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All the Wille birthday posts and all I can think about is how #mysimoneriksson would never break up with Wille on his fucking birthday after watching him be horribly mistreated and for the first time witnessing firsthand how cruel his baby’s family is to him. All so they could cater to the Streaming Service Storytelling which encourages stupid fucking bullshit like discarding actual well-written plot in service of getting people to tweet about a cliffhanger for a week
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Started rewatching young royals and I forgot how fucking unsmooth wilhelm is lmao
It’s a sEcReT yet he stands in the doorway gazing longingly at Simon playing the piano in full view of everyone else in the room
Goes and cosies up next to him at said piano and gives him laser focused heart eyes and smitten smiles from four inches away whilst flirting and brushing fingers and knees together… subtle
Simon very understandably asks if they should discuss the fact that they kissed… and wilhelm is immediately all ‘what?! No why would you bring that up just forget about it obviously’
And Simon is like uuuuhhhhh ok and wilhelm has the audacity to be like ‘I’m not gay, as I already mentioned to you’ YEAH WILHELM AS YOU MEMTIONED TO HIM RIGHT BEFORE YOU KISSED HIM jfc
All this whilst giving him the hungriest eyes possible and visibly melting every time Simon smiles at him
I was thinking about dandelions and the one thing someone said that we hate them for their success.
How persistent they are, how undemanding. They can grow anywhere and they will decorate your grass with yellow polka dots.
How as children we were fascinated by them, the quick transition from the steady flower to the fluffy lightness - how joyful it was to blow it away or hold it to the wind and watch the little seeds escape.
How they were the only flowers we were allowed to pick without asking - to make head wreaths or muddy soups, hands always painted in dark moons by the end of each day.
How the joys of youth weren't tainted with the adulthood judgments yet.
I walked around today and thought of an early memory: on a bright summer day I was lying in the meadow full of dandelions and maybe for the first time in my life consciously realized that life can be really beautiful.
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ID: A background image of an envelope. On top of it is written a short fic of around 450 words.
Saint Valentine
His eyes were often on me. It wasn't the polite attention his upbringing had honed him in. This felt like something more, a demanding silent plea: notice me, look at me.
In class, he was mostly silent but shared my sense of humor. I could see it in his glances and quiet smiles. I was surprised by that, by his familiarity.
He wore designer hoodies and cashmere pullovers. His charisma didn't require an effort, yet it was inescapable. The other students looked up to him.
The world knew him too—the baby prince, the reckless teenager, and later—the young heir who walked down the aisle with his brother's casket.
His pain was still fresh when I found him in the music room slumped against the fallboard of the piano; red-rimmed eyes, a brave little smile. I sat down next to him, touched his shoulder. Behind his grief was his loneliness. I could sense it had the same flavor as mine.
I worried about him over Christmas, waited to spot him in the crowd in front of the chapel. His hair was shorter, his face in full view. He greeted me with an easy smile, happy to be back.
He joined the choir but he was not great at it. His strength was in his posture and in his determination to be at every single practice. Piano suited him better and he accompanied the singers with utmost concentration. He asked to practice with me, and played the best while I sang—it took the attention away from him, relaxed his playing, brought out the joy in it.
I appreciated the earnestness in him, his maturity, and his tender heart in equal measure. He would give a speech that captivated the whole school but blushed when I complimented his playing.
An envelope waited on my desk on Saint Valentine. The poem inside the card was as stupid as it was brilliant. There was no signature, but I knew. The next day I looked at him and he dropped his pencil, played it cool, ran his hand through his hair.
I took the card home. It was a memento—a wondering. What if I had met someone like him at Marieberg? A kind boy with brown, intense eyes always on me.
I could have made that boy playlists, talked with him all night on the phone, let the feeling between us grow and fill my chest.
Now there was nothing to consider. I shouldn't even think about him. I shouldn't. My place was in front of the class, teaching him, not letting a thought of his flushed face into my head.
I stored the card at the bottom of a box of notebooks, closed my eyes for a second—by summer he’ll be over me—then chose the music sheets for the next day's lesson. /end ID
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