Like a cliff face ceding to erosion and sliding into the sea, Iris crumbles into sobs. Wilhelm wishes he could pull him into a hug, but naked as they are, he hesitates to make the other boy uncomfortable with what's meant to be a comforting gesture. (Not to mention, he doesn't trust his body with all that precarious closeness.) All he can do is squeeze his hand, caress his knuckles in slow patterns as if activating some kind of ward.
He wishes he could reach inside of Iris' chest and pull out the hurt. As easily as clearing weeds, or loosening a knot. He imagines it rising out of his friend like the strange vapors pluming from his skin right now — every heavy thing he shoves down and covers with a smile.
Suddenly, the ache in Wilhelm's ribs splits open. A tide of emotions rises in him, dragging to the surface all the ways he has never felt like enough. He spent his whole life looking for his mother's love. In every step, he was compared to Erik; in every step, he fell short. His brother was the golden boy whose hands flew beautifully over the piano keys, who won trophies and won people over as naturally as breathing. He was going to be a good king someday.
What she felt for Wilhelm was more duty than love. He was an unfortunate situation she had to make the best of after Erik died. He was her son second, her heir first — not his own person but an extension of her legacy. When it came down to it, rather than standing up for him — rather than bringing to justice the person who leaked the video filmed through his bedroom window — she chose to sweep the whole thing under the rug for the sake of preserving the family's reputation. Her reputation.
He needed her to be a mom, but she only knew how to be the queen.
The prickling behind his eyes becomes a blurring of his vision as tears spill down his cheeks. Clinging to Iris, holding the knot of their hands between their chests, he leans forward to rest their foreheads together.
"You deserved better," he whispers. "You...you deserve to be loved. You're worthy of love, Iris."
Meanwhile, as this torrent of emotions pours through Wilhelm, Iris will feel the salt sting of his sadness ebbing. As it sweeps out, it leaves behind a startling calm.
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He wishes he could reach inside of Iris' chest and pull out the hurt. As easily as clearing weeds, or loosening a knot. He imagines it rising out of his friend like the strange vapors pluming from his skin right now — every heavy thing he shoves down and covers with a smile.
Suddenly, the ache in Wilhelm's ribs splits open. A tide of emotions rises in him, dragging to the surface all the ways he has never felt like enough. He spent his whole life looking for his mother's love. In every step, he was compared to Erik; in every step, he fell short. His brother was the golden boy whose hands flew beautifully over the piano keys, who won trophies and won people over as naturally as breathing. He was going to be a good king someday.
What she felt for Wilhelm was more duty than love. He was an unfortunate situation she had to make the best of after Erik died. He was her son second, her heir first — not his own person but an extension of her legacy. When it came down to it, rather than standing up for him — rather than bringing to justice the person who leaked the video filmed through his bedroom window — she chose to sweep the whole thing under the rug for the sake of preserving the family's reputation. Her reputation.
He needed her to be a mom, but she only knew how to be the queen.
The prickling behind his eyes becomes a blurring of his vision as tears spill down his cheeks. Clinging to Iris, holding the knot of their hands between their chests, he leans forward to rest their foreheads together.
"You deserved better," he whispers. "You...you deserve to be loved. You're worthy of love, Iris."
Meanwhile, as this torrent of emotions pours through Wilhelm, Iris will feel the salt sting of his sadness ebbing. As it sweeps out, it leaves behind a startling calm.