Chapter Text
Everyone knows Simon Eriksson. Everyone knows about his bad attitude, his unmatched silent-treatment abilities, his torn up jean jacket riddled with anarchist propaganda. He had made a name for himself on campus, and not a good one — not that he cared.
He started at Hillerska with optimism, once upon a time. A year ago, he unloaded from the city bus with Sara and took in the grandiose schoolhouse. He thought to himself, this would be a fresh start, a chance for him to change his life’s trajectory. He breathed in that warm summer air and felt like he was on the cusp of something great.
Now, he gets off the bus and tries not to lay in front of its wheels as it pulls out of the drive.
He knew Hillerska was a school full of snobby, elitist rich kids, but he didn’t truly know until he had been cursed with their company for an entire school year. He was ostracized almost immediately upon his and Sara’s arrival, simply because they were poor and non-residential scholarship students. It didn’t matter that they were both some of the smartest kids in the class, that Sara was the best equestrian, Simon the best singer. No — they were labeled as outcasts because they didn’t summer in Vienna or wear Gucci or have acres of land in trust for them.
Simon had gone his entire first year friendless, save for Sara. He was privy to the snickers and jokes when he’d walk past his classmates, the silence that fell over a classroom when he would answer a question, the way he would eat every meal alone. At first, it bothered him, but after a year of conditioning, he enjoys the silence. He listens to the backstabbing and the secrets that float through the school and decides that he’s grateful to not be a part of any of it.
At some point during the previous year, he leaned into the label that was given to him, ‘Sosse’ as he was so fondly referred to. He was and is proud to be from a working class home, proud that he can trust his success will be because of talent and hardwork, not a bribe.
So, he stopped being polite, stopped holding his tongue in class, bought himself pins colored with profanity, and started dressing the part as the weirdo. He wears checkered pants and dirty Vans, and waves around his middle-finger keychain instead of being made to feel embarrassed. He walks around school with headphones in, shooting glares at anyone that dares cross his path, and he’s never felt better, never felt stronger.
Of course, everyone knows Simon Eriksson, he’s hard to ignore.
But Wilhelm didn’t know any of this. He didn’t have a year prior to learn the dynamics of his class. He was simply thrust into a new school and expected to fall into line with everyone else. So, of course, he didn’t know the unspoken rule — that Simon Eriksson is not to be messed with. He’s not to be spoken to, looked at, breathed on. He is an enigma and so it shall remain until graduation.
___
It’s mid-autumn, October is settling in as the leaves change color and the breeze gets bitter. Routines have been set, students finding their rhythm in how late they can stay up during the school week or how many drinks they can handle without needing to miss class in the morning. It’s a both good and bad time to start at a new school — good because not much academic material will have been missed, making it easy to catch up, bad because any change to the new routines will definitely be cause for gossip, making any new student the center of attention until it becomes old news.
Wilhelm can already hear the whispers as he’s guided through Forest Ridge by the Headmistress.
“Okay, so here is your dorm. It’s a single, luckily for you, as it’s the only one we had available.” Headmistress Lilja swings the wooden door open to reveal a cramped room, barely big enough for the bare twin-sized bed shoved up against the wall. A gust of stale air hits Wilhelm in the face and he already can’t stand any of it.
“Oh, wow. I had to share for my first two years. You don’t know how nice you’ve got it, Wille.” Erik enters the room first, throwing his gaze around like he’s walking into a museum. He lets his fingers glide across the woodtop of the desk before he plops down on the mattress. “Thank you so much, Anette, we really appreciate you bending the rules for us.”
Headmistress Lilja — Annette — shakes her head in dismissal, “Not at all. We are so happy to have your family back with us. Please, if you need anything at all, Wilhelm, don’t hesitate to let me know.” She flashes Wilhelm a polite smile.
Wilhelm nods, just as polite, “Thank you so much, I’ll be sure to do that.”
Anette backs out of the room, guiding the door shut with the handle, leaving Wilhelm and Erik alone amongst the stark walls. Erik watches as Wilhelm heaves a large sigh, and smirks at his apprehension, like he knows something Wilhelm doesn’t.
“Erik, I can't stay here. I mean who the hell wants to live like this for two fucking years!” Wilhelm raises his thumb to his mouth, teeth catching under the nail and biting down. His eyes slide to the window, watching as the trees sway lightly in the wind, leaves scattering across the perfectly cut grass. His chest feels tight at the thought that this will be his view for the foreseeable future.
Erik lets his own sigh slip past his lips, “Wille, you’ll be settled in no time. It’s not so bad, you’ll meet a lot of great people, and August is here. You can always trust him.”
Wilhelm huffs a bitter laugh at that notion. “Yeah, right, August.” He rolls his eyes, landing back on Erik’s expression of disbelief.
“Look, Wille, Mama only sent you here because she thought it was the last option. You have to show her she can trust you again.”
Wilhelm shakes his head, thumb nail threatening to break under the pressure.
“I’m serious, Wille. Just try and fit in. It’ll be over before you know it.” Erik tries with a cheery smile, the one that somehow makes any circumstance more bearable.
Wilhelm inhales deep through his nose before dropping his nail from his mouth, hand landing heavily on his thigh. “Yeah, okay. I’ll try, but I’m not promising anything.”
“Hey, that’s all I’m asking for.” Erik’s grin turns into something more genuine, relieved to see his brother conceding. “I have to go, but I’ll call you in a couple days, okay?”
Wilhelm nods, shoulders slumped, heaving another large sigh. “Okay. Thanks, Erik.”
The brothers hug tightly before Wilhelm is standing alone in his new room, his new home and he has to clench his fists so he doesn’t rip his hair out.
___
The school is a maze, Wilhelm stuck wandering up and down what seems to be the same hallway, before he finds the classroom he’s searching for. He cracks the door open, and to his relief, there are only a few early students, tucked away in their respective desks.
Wilhelm finds a spot near the back of the class, and stacks his books neatly in front of him, eyes skating over the cover of his political science textbook.
He really has no feelings about the subject. He was raised in the upper echelon of Swedish society, his family the richest of the rich, so discussion on politics has always been seen as uncouth. He knows his mother loves the monarchy, but other than that, he’s never been encouraged to unravel any ideals regarding political theory.
He sits with his hands in his lap, looking around the room as students begin to file in. He watches as friends whisper about weekend happenings, recounting the latest drama. He hopes he’s not sitting in anyone’s seat, unknowingly breaking up a pair.
Everyone takes their seats, shuffling to take out their own classroom materials. A short girl with wavy brown hair sits in the empty seat in front of him.
With a minute left before class begins, everyone is settled in, waiting for the teacher to enter.
The door opens, but it’s not the teacher that walks in. Rather, a skinny curly haired boy, equipped with a dirty orange backpack slung over one shoulder, wearing an oversized jean jacket. The jacket is obviously very well-loved, threads hanging from its seams, faded and worn, riddled with pins across the breast pockets.
His black jeans have holes on the knees, his checkered Vans scuffed, the canvas over his toes daring to tear. He’s wearing a t-shirt of a band Wilhelm has never heard of, hanging off his thin frame loosely, the graphic on the tee so worn it’s barely legible.
He walks with a purpose, eyes locking on the girl with brown hair. Swinging around the edge of the desk, he lands heavily in the chair, dropping his bookbag on the ground with a thud.
“Hey, Sara.” The boy huffs out, throwing a small smile in her direction.
For some reason, Wilhelm can’t stop himself from staring. Maybe it’s simply because the boy came in last or maybe it’s because his shiny curls caress the long slope of his tan neck elegantly.
“Why are you so late?” Sara accuses, in lieu of a greeting.
The boy shakes his head minutely, not bothering to look away from where he is setting his pencil case down on the desk, “No reason. I just lost track of time.”
Sara only hums in response, clearly not finding that response satisfactory.
The boy faces her at that, knitting his eyebrows together, “What?”
Before Sara can respond, the teacher walks into the room prompting the class to stand and give her a greeting.
Class commences and today’s discussion is focused on what the class considers more wrong, the morality version of This or That.
Welfare vs. tax evasion comes up bringing about the obvious answers: tax evasion is a form of survival for businesses, it’s only necessary because of the country’s absurdly high tax rate. It’s expected that a classroom full of the 1% 's children would feel inclined to regurgitate the excuses they’ve heard over family dinners.
But then the boy with curly hair speaks and the class stills. “We all know who the biggest welfare receivers are.”
He slides a glare to the redheaded boy he was arguing with and the teacher calls out, for what doesn’t seem like the first time, “Simon!”
Wilhelm looks around the class, trying to gauge whether anyone else is as shocked as he is. No one is phased, to his surprise. He gathers that this might be a regular occurrence.
He finds himself wanting to know more about Simon.
—-
Lunch rolls around and Wilhelm meanders his way into the dining hall. He’s spent most of the day quietly observing, watching how the school operates, trying to find where he fits in, whilst also staving off the impending anxiety attack he can feel swelling in his chest.
He grabs a plate and loads it up before looking down the long dining table at the boys sitting and eating. He knows he will be forced to face August, but he’s hoping to avoid his company by sitting with someone else. His eyes fall to Simon, sitting far from the other boys, eating silently and staring out the window.
When Wilhelm takes a seat in his line of sight, Simon doesn’t acknowledge him, simply continuing to shovel his potatoes into his mouth.
Wilhelm clears his throat lightly, “Hey. Um, I liked what you said back in class. The thing about welfare.”
Simon snaps his eyes up from his plate, raising his eyebrows high in suspicion. He stares at Wilhelm for a long moment, clearly trying to decipher some hidden meaning behind his words.
“I’m Wilhelm, by the way. Wille,” he corrects.
Simon's eyes stay locked onto Wille’s, his gaze hard and unwavering. But his eyes are big and brown and beautiful, Wille thinks to himself, despite the uncomfortable air. Finally, something breaks and Simon lets an amused grin slip onto his lips. He chuckles softly, shaking his head once, “Okay, so why didn’t you say anything?”
He dangles his fork an inch above his plate, his long fingers loose around the handle as he waits for Wille to formulate an answer worthy of his undivided attention.
“I didn’t have anything to say,” Wille admits. “I mean, you said it well enough.” He gives a haphazard shrug, spearing his own potato wedge.
Simon hums, allowing the conversation to fall silent. They eat quietly together — as together as sitting diagonally across a table would be considered — before Wille pipes up again. “I didn’t know you belonged to Forest Ridge?”
“I don’t,” Simon mumbles to his plate. “Us non-residents have to eat somewhere.”
Wille opens his mouth and inhales, ready to speak, when he hears the call of his name from across the table.
“Wille,” August calls again, “come here, please.”
Wille grips his knife tightly, taking a deep breath, before gathering up his plate. He spares a parting glance with Simon, which to his relief, Simon returns. “See you around.” He feels Simon’s eyes follow him down the far end of the table, and his stomach flutters.
“Here, you can sit with the big boys today.” August pulls a chair out from under the table and drapes his arm across the back of it.
“Yeah, thanks,” Wille bites out. He can’t stand his cousin, no matter how much Erik swears he’s a good person despite the superficialities. But Wille can see the snake in the grass and he doesn’t want any part of it.
August leans in and drops his voice low, “I thought I’d save you from your… situation .” He tilts his chin toward Simon.
Wille doesn’t have the energy to argue, so he simply hums in acknowledgment.