, who is miles ahead of him with her Swedish. Although imperfect, it's helped her find people — if not friends, then at least acquaintances — to hang out with. Why would she want to spend time with Simon? She'd never objected to the move, happily learned the language while Simon sulked in his room and then sulked on the beach with friends and then sulked when getting ice cream with a boy he liked. What was the point of developing any feelings if Simon was going to leave anyway?
He is sixteen. On top of the year that he's had, filled with gathering documents, packing bags, having to share a bedroom with Sara while they stayed at a relative's place, Simon's other point of concern was that he'd never had a boyfriend. Back home, all his friends started experimenting and taking people out on little dates and walks just as Simon had to start packing his life away.
In moments of anger, Simon can't help blaming Linda for ruining his shot at happiness. How the hell is he supposed to find someone he likes if he feels like a black sheep stuck in a box lined with barbed wire?
Simon huffs, snapping the book shut and throwing it to the furthest side of the bed. His stomach grumbles unpleasantly — it's dinner time, and the smell of his mother's cooking hits his nose — most likely pabellón. Generally, Simon appreciates Linda's attempts to make him feel at home again. But it's not like it has worked yet.
He stumbles into the living room area — a tiny but tidy space conjoined to the kitchen. Linda perks up from where she's dressing the table. It doesn't escape him that there are only two plates.
"Is Sara out again?" he asks lamely, sitting down on a chair with a purple cushion. His mom got a whole bunch of those on their first trip to Ikea.
Linda hurries to take a seat opposite him, nodding. "She's with Felice. They're having a sleepover."
When Simon doesn't say anything and starts poking at the food mindlessly with a fork, Linda sighs and puts hers down.
"Si-imon," she says in that teasing voice of hers that she employs to cheer him up, "What's wrong?"
Simon feels his eyes rapidly well up. He inhales sharply, biting his lip, not wanting to meet his mother's eyes. "How the hell am I supposed to learn the damn language if you're speaking Spanish to me all the time?"
When Linda doesn't reply right away, he chances a glance at her. She sits straighter now, and her face is colored with that stern shade of I'm not gonna take any of your shit.
"You're going to be speaking Spanish to me until the day I die, Simon. There's no way around it. But I speak it to Sara, too. She doesn't seem to mind."
"Of course she doesn't," he grits between his teeth, suddenly not feeling like eating.
Linda's pursed lips give way to a sigh and her expression softens. "Simon, I've had a long day. I know it's not easy. It's not, for any of us. But you have to keep trying."
Simon stares out the window, feeling both rejected and pathetic. Keep trying what? To learn the language? He can already understand a lot by ear. Speaking is another ordeal entirely.
As if eavesdropping on Simon's thoughts, Linda suddenly gets up to grab her phone off the kitchen counter. Simon ventures a guess the "no phone at the table" rule never applies to Linda.
"Do you know Janina Jönsson? She's the Swedish teacher at your school."
Simon shrugs, already hating the topic, the dinner — he should've stayed in his room and read the damn comic, or called Ayub to maybe persuade him to play some LoL. No Swedish required for that.
Linda puts the phone down, still unlocked, and plucks a few beans off the plate, still steaming. "She called me today. That lady is worried about you not being 'integrated' enough." Before Simon can snark back, Linda shakes her head dismissively at his mute attempt.
"She only wants to help, Simon! A very nice woman, cariño. Not everyone is going to be nice," Linda fixes him with a pensive look and, when he doesn't reply, leans in with her elbows resting on the table.
"She found you a language buddy!" her face lights up with the excitement of someone who's just shown her five-year-old a bunny jumping out of a magician’s hat.
"Mama…" Simon begins, feeling nausea rising up. He hates when Linda does it, when she sweeps his feelings under the rug, tries to smooth over whatever they're fighting about.
Linda shushes him again and puts on her glasses — she keeps them on a chain around her neck. She scrolls down on the screen and then, after a satisfied Aha — or jaha, whatever — she announces to him, loud and gleeful, "Simon, a student named Wilhelm Larsson wants to be your language buddy!"
What the fuck?
Simon opens and closes his mouth several times, not knowing where to begin. Finally, he lands on, "What's in it for him?" because Simon, for the life of him, can't fathom why on god's green earth Wilhelm would want to fix Simon's Swedish. For the second time today, he begrudgingly wonders why it can't be Ayub.
Linda locks her phone and gets to her plate with renewed enthusiasm. "Well, apparently the boy is behind on his Spanish. Janina thinks you two could help each other out."
Right, his school does teach a Spanish class, among others. The millisecond of warmth at Wille's choice passes quickly enough. In its place, he feels suspicion — Wilhelm, the golden boy, behind on Spanish? That's news.
"What, like after school? Will I have to park my ass there for even longer every day? Can he not get private tutoring or something?" he gets up, picking up their now empty plates and heading for the sink. He's mad and he's going to take it all out on the dishes.
Through the window in the wall separating the kitchen suite and the living room, Simon sees Linda get up with a resolute sigh. "I forwarded you the number Janina gave me."
When Simon shakes his head, brow furrowed in confusion, she adds, "Wilhelm's number. Text him and find out. Take it out on him if you want to. But I'd say give it a shot, okay?"
Linda wraps her arms around Simon from the back as he's still busy with the dishes, foam flying in his face as he tries to shake the embrace off.
"Good night, mi amor. May tomorrow be kinder," she presses a kiss to his hair, then yawns and heads to her bedroom, probably ready to have an early night after her shift.
None of that has made Simon any less grumpy. He dries his hands off with a towel and trudges back to his room to check his phone. With each step, fury sets deeper into his chest — what made anyone in this chain of events assume Simon would just agree? Simon has nothing against Wilhelm, but the pained, berated voice in his head is dripping poison into his brain drop by drop — does Wille think he's impossible to turn down? Is he the one behind all of that? Why on earth does this spoiled rich kid think Simon is going to teach him Spanish? La puta madre — Simon sure as hell can.
Riled up beyond his own understanding, he plops down on his bed and quickly finds Wille's number. Simon clicks on it, going for the message box, and then stares at the keyboard, feeling frustration thrumming in his temples.
Simon hates how emotional he sometimes gets. He doesn't particularly like it when he feels tears rush to his eyes just because of how worked up he is. Taking a big gulp of nothing but air and the gloom that settles over his shoulders, he starts typing.
After deleting and retyping his statement several times, Simon quickly tosses his Spanish passive aggression into a translator app, then copies, pastes its Swedish version and smashes the send button. Maybe that will help him get his point across to Wilhelm.
simon: hey wilhelm, i'm not sure what gave you the impression I would be down for your offer. I most certainly am not, especially when it's decided behind my back. I hope you can understand.
Simon throws his phone onto the heap of pillows and sighs, running a hand over his tired face. Barely five seconds later, shame crawls into his chest. Maybe, as much as he enjoys Ayub's steady stream of doodles and profanities on the edges of his notebooks, Simon does want to have someone else to hang out with. Maybe Wille isn't the worst person to hang out with, actually. At least he smells nice, and that's important. Not many teenage boys do.
But that means giving up his long-standing, albeit one-sided, beef with the concept of acceptance, and Simon isn't sure if he wants to. There's something vaguely unbecoming about betraying his principles.
His phone buzzes not even a minute later, and naturally, Simon can't stop his eyes from flicking to the screen.
"Hi Simon! I'm sorry you had that impression, I never…"
Simon huffs and rolls his eyes, quickly swiping to unlock the screen and reveal the rest of the message.
"...never meant to go behind your back. It was something I just mentioned to Janina and she must have gone with it. Sorry 😭 My Spanish does suck though. Maybe we could still help each other?"
Simon stares at the message as if it reached out and shook him. So, assuming Wille's not lying… Would that be so bad to try?
For the first time in a long and gruelling while, he replies with the first thing that comes to his mind.
simon: Okay.
simon: can we use English, for now?
wille: absolutely!
wille: Sorry, i gotta go. See you tomorrow, Simon!! We'll talk then
wille: Dulces sueños ☺️
Simon barely has the self-control to keep his fingers from typing "dröm sött 🙄" because yes, so this is the serious language studying he's been lured into. And yet somewhere veryyy deep down, something warm tickles his chest at seeing his language acknowledged by someone else in a small but pleasant way. Except Ayub and the "hola, enano" that he greets Simon with every day, no one actually speaks Simon's language unprompted. Certainly not to wish him good night.
Feeling lighter and calmer now that the whole thing is dealt with, Simon kicks his window open. The fresh autumn air barges in, prickling his skin pleasantly, casting a wet sheen on his cheekbones, almost teasing him. But the moisture and cold don't feel as offensive tonight — might be Linda's pabellón working its wonders, after all.