Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The sun begins to brush against my bedroom, as if asking permission—present but not invasive. My bare skin is warm against the cool freshness of the sheets, but this time, instead of following logic, my skin is the one that turns cold: it doesn’t hold onto the warmth once it realizes I’m naked.

Flashback to last night

I was crying uncontrollably. I could have filled an entire ocean.

Simon: “Marcus! Slow down! Stop! You’re hurting me!”

Marcus: “You deserve it, fuck, you slut!”

End of flashback.

I sigh and sit up. Why am I so surprised? Why does it hurt this much? He’s supposed to be my husband. I love him.

The veins in my head start pounding, making me feel faint just thinking about it.

I sit on the bed; my legs are jelly. There’s a deep ache in my back muscles that almost makes me want to rip them out. My eyes still burn a little from waking up, and that slightly sticky morning feeling is irritating. With the strength I have left, I slowly get up. My legs tremble, but I lean on the nightstand.

Damn, they hurt so much.

I sit back down on the bed, sighing, and grab my phone to check the time: 5:00.

I still have enough time to get ready.

Like I told you, this time no wasting time! Just half an hour to have a little fun and I’ll go straight back home. I don’t want to get into trouble again and unleash Marcus’s anger. And anyway, today is Saturday, so the kids don’t go to school. Everything is under control.

I try again to stand up. I lean on the nightstand and slowly rise, and once I’m upright, I take small steps toward the bathroom.

When I reach the doorway, I lean against the frame and take a long breath. Then I rest against the icy base of the sink, sending shivers across my entire body.

I lift my gaze to the mirror, yawn a little, and turn on the tap. The water starts rushing frantically, and I splash my face to wake myself up. I brush my teeth, then do my skincare routine.

It’s time for the “smooth skin mission.” Even though my beard is almost invisible, as you already know, I love the feeling of the blade sliding away even the shadow of a hair; it’s a matter of mental order. I spread a thin layer of oily pre-shave to protect my skin, then pass the razor with precise movements.

After rinsing with cold water to close the pores, I pat on a soothing alcohol-free toner. Finally, I apply a vitamin C serum to give that extra glow boost, followed by my favorite cocoa and coconut moisturizer. I look at my reflection: compact skin, vibrant curls, and a gaze that finally says “I’m ready to conquer.” A layer of mint-scented lip balm and that’s it.

Now I focus on my curls. This time I decide to use the scrunching technique: I apply a silky leave-in cream and, head upside down, squeeze the strands between my hands to give them perfect bounce. A touch of light-hold gel to seal in moisture and then I let them air dry, free and defined.

I head to the kitchen, because yes, like yesterday, I take care of all the main house chores:

I wash last night’s dishes, gently scrubbing off the grease with the sponge, hoping not to wake anyone. Every second my anxiety rises, as if the sink is making more noise than usual on purpose, but it fades once I finish washing.

I polish plates until they gleam and sparkle I lay the table with the fancy vitals.

I hang Marcus’s and the kids’ clothes on the balcony with precision. My mother always repeated it over and over:

“Simon, precision is the only form of respect you can show to the things you own,” she used to tell me, shaking the sheets with that sharp sound that smelled of authority and Marseille soap.

While I hang a pair of the kids’ shorts, a memory of how to hang clothes reaches me, something I inherited from her:

“Never let the sun see the wrinkles of cotton,” she would warn me, “because a crease born on the line is a scar that only a burning iron can heal.”

I snap the last pair of Marcus’s jeans; the sound echoes in my head like a gunshot. Precision, Simon. Order.

My mother said that if you keep the outside in order, the chaos inside can’t come out. But this morning my hands are trembling. I think about what I told Wilhelm yesterday: “Stay here with me, where you don’t have to be perfect.”

What a liar I am. I’m obsessed with perfection because it’s the only way I have to keep Marcus’s anger from exploding.

I look at the facade of our house, so clean and normal from the outside. That’s my wall. My smooth skin, my defined curls, the shining house… they’re the bricks I use to hide the monster sleeping in the bedroom.

I told Wilhelm that with me there’s no kingdom, no pressure. But the truth is that I am the king of a glass castle that’s shattering, and every time I try to gather the pieces, I cut my hands.

I check the time: 5:15. I have to hurry. I have to be perfect, I have to be fast, I have to be invisible. If I do everything right, maybe today Marcus will wake up and see only the devoted husband, not the irresponsible man.

I move frantically toward the stove. Even if it’s Saturday, I have to prepare lunch in advance: a boiled green bean and egg frittata that Marcus only has to heat in the microwave. As I cut the scallions with millimetric precision, the sound of the knife on the cutting board marks the rhythm of my heart. Tac. Tac. Tac. Every piece must be identical to the other. My grandmother used to say that food is the only way someone who can’t speak says “I love you,” but for me it has become a way to say “don’t hit me.”

Once I finish frying everything, I clean the stovetop until it reflects the light of the hood. No fingerprints. No mess. I leave his meal covered in foil; the green beans, the long ones I cleaned one by one, are arranged next to the golden frittata. I place the plate on the table so delicately that the porcelain on wood sounds like a sigh. Everything is ready. Marcus will find perfection, and perfection is the only thing that keeps him calm.

I go back to the bathroom for the final touch. The skincare has done its miracle, but I have to be careful. I can’t use the makeup I wear for concerts; Marcus would notice immediately like he did yesterday. I opt for a light concealer just to hide the violet shadows under my eyes, the ones Wilhelm noticed yesterday—he didn’t say it, but I could read it in his eyes.

I take my rose-petal gloss. It’s not a strong color, just a reflection, a shine that makes my lips fuller, softer. As I apply it, I smell the delicate scent that for a moment chases away the smell of fried food and anxiety that fills the kitchen.

Then, with very light fingers, I apply a layer of clear mascara on my lashes: not to lengthen them, but to open my gaze, to make the little light left in my eyes shine.

And finally, I carefully rub on my favorite scented oil “FLUID,” the one that gives that freshness and unique fragrance I needed this morning.

I look at myself in the mirror: compact skin, elastic curls, a touch of light on my lips. I almost feel like… Simon. Not Marcus’s husband, but Simon Eriksson.

I put on a cream-colored wool sweater, soft but modest, and my favorite jeans. I look at myself in the mirror: I look “normal.” I just look like a man going out to run a quick errand.

I put the gloss in my pocket (don’t ask why), my little talisman, and check the time: 5:30. It’s time. I have to be quick.

And while grabbing my crossbody bag, putting on my shoes and heading toward the entrance… I hear a faint rustle… I freeze… Has Marcus woken up?

The sound of bare feet on the parquet… No. It’s too light.

“Papa?”

I turn slowly. Dawn is standing in the hallway, rubbing one eye with her small hand, holding Elias’s hand. He’s still half asleep, dragging his favorite blanket.

Elias whispers in that sleep-heavy voice that melts my blood: “Where are you going?”

Dawn looks at me with her intelligent eyes, too big for her age: “Are you going on yesterday’s walk? The one that made you come back smiling? Papa, please… take us with you. We don’t want to stay here when Dada wakes up…”

Simon: “Mis amores—”

Elias tugs at my cream sweater with his little hand: “We want to come with you, papa. We don’t want to stay here… when he yells…”

Dawn, with that voice that grazes my chest: “Please…”

I hesitate, but their words are stronger than me: “No, mis amores… papa will be right back, I promise. Go back under the covers, it’s cold outside and the sun isn’t fully awake yet,” I whisper, kneeling in front of them, at their height.

I try to keep my voice steady, but my hands are trembling.

Elias shakes his head, his eyes glossy with tears about to fall: “No… if we stay here and dada wakes up and you’re not here… he gets angry, papa.”

Dawn says nothing, but she grips my wrist with a strength a six-year-old shouldn’t have. It’s that look, so similar to my sister’s when she tried to hold back tears when dad came home drunk… I have to give in. I can’t leave them here to handle Marcus’s mood while I try to breathe a little freedom. They’re my children. And if something happens to them? No, I can’t even imagine it. I’m taking them with me. Period.

Simon: “Alright.”

I sigh, kissing both their foreheads.

“Come with me. But we have to be little ninjas, okay? No noise.”

They smile and nod, hopping and clapping quietly, and I… I can’t help but smile at their joy too.

I guide them to their bedroom as if we were walking on eggshells. My movements become frantic but silent.

I slip blue corduroy overalls onto Elias and his warmest little sweater; he’s so small he almost disappears inside his coat, but his dark curls — so much like mine — stick out everywhere.

Dawn chooses a boiled-wool dress and her favorite little boots. As I tie her shoes, it feels like she’s Cinderella.

“Grab your little backpacks with your coloring books!” I whisper as we step out of the house, closing the door with an almost imperceptible click.

Loading them into the car in the darkness of 5:45 a.m. makes me feel like a fugitive. As I fasten their seatbelts into the car seats, the rearview mirror reflects my rose lip gloss and my glassy eyes. I’m bringing my worlds into collision. The past that burns and the present that weighs heavy.

“Papa?” Dawn asks as I start the engine. “Where are we going?”

My heart skips a beat. “We’re going to see an old friend of papa, princesa. Just an old friend, to have breakfast at a café.”

Elias claps his hands. “Wowww!”

Simon: “Ready, mis marmotas jóvenes?”

Them in unison: “Yes!”

I park a few meters from the café. My heart is beating so hard I’m afraid the children can hear it.

I fix my curls in the mirror, tasting the rose lip gloss and feeling the weight of the secret I’m about to reveal. I step out of the car and open the back door.

“Remember: quiet, and stay close to me,” I whisper. Dawn jumps down with her usual energy, adjusting her little coat, while Elias grabs my hand, dragging his feet.

I walk toward the entrance and I see him. He’s there, leaning against the wall, stunning in his elegant jacket that looks tailored onto his athletic body. Our eyes meet and for a moment the world disappears, just like yesterday, just like thirteen years ago in front of the gas station. I feel that fire flare up, that desire to be only Simon, the man he scans with his eyes as if I were treasure.

But then the fire crashes into the ice of reality.

Wilhelm smiles, ready to say his usual “Hi,” but the smile dies on his lips when he sees two small figures appear from behind my legs.

“Hi…” I say, my voice slightly trembling.

He blinks, frozen. He looks at me, then at the children, then back at me. There’s a second of silence where time seems to crumple in on itself. I see the shock in his eyes, but then, with a grace that only he possesses, the surprise melts into infinite sweetness.

He doesn’t stay stiff. He kneels. He brings himself to their level, ignoring the fact that his expensive trousers are touching the dirty pavement.

Wilhelm: “Hey…”

he says in a voice so soft it steals my breath.

“And who are you? Two little explorers on a secret mission?”

Dawn takes a step forward, not intimidated at all, studying him with her big eyes. “I’m Dawn. And he’s Elias. Elias is scared because he thinks you’re a giant, but I told him giants don’t wear jackets that nice.”

Wilhelm bursts into crystalline laughter, the same one I used to hear in the corridors of Hillerska. “You’re right, Dawn. No giant. I’m just… an old friend of your papa. My name is Wille.”

He turns to Elias, who is hiding behind my thigh, and holds out his hand palm up, the way you do with puppies.

Wilhelm: “I bet little explorers are very hungry. I heard that inside this place they make chocolate croissants so big we’ll need a map to finish them. Want to help me eat them?”

Elias peeks his little nose out from behind my leg, looking at Wilhelm suspiciously, then nods slowly.

Wilhelm stands up again and looks at me. There’s a deep melancholy in his eyes, an acknowledgment that my life is elsewhere, but also a promise. He brushes my arm as he opens the door for us with his usual gallant gesture.

“You did well, Simon,” he whispers in my ear as we pass, so close I can smell his pine scent. “They’re beautiful. Just like you.”

We step into the warmth of the café, and sweet vanilla and bitter cocoa chase each other between the tables, the sound of the toaster clicking on, light cinnamon and steamed milk sizzling under the vapor drifting through that familiar atmosphere… God, how can Wilhelm be so perfect? Dawn and Elias already love him… It’s… fantastic. I feel strangely proud.

Never be so kind, you forget to be clever  Never be so clever, you forget to be kind.

We sit at a round table in a sheltered corner. Wilhelm seats the children between us, making sure Elias is comfortable in his booster seat. When the waiter arrives, Wilhelm doesn’t hesitate for a second.

Wilhelm: “Alright,” he says, looking at Dawn and Elias as if they were the most important guests in the kingdom, “we’ll order everything necessary for a champion’s breakfast. Two hot chocolates with lots of whipped cream, an assortment of chocolate croissants and… Simon, for you the usual lavender tea with honey or that frappé that freezes your hands?”

Simon: “The tea, thank you,” I murmur, trying not to blush as he pulls out his wallet.

Wilhelm: “I’m paying, Simon. Not even up for discussion,” he anticipates my protest with a wave of his hand. “Consider it a tribute for bringing these two little royals.”

As the children dive into the croissants — Elias immediately gets chocolate all over his nose and Wilhelm bursts out laughing, gently wiping him with a napkin — the conversation begins to flow, but with a different rhythm than yesterday. Every word is filtered by the children’s presence, as if we’re speaking in a code only we can decipher.

Hand under hand

Silken night, soft as cotton

School bell rings, we're already gone

“So,” Wilhelm begins, intertwining his fingers on the table and looking at me intensely, “how’s life as ‘commander in chief’? You told me your day is a marathon.”

I look at Dawn coloring intently and Elias chewing happily. “It’s… full. There isn’t much room for silence. But they are my favorite music, even when they scream.”

Wilhelm nods, but his gaze slips over my cream sweater, lingering a second too long on my neck, as if searching for signs of last night’s storm.

Wilhelm: “Yesterday… you seemed in a big hurry. Did everything go well when you got home?”

My heart rises to my throat. I can’t tell him about Marcus’s messages, not in front of the children. I instinctively touch my lips, still feeling the layer of rose gloss.

Simon: “Oh, everything’s fine!” I lie, feeling the weight of that lie. “Just the usual routine. Marcus cares a lot about order and he has a lot to do, you know.”

I look at the scene and I can barely breathe. Wilhelm, the King of Sweden, eating croissant crumbs with my son. It’s the image of a life I will never have.

Wilhelm smiles, but it doesn’t fully reach his eyes as he watches Dawn and Elias eat neatly, almost afraid to leave crumbs on the clean table.

Wilhelm: “Marcus must be a very precise guy,” he comments lightly, almost jokingly, helping Elias clean chocolate from his fingers. “Yesterday you told me everything has to be perfect before he wakes up. Is he a general or a husband, Simon?”

I chuckle, but the sound is a bit forced. I adjust the collar of my cream sweater, feeling the skin on my back pull painfully. “He’s just… a man who loves traditions. He likes the house to feel like a house, that’s all.”

Wilhelm studies me for a second too long. “Yes, but ‘home’ should be the place where you can leave dirty dishes and relax, not a second shift.”

He leans a little closer, lowering his voice so the children can’t hear. “Yesterday, after you rushed off… you didn’t answer my messages anymore.”

He continues: “I wondered if you got into trouble for being late.”

Simon: “No trouble,” I lie. “We were just tired. Saturday morning is always a bit chaotic, right?”

At that moment, Elias tugs at Wilhelm’s sleeve. “Wille, can you help me finish the croissant? It’s too big!”

Wilhelm melts instantly, smiling again for the child. “Of course, little one. But only if you promise that afterward you’ll help me choose which pencil color looks best for the princess’s dress in Dawn’s book.”

I look at the scene and I can barely breathe. Wilhelm, the King of Sweden, eating croissant crumbs with my son. It’s the image of a life I will never have.

Dawn: “Wille! Look what I’m doing!” she exclaims, tapping her purple pencil against her little squared notebook. She’s trying to trace letters, but her hand is still uncertain. She looks at me with those bright eyes of someone on a mission.

“Papa, when will I really learn to write? Will you teach me? Papa? Papa? Write? Write when? Tomorrow? This afternoon?”

I smile, using my usual silly little voice I adopt when I try to calm her when she turns into an earthquake of questions. “Write, write, write! Dawn, mi amor, you’re only in first grade! You have all the time in the world.”

Wilhelm laughs, a warm sound that tickles the back of my neck. “Let her be, Simon. She clearly takes after you. A fantastic songwriter needs a writer in the family, right? Maybe one day she’ll write the lyrics to your songs.”

Then he turns to Dawn, conspiratorial. “You know, Dawn, writing is a superpower. It lets you create worlds where you decide the rules. It’s the closest thing to magic we have.”

Dawn nods solemnly, as if she’s just received a state secret. “Then I’ll write a book about a king who eats chocolate croissants and never wears a tie.”

Wilhelm bursts out laughing again, this time from the heart, throwing me an amused glance. Then he turns to Elias. The little one is curled up against my arm, his face half hidden in my cream sweater; he’s my little cuddle bug, always searching for refuge. Despite his initial shyness, I see that with Wilhelm he’s lowering his guard: he watches him with attentive eyes, as if trying to understand whether he can truly trust him.

“And you, Elias?” Wilhelm whispers, using that warm voice that feels like a caress. “What do you like to do? Do you want to become a writer like Dawn, or do you prefer something else?”

Elias lifts his little nose from my shoulder, looking first at me and then at Wilhelm: “I like… drawing…” he murmurs, almost in a breath. “I draw things that don’t make noise.”

My heart tightens for a moment. Elias has always been the most sensitive; he learned early on that in our house silence is precious.

Wilhelm tilts his head, genuinely interested: “Drawing things that don’t make noise? That’s a beautiful idea, Elias. Like what? Clouds? Flowers? Or maybe dreams?”

Elias nods softly, gaining courage: “I draw papa when he’s sleeping. And the ants in the garden. And the stars… the stars are the quietest things of all.”

Wilhelm smiles, and this time there’s a hint of melancholy in his eyes that takes my breath away: “You’re right. Stars never say a word, but they light up everything. Just like your papa when he used to sing…”

He stops, shooting me a quick glance, then turns back to the child.

“Would you show me one of your drawings one day? Maybe you could draw a star for me too.”

Elias nods eagerly, a small smile digging dimples into his cheeks: “Yes! But I have to use golden yellow. The shiny one, like your jacket.”

Wilhelm bursts out laughing, a free laugh that makes a couple of people in the café turn around: “It’s a deal, then. And add a croissant too!”

I laugh… Wilhelm is amazing with children. He’s so sweet, funny, gentle… I’ve never seen Dawn and Elias this happy.

We finish breakfast among laughter and crumbs. Wilhelm even managed to get Elias to eat the last bit of crust, while Dawn has already explained the entire plot of her “future book.”

I look at the bottom of my now empty teacup. Time’s up. I should stand, say thank you, and run before the air at home turns electric.

Simon: “So,” I say, trying to give my voice a firm tone, “we really should go. I promised we’d be back soon and…”

“Go? Already?” Wilhelm wipes his hands with a napkin, looking at me with a spark of challenge in his eyes. “But the day has just started! And besides, I made a promise to these two little artists.”

He turns to Dawn and Elias, who are staring at him like he’s a magician.

Wilhelm: “Did you know that not far from here there’s a little lake where the ducks are so spoiled they only eat the best seeds? And right next to it there’s an old stand that sells giant balloons, the kind that float so high they almost touch the clouds.”

“The ducks!” Elias shouts, jumping down from the chair. “Papa, please! Can we go see the ducks? Just for a little while?”

“Yes, please!” Dawn echoes, squeezing my hand. “Papa, you said today was Saturday! On Saturdays we don’t rush, you always say that!”

I feel panic rising in my throat. I look at the clock on the café wall: 6:45. If we go to the lake, I won’t be home before eight. Marcus might wake up. He might find the bed cold. He might find the house empty.

Simon: “Wille, we can’t, really…”

I whisper, trying to catch his gaze so he understands this isn’t a game.

But Wilhelm stands, tall and steady, and steps closer to me. I feel his warmth, the same warmth that yesterday made me forget the rest of the world.

Wilhelm: “Simon, look at their faces. For once, let ‘duty’ wait outside the door. It’s just a walk. Half an hour. I promise I’ll take you back to the car right after.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. I know I should say no. I know I’m playing with fire. But seeing Elias so happy and Dawn so carefree is a drug I don’t know how to refuse.

Simon: “Just half an hour!” I give in, and the word sounds like a sentence and a release at the same time.

“Yay!” the children cheer, running toward the door.

Wilhelm throws me a victorious smile, but then his expression softens. He brushes my shoulder, a feather-light touch that still goes through all my clothes.

Wilhelm: “Thank you, Simon. They need it. And you need it too.”

We step out of the café and the crisp morning air hits our faces. As we walk toward the park, Wilhelm walks between the two children, holding Dawn’s hand while she tells him about how she wants to draw a writer duck. I stay a step behind, watching them.

It feels so natural. It feels like a family. And that’s exactly what scares me more than anything else: realizing how easy it is to get used to the light when you’ve lived in the shadows for thirteen years…

As we enter the park and I see the water shining under the first sun, I wonder whether this half hour of happiness will be worth the price I’ll have to pay when the front door closes behind me.

The sun is high now, warming the park grass and turning the lake into a silver mirror. Hours have passed, but time seems to have stopped in a parallel dimension. Wilhelm is incredible: he runs between the trees with the children, teaches Elias how to tell oak leaves from maple ones, and explains to Dawn that ducks have their own secret language. He laughs, gets his knees dirty on the grass, behaves like… like a father. Like the father they would have deserved.

I'm five years old, it's getting cold,

I've got my big coat on 

I hear your laugh and look at you smiling, it’s the best day

I laugh with them, let myself be carried away, but every five minutes my hand slips compulsively into my pocket. I pull out my phone. Black screen. No notifications.

12:00.

The blood freezes in my veins. Six hours. I’ve been out for six hours.

“Simon?”

I turn sharply. Wilhelm is a few steps away from me, with a confused and worried expression. The children are a little further off, busy throwing crumbs to the ducks.

Wilhelm: “It’s the tenth time you’ve checked the time in the last ten minutes. Are you waiting for an urgent call from your agent? Or is something wrong?”

He steps closer, trying to read me.

Simon: “No, no… I…”

I try to compose myself, forcing a smile.

I continue: “It’s just that I’m not used to being out this long without checking my schedule. You know, the tour, the recordings… I’m always afraid of forgetting an appointment.”

Wilhelm tilts his head, not entirely convinced. He takes a step toward me and, just as the wind lifts a rebellious curl and slightly shifts the collar of my cream-colored sweater, his eyes widen. He stiffens.

Wilhelm: “Simon… what’s that?”

He reaches out a hand, barely brushing the skin near my collarbone.

I feel the spot where Marcus’s fingers squeezed too hard last night burn as if it’s under pressure again. A purplish bruise, its edges still bright red, screams the truth against the whiteness of the wool.

I pull away abruptly, tugging up the collar with a nervous gesture: “Oh, this? Nothing! I just… I bumped into the edge of a door at the studio last night. You know what I’m like, I’m always the usual clumsy one, right?”

I let out a small laugh, but my voice is an octave higher than normal.

Wilhelm doesn’t laugh. He keeps looking at me with narrowed eyes, a spark of suspicion beginning to make its way into his blue gaze.

Wilhelm: “A door edge? It looks… it looks like a handprint, Simon.”

Simon: “The studio doors are heavy, Wille! Really, it’s nothing.”

Clover blooms in the fields

Spring breaks loose, the time is near

 What would he do if he found us out?

I cut it short, turning toward the children to avoid his silent interrogation: “Kids, we have to go! It’s very late, papa has to go home to cook and…”

“But papa! We’re hungry!” Elias complains, running toward us with cheeks flushed from playing, wrapping his arms around my legs.

Wilhelm shakes his head, as if deciding to set the suspicion aside so he doesn’t ruin the moment, but I can see that doubt is now lodged in his thoughts. Then a flash of enthusiasm lights up his face.

Wilhelm: “You know what? Simon’s right. It’s lunchtime. But we’re not leaving.”

he says, looking at me with a sweet but firm challenge.

He continues: “We’ll have a picnic right here. There’s a farmers’ market just around the corner. I’ll go get fresh bread, cheese, fruit, and everything we need. You stay here and guard this beautiful tree, all right?”

“Yaaay! Wille’s picnic!” the children shout in unison.

Simon: “Wille, no, I have to…” I try to protest, but he places his hands on my shoulders.

Wilhelm: “Ten minutes, Simon. I’ll go and come back. Stay here, breathe. Don’t run away.”

I watch him walk toward the park exit in long strides, excited like a boy. It’s past noon. Marcus could already be in the kitchen looking for his lunch. He might have already discovered that the house is empty. And yet, as I sit down on the grass and Dawn curls up against me, I can’t bring myself to stand. I’m trapped between the terror of what awaits me and the beauty of what I’m living.

The midday sun warms the park in an almost unreal way, turning the grass into a golden carpet where the children roll around happily. When I see Wilhelm appearing in the distance, loaded with paper bags that smell of bakery and earth, my stomach tightens: he’s the image of a happiness that is forbidden to me.

“Mission accomplished!” he exclaims, setting everything down with a cheerful thud. He bought everything: still-warm rye loaves, sliced Swedish cheese, smoked ham, sweet winter strawberries, and even some artisanal apple juices.

The four of us sit down on the ground, turning my jacket and an old blanket Wilhelm managed to find into an improvised tablecloth.

It’s a beautiful mess: Dawn trying to cut the cheese with a plastic knife, Elias stealing strawberries ahead of time, and Wilhelm assembling sandwiches with a precision you wouldn’t expect from a King.

Wilhelm: “Here you go, the ‘Royal Sandwich’ for Princess Dawn!” he says, handing her an enormous sandwich and making her burst out laughing.

We eat, laugh, talk about cartoons and school stories. For a moment, the noise of the outside world disappears. But while the children wander a few meters away to look for “magic stones” near the roots of an oak tree, the silence between Wilhelm and me suddenly becomes heavy.

He sets down his sandwich, wipes his fingers, and stares at me. It’s no longer the look of a playmate — it’s the look of someone who has seen a crack in the wall.

Wilhelm: “Are you okay?”

Simon: “Hm? Yes, yes, of course I’m okay, why?”

Wilhelm, smiling softly: “Nothing. Just curious.”

We finish the strawberries, our fingers still sticky with juice and our hearts, despite everything, beating at an almost happy rhythm. The picnic was perfect: an island of normality in a life made of obligations.

Wilhelm wipes his hands with a cloth napkin he pulled from the bag, watching the children with an expression I’ve never seen on him before.

“Wille?” Dawn asks, a breadcrumb on her cheek. “Where do you live? Do you live in a house with a garden as big as this park?”

Wilhelm chuckles, exchanging a glance with me. Then he leans toward her, as if telling a secret.

Wilhelm: “Actually, Dawn, I live in a place with many rooms, a few suits of armor in the corridors, and a garden where we could play hide-and-seek for days without ever finding each other.”

Dawn’s eyes go wide, dropping her purple pencil: “So… so you’re really a King? Like the ones in the books papa reads to us before bed?”

Wilhelm gives a small seated bow, with innate grace: “At your service, Princess Dawn. And I was thinking… since the afternoon has just begun, why don’t you come see it for real? The Palace is ten minutes from here. We could have ice cream in the royal kitchens. What do you say?”

“TO THE PALACE!” Elias shouts, jumping up and running in circles. “Papa, papa! Let’s go to Wille’s castle! Please, please!”

A shiver runs down my spine. The Palace. The place where everything is under the spotlight, the exact opposite of my hidden life. I check the time: 1:30 PM. I’ve been out for almost eight hours. Logic screams, fear bites, but Wilhelm’s voice brings me back to him.

Wilhelm: “Simon,” he says softly while the children are distracted. He notices that mark on my neck again, but this time his question is almost innocent, curious. “You really hurt yourself with that door, mh? You seem so… tense. Is it work? Or maybe Marcus is one of those husbands who times every minute with a stopwatch?”

I force a smile, adjusting my collar: “No, Wille. Marcus is just… methodical. He likes punctuality, that’s all. It’s his way of keeping everything together.”

I lie, and the lie slides away like oil — by now I’m an expert.

I continue: “And about my neck… yeah, I’m a disaster, you know that. The studio is a maze of heavy equipment.”

Wilhelm nods, seeming to accept the answer, but a shadow remains in his eyes, as if he senses that my “methodical” sounds more like a military regime.

Wilhelm: “Then come with us.”

He insists, lightly touching my wrist.

Wilhelm: “Just one hour. The children will never forget an afternoon at the Palace. And neither will I.”

I look at Dawn and Elias, their faces glowing with a joy that never enters our house. I think of the now-cold omelet on Marcus’s table, of his anger growing like a storm. But then I look at Wilhelm. His invitation is a lifeline.

Simon: “All right,” I say, and I feel the weight of the world crash down on me and lift at the same time.

I continue: “Let’s go to the Palace.”

I don’t know what awaits me when I go back. I don’t know how I’ll justify eight, nine hours of absence. But as Wilhelm loads the children into the car laughing, I understand that today I’ve decided to stop being invisible. At least for one afternoon, I’ll be a King’s guest, not a victim…

I've been loving you for quite some time  You think that it's funny when I'm mad, mad, mad

But I think that it's best if we both stay.

Crossing the Palace gates isn’t like entering a house; it’s like entering another era. Wilhelm guides us through immense corridors, past portraits of ancestors and suits of armor that make the children’s eyes widen. I walk in silence, watching Dawn and Elias run across the fine carpets, feeling a bitter pride: for one day, my children live in a fairy tale, not a minefield.

When we reach the private quarters, Wilhelm calls George, his personal valet. George has a particular air, a way of moving almost too fluid, and a gaze that seems to read you before you even speak. He makes me uneasy, but I don’t have time to dwell on it.

Wilhelm says to him, handing over banknotes: “George, please, get some comfortable clothes for the children. And Simon…”

He turns to me, ignoring my raised hands in protest.

He continues: “You’re soaked in dew and cream. I’ll lend you something of mine.”

Me, trying to refuse: “Wille, no, really, I can’t keep accepting…”

“Shh,” he interrupts, pushing me toward his walk-in closet. I find myself wearing one of his midnight-blue cashmere hoodies and sweatpants so soft they feel like a caress. They smell like him. They smell like safety. I look at myself in the mirror and no longer see just a singer, husband, and father… but a man floating in a King’s clothes.

We spend the afternoon playing in the private lounge. We eat ice cream, play a board game, Wilhelm teaches the children how to hit a target with small silk cushions, and for the first time in years, I forget to check my phone.

At 7:00 PM, however, reality knocks again.

Simon: “Wille, we have to go. It’s dinner time, Marcus…”

“Have dinner here,” he decrees. “There’s no way you’re getting back in the car now.”

I try to refuse, but Dawn and Elias look at me with pleading eyes. I give in. Again.

Simon: “All right. But what do you eat in a palace? Caviar and gold?” I joke.

Wilhelm shows me the menu of the day:

Orange duck with port reduction and celeriac quenelle.

I look at the children. I look at the menu.

Simon: “Wille, they’re six and four years old. They’ll never eat a ‘quenelle,’” I laugh.

He grows serious, rolling up his sleeves: “Don’t worry, I’ll cook. I can make plain pasta with parmesan on top and… boiled eggs! Muah!”

Dawn bursts out laughing: “How sad, Wille! I eat plain pasta when I have a stomachache!”

We all laugh, and in the end I offer to cook. I step into the private kitchens, a paradise of steel and aromas. I move between the stoves with a naturalness that enchants Wilhelm. I prepare a savory pie with spinach and cream cheese and fry crispy sausages.

While I work, I feel Wilhelm’s gaze on me. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, eyes shining with an admiration that warms me more than the stove.

I see his hands tense slightly, as if he wanted to do something but can’t…

Then I hear hungry little voices…

“Here they are!” I exclaim, laughing when Dawn and Elias come running in, struck by the usual pre-dinner hunger attack.

I cut two small pieces of white sandwich bread and hand them over.

Simon: “Here you go, little ninjas, or you won’t make it to the table alive!”

Wilhelm looks at me, smiling but confused.

Simon: “Ah, it’s typical of them. One minute before dinner they explode and absolutely need to nibble something.”

Wilhelm, laughing but at the same time fascinated: “You can tell you’re a wonderful father.”

I turn back to continue cooking, but I was blushing a lot.

And all at once, you are the one I've been waiting for

King of my heart, body and soul.

We have dinner in a smaller, warm and cozy room. Wilhelm eats my savory pie as if it were the most exquisite dish in the world.

Wilhelm: “Simon… thank you,” he suddenly says, looking me in the eyes.

He continues: “Thank you for cooking. It’s delicious. You did an amazing job.”

My breath catches. Marcus never thanks me. For Marcus, food is a duty, a task to judge, my obligation. Hearing those words from Wilhelm makes me want to cry…

I wait by the door like I'm a footman

 I listen for your tires, I listen for the rain 

I made you my temple, my mural, my sky 

Now I'm begging for footnotes in the story of your life."

Simon: “Don’t exaggerate, it’s just dinner.”

Wilhelm looks at me as if I’ve blasphemed: “But you put effort, devotion, love into cooking. You deserve it — and I missed eating a warm meal…”

I look at him and don’t answer, but inside I’m exploding…

ZAC!

Everyone turns or startles at the strange sound, but there’s nothing around.

Wilhelm: “It was probably the toaster or something, stay calm.”

Everyone laughs a little at the so-called “reason.”

Outside, they're push and shoving

You're in the kitchen hummin'

All that you ever wanted from me was sweet nothing."

After dinner, even though it’s 8:00 PM, Wilhelm won’t let us leave: “Movie, popcorn, and mandarins. It’s a royal order.”

We watch an animated movie piled together on the enormous couch. In the end, the children collapse asleep.

Wilhelm looks at me, his voice low in the dim light of the room: “Stay here tonight, Simon. It’s late. The guest rooms are ready.”

Me, hesitating: “Marcus will worry… we can’t, I…”

My voice trembles. I think of the fury waiting for me at home…

“Contact him,” Wilhelm says with disarming simplicity.

He continues: “Tell him you’re tired and that you’re sleeping at a friend’s place. He can’t get angry over that, can he?”

I nod slowly, drained of all the strength to fight. I take out my phone and pretend to type a message. I pretend to send it. In reality, the screen is blank. I don't have the courage to read what he wrote. I don't have the courage to tell him I won't be coming back.

I surrender to the silence of the Palace, knowing that waking up tomorrow will be the beginning of the end, but tonight... tonight I sleep in Wilhelm's clothes, protected by walls Marcus can't break down.

We take the children to sleep in the guest rooms.

Now, Wilhelm was silently leading me to the room where I'll be sleeping, and he stops in front of the door.

Wilhelm says with a sweet smile, "Good night, Simon."

I smile back: "Good night, Wilhelm."

He nods and looks at me for a moment, and gives me a light, friendly kiss on the temple for a good night that freezes me. I literally didn't know what to say. I couldn't speak to her until my throat was numb, my brain was still processing what had just happened...

And then she went to her room, and when her silhouette disappeared, I slowly entered the room, looked around, lay down, wrapped myself in the covers, and fell asleep.

I said, 'Remember this moment'

In the back of my mind

The time we stood with our shaking hands

 The crowds in stand went wild.

Waking up at the Palace is brutal. I turn on my phone and the screen explodes:

-35 missed calls.

+ 200 messages from Marcus

- "Where the fuck are you?"

- "It's 1 PM, why aren't you home?"

- "The kids?"

- "I SWEAR I'LL KILL YOU IF YOU KEEP IGNORING ME, YOU BITCH! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?

- "God, what a whore, just disappear like that, you irresponsible fuck."

- "As soon as you set foot in the house, you don't know what I'll do to you.

- "I'll kill you!"

- "Simon!!"

Simon: "Wille... I-I have to go, Marcus sent some messages, I'm working..."

I stammered as he tried to convince me to stay, to breathe.

Finally, he gave in; we got dressed, had a quick breakfast of cookies, coffee, and milk, and he drove us home with the kids.

I quickly leave, walk around, grab the kids, and we head for the front door.

Wilhelm from the car: "Hey, Simon!"

I turn around.

Wilhelm with a sweet smile: "Bye, and I hope we see each other again... And you too, little ones!"

Dawn and Elias wave goodbye with big smiles, and I look at him like he's the most beautiful thing in the world.

Simon: "Bye...Wilhelm. Thanks for yesterday, it was beautiful."

He nods.

Can I go where you go? 

Can we always be this close forever and ever? 

And ah, take me out, and take me home 

You're my, my, my, my... lover.

As soon as I set foot in the house, I hear the engine start and slowly fade away with each passing second... It was cold even though everything was closed, it was dark even though the blinds were open.

Marcus was frozen on the couch, looking empty but up to no good.

I kneel down beside the children, getting down to their height, speaking softly: "My loves, go to your room and close the door, okay?"

Dawn, her eyes filled with that old fear I hadn't seen at all yesterday when she was in Wilhelm's arms: "But Papa...you...will you be okay?"

Elias, holding me close: "I don't want to leave you!"

I force a smile, her eyes radiating love and sweetness: "I'll be okay, okay, mis amores...Trust me, you go."

They nod and hug me one last time and then go into their room...

Your faithless love's the only hoax I believe in

Don't want no other shade of blue but you

No other sadness in the world would do.

...

POV WILHELM 

Days had passed since that day together, days I'd lived in a sort of suspended euphoria. I felt like I'd finally forced the locks on Simon's world, and we were no longer strangers... Maybe we can't be more, but we're not strangers, don't ask for anything else in life.

I'd met Isabel and Pietro, real people who didn't treat me like a noble title, but like the man who loved their best friend—like a friend, of course!

Today I was invited to lunch at their house, I can't wait! It seems that, beyond all that royal shit, I've finally found something... I hate still be a king of the country, it's stressful, but at least I've found some real people, some real friends.

I sat on their carpet, amidst the chaos of Lyra and Leah toys, feeling that perhaps, within those walls, my "wall" could finally crumble. Even Felice seemed more relaxed, as if seeing me and Simon together after thirteen years was the miracle we'd all been waiting for.

But today, one space in the house didn't seem full.

Wilhelm: "Where's Simon? Isabel, you assured me we'd all be here. I even brought those sweets Elias likes..." I said, trying to hide the anxiety that was already starting to gnaw at my stomach.

Isabel turned abruptly toward the kitchen, intently fiddling with an untouched coffee pot: "He's at home, Wille. A bad case of the flu, poor thing... it's completely knocked him out. All he needs is rest and peace."

I wasn't convinced. Despite her words, my hands were shaking slightly, and I couldn't hold my gaze for more than a second. The air in the room had suddenly become thick, unbreathable. I wasn't the King in that moment; I was a man who had learned to read Simon's every nuance, and that absence smelled of fear, not fever.

Nah! I have to stop this nonsense, but... Wasn't it the second flu this week? Maybe it's something serious. Now I feel bad for having doubted, poor thing, he must be really sick.

I crouched on the carpet, trying to meet Dawn's gaze. Elias had taken refuge against her, hiding his face in her shoulder pad.

Me in a low voice: "Hey, little magic writer,"

I murmured, trying to smile.

I continued: "Does Papa have a high fever? I brought him some chocolates to help him get better faster."

Dawn stopped coloring. She put down the gray crayon with a slowness that made my blood run cold. She looked up at me, and I saw that fog of sadness no six-year-old should know.

Dawn: "Papa doesn't have a fever, Wille..." she whispered, her voice so thin it sounded like silk thread ready to snap.

I freeze.

Wilhelm : "What..?"

She continued: "It's just that Dada Marcus came back really angry the other night. He said Papa was a bad boy because Papa accidentally forgot to iron his shirt..."

I felt a lump in my throat: "What... what did Dada do, Dawn?"

Elias stuck his nose out, looking at me with teary eyes. "He played the loud noise game. He pushed Papa against the kitchen table... like that,"

he said, miming a sharp impact with his little hands.

Me very concentrated, but I could already feel my jaw clenching, my teeth clenched and my knuckles about to break as if I wanted to tear something apart, my fury rising like a thermometer : "And then?What happend?" 

He continued: "Papa fell to the floor and wouldn't move. I wanted to help him, but papa told me to run to my room and pretend to be asleep..."

Wilhelm : "And what else?"

Dawn nodded, holding her little brother tighter. "This morning Papa had a red mark on his mouth, like when we eat strawberries. I asked him if it hurt, but he smiled and said it was just a little bit of jam that fell out. But... but Papa was crying while he was smiling, Wille. And Dada told him that if he goes out again without permission, he'll lock him up forever."

The world around me stopped. The ticking of the clock... everything became a white, deafening buzz.

'Jam that fell out.'

'The loud noise game.'

Look at this godforsaken mess that you made me

You showed me colors you know I can't see with anyone else.

In that moment, the image of Simon ironing shirts at dawn, washing dishes with anxiety choking him, the three jobs, the anxiety of returning home, the first night we met in years, and Simon feeling empty when Marcus was around, wearing my sweatshirt as if it were the only thing in the world capable of protecting him... everything came together with unprecedented force. It wasn't "mental order." It was terror.

I stood up slowly. I could hear the blood pounding in my ears like a war drum. I was no longer the King. I was no longer the awkward, anxious boy from Hillerska. I was a storm ready to destroy everything. My face must have turned to ice. I didn't say a word. Not a goodbye, not an explanation. Protocol, diplomacy, the kingdom... everything burned in an instant.

Felice, looking up from her magazine: "Wilhelm? Where are you going—?"

Wilhelm: "Keep eyes on the children."

I left the house like a silent hurricane. I slammed the car door with such force that the windows all along the street shook. I started the engine and the engine roared like a wounded beast, a strangled cry full of fury, damn, I was pissed.

I accelerated. Ten, twenty, a hundred kilometers per hour in a matter of seconds. The wheels screeched on the asphalt as I turned onto the road to Simon's house, the house I thought was a nest but was actually a slaughterhouse. I was going to get into a car accident soon, but I didn't give a damn.

"YOU DAMNED PIECE OF SHIT!" I screamed at the windshield, my voice coming from my gut, hoarse and unrecognizable.

"YOU DAMNED BASTARD, I'LL KILL YOU! I SWEAR ON MY LIFE I'LL KILL YOU!"

I pounded the steering wheel with my fists, over and over, until my knuckles burned. I cursed, screamed Simon's name, my chest bursting with the pure hatred I felt. How could I not understand? How could I have let him go back to that hell?!?

The city lights were just blurs, white noise surrounding my fury. The speedometer climbed, but it was never fast enough. I wanted to hear Marcus's door buckle beneath my shoulders. I wanted to look into his eyes as I squeezed every ounce of air from his lungs.

Cause baby, now we've got bad blood 

You know it used to be mad love 

So take a look what you've done.

The King of Sweden had died in that living room, amidst children's stories. All that remained was a man who was going to war for the only person who had ever taught him what it meant to be alive. To be loved. And this time, no crown would stop my hands from staining themselves with blood.

I'll kill him. I'll punch him. I'll choke him. I'll slam him across the table. I'll make him feel everything Simon did. Wasn't he worthy of loving him properly? Didn't he care what he did to him? Fine, I'll tear him to pieces and feed him to the beasts.

Don't blame me, love made me crazy

If it doesn't, you ain't doin' it right

Lord, save me, my drug is my baby 

I'll be usin' for the rest of my life.

"THAT SON OF A BITCH!"