Chapter Text
WILLE
Today Wille is thirty.
He’s entering the fourth decade of his life on this planet. He has twenty-nine years of life experience below his belt. He’s heard it said that your thirties are the best years of your life. Enough time has passed to sort out your priorities and you've had enough real world experiences with solid evidence to back up your choices, giving you the opportunity to finally shrug off the insecurities and the doubts and you can just be. Enjoy life.
Whoever said that is fucking insane and deserves a good slap across the face.
Because at thirty years of age, Wilhelm is locked in a bathroom, head in his hands, heart in his throat, and bawling his eyes out over a boy. So maybe his thirties can go fuck themselves.
Yup, Wilhelm is crouched against a wall in a (thankfully single stall) bathroom crying at his own birthday party.
Cool cool cool.
This is fine.
Why the hell not?
His life has always been a cruel cosmic joke. Why shouldn’t the universe go all out for his bday?
Here you go, the universe offers with a jovial slap on the back, enjoy some misery for your special day. Grattis!
Seeing Simon in person with no goddamn warning, and then up close and personal with no motherfucking warning - Simon touching him briefly with a cold, unfeeling hug - Simon calling him by his full title - watching Simon comfortably in the presence of his stupidly hot ex-boyfriend who probably had the privilege of fucking him many times - Simon’s beautiful and transfixing eyes outlined in black - Simon walking away without a care in the world.
It was a special form of torture specifically tailored to him, and even in his wildest imagination, he never could’ve thought up something so nightmarish. The devil really nailed it. Honestly. 10/10.
As soon as Simon had walked away to talk to a man at a nearby table, his face lit up beautifully with a radiant smile, accompanied by the tittering sound of his laughter, Wille knew there was a snowball’s chance in hell of him suffering through another second of this party.
And so with barely a word to Felice, he hightailed it straight to the bathroom and hasn’t come out since and you know what, he may never come out. He lives in this bathroom now. Home sweet home.
There’s a fucking ironic joke in here somewhere. Hiding from his ex-gay-lover who he publicly denied in a (water) closet. He’d be laughing if he wasn’t busy choking back a fresh round of tears.
A few minutes later he manages to quell the sobs - at least enough to get himself the hell out of here - so he texts Malin to have the car ready and he slowly stands up, his knees and back straining from the awkward position. He stares at his reflection in the mirror as he wipes at his face with his jacket sleeve. His eyes are red and splotchy and his nose all snotty, which combined with the acne and tuxedo is really one hell of a look.
When he’s ready to leave the bathroom, he has to brace himself to encounter people, because unfortunately he’s not the kind of person who can fly under the radar. He may not be able to avoid the curious and nosy eyes, but he does have one tried and true method to avoid conversation.
Right when he slips out of the bathroom, he holds his phone up to his ear and starts making affirmative noises like he’s listening to someone talk. Ah, yes. The fake phone call. A classic.
A few people nod and wave at him as he navigates the busy hallway, but mercifully no one interrupts his very important phone call. As he passes the ballroom where the party is in full swing, he purposefully turns his head in the opposite direction, knowing there’s no way his heart (and sanity) can take seeing Simon again.
Well, what seemed like a great idea just backfired so fucking hard. Because as he looks out onto an outdoor patio, his eyes hone right in like heat-seeking missiles on the very person he was trying to avoid — a certain beautiful singer with a head of perfect curls.
Simon.
He’s out there alone.
And he’s…twirling?
It’s possible that Wille left his mental stability back in that bathroom, because this is just too fucking weird to be real life.
Without a second thought or a plan or any consideration of the consequences - and because torture is apparently on the menu for tonight - Wille ends his fake phone call with a clipped “I have to go,” pockets his phone, and walks straight outside.
With each step he takes in Simon’s direction, Wille’s lungs feel tighter and less willing to accept oxygen which is like their one job.
As he approaches Simon from behind, he sees him freeze and his shoulders rise with silent tension. He turns slowly and their eyes meet. They are alone for the first time since Simon kissed him and told him he was brave in his room at Hillerska. (He doesn’t count the breakup because even then Malin was hovering in the background, probably listening to every soul-crushing word.)
Oh how Wille wishes he would’ve known that that would be their last kiss.
He would’ve done it so differently. He would’ve carded his fingers through Simon’s hair and gripped his hips and tasted his tongue and held on for dear life. He never would’ve let him go. His mother would’ve had to tear Simon from his cold dead hands.
Here on the shadowy terrace, Wille notices that something is different about Simon’s eyes now. He no longer looks so devastatingly happy and carefree and full of life like he had in the ballroom twenty minutes ago — all of which had been like someone pouring a dump truck worth of salt into the wound. Now, he looks off.
Wille’s eyes unconsciously drop to Simon’s chest, which under the pale moonlight is somehow glistening like a Greek god, so exquisitely sculpted as if from marble. Damn, Michelangelo would’ve had a field day with Simon. Really, Wilhelm? This is what you’re thinking about right now?
His eyes are drawn down to Simon’s hand which is holding a single red rose. Wait, is that -
“You’re bleeding,” Wille gasps quietly, his voice choked. He steps forward, but halts when Simon flinches.
Simon lifts his hand and looks at it in a daze almost like he’s surprised by what he’s seeing. At this angle, Wille gets a better look and fuck, that’s a lot of blood.
“What happened?” Wille asks, cautiously taking another step forward like he’s approaching a wounded animal, afraid of spooking him.
Simon shifts his gaze back to Wille and — it’s the oddest thing…something shifts in his expression, almost mechanical, as if his brain just rebooted itself. Suddenly rather than frozen and strained, he looks amused. The abrupt change in his expression is disconcerting to say the least.
“Guess I got a little too aggressive with the flower picking,” Simon replies with a short laugh.
“Uh…“ Wille doesn’t know what to say to that. This is so fucking weird. “Do you need-“ He clears his throat, “We should clean that up.”
Simon raises an eyebrow, “We?”
God this day couldn’t get any weirder if it tried. Wille knows he should just point Simon in the direction of the bathroom, or offer to go find the stupid guitarist, or even just turn and walk away.
But he doesn’t want to walk away.
It’s like he’s staring up at an old rickety rollercoaster, knowing full well that it may not be structurally sound; that one ride could be his undoing. And it’s completely avoidable. He could easily walk away. Stay on solid, non-life-threatening ground. Play a carnival game - something safe and boring.
But he doesn’t want safe. He wants to strap himself into the death trap; to feel the wind whipping through his hair and his heart lurch in his chest; to experience the exhilaration of the free fall. Whether or not he plummets to his death is inconsequential.
He wants to take a ride and dammit, he’s not going to miss his chance before the whole thing collapses in a cloud of smoke.
Now that we’re done with that extreme metaphor…Wille summons some confidence from god knows where and steps all the way forward until he stands right in front of Simon. He can tell he’s surprised him by the way his breath catches and suddenly he’s looking up as Wille stares down at him.
This is something he didn’t forget — how satisfying it feels to stand inches above Simon. To hover over him and stare down into his eyes, knowing how perfectly he would slot into his arms. Every person he’s been with in the past fourteen years has been completely and utterly the wrong height. Simon is the right height.
With a shaky breath, he cautiously reaches out and gently wraps his fingers around Simon’s wrist, trailing the pads of his fingers over the soft skin, carefully turning his hand over. The rose falls from his grasp and flutters to the ground. Wille’s fingers burn where they touch Simon’s skin and all of the air leaves his lungs. His pulse races under his skin.
And it feels so fucking good. To touch someone and feel like your heart is going to give out. He hasn’t experienced anything that holds a candle to this feeling since he was sixteen years old when he touched this very same person with an innocence completely taken for granted.
With his free hand, Wille reaches into the breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket and pulls out a white silk pocket square, shaking it out to unfold the fabric. He gently presses it against the tiny cuts on Simon’s hand, soaking up the blood.
He can feel Simon’s eyes on him the entire time and he wants to look up; to gaze into them, but he doesn’t want to spook him with eye contact. And to be honest, he’s a little afraid of what he might find there.
When he’s managed to wipe up most of the blood, he curls Simon’s hand into a fist around the fabric. “Let’s go,” he murmurs, pulling on Simon’s wrist.
When they reach the double doors back into the hotel, Wille drops Simon’s hand to open the door. Shoulder to shoulder they walk down the corridor and Wille couldn’t care less if anyone is watching them. All he can think about is Simon. With each step down the hallway, his heart picks up speed, racing in his chest. His stomach flutters with anticipation and panic and excitement and desire and every single fucking emotion in the dictionary. And he might need to hurl.
He pushes open the door for the same single-stall restroom where he cried his eyes out just minutes ago, holding it open for Simon to step inside, following closely after him. At the last second, he turns and locks the door. The twist of metal is harshly loud in the silent bathroom, making him wince.
Simon hovers in the middle of the room, then he raises an eyebrow at him, “Bring people here often?”
Wille blushes, lets out a strained chuckle, and walks up to the counter to turn on the faucet. He holds his fingers under the water until it runs hot, then he looks back at Simon, “Let’s see that hand.”
Simon walks over slowly. With every inch of space that disappears between them, it becomes infinitely more difficult to breathe. Blood rushes in his ears and goosebumps run down his arms.
Wille glances at Simon’s face and it’s indecipherable. He has no fucking clue how to read the man right now, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. He thinks he sees an air of cockiness in his eyes, mingling with a hint of indifference. A shred of curiosity. Amusement, maybe? But the thing really throwing Wille off is something else. Something carefully concealed behind the coolheaded mask. But unfortunately he’s experiencing about a million too many overwhelming emotions himself, so he can’t exactly dissect Simon’s expression right now. But he wonders vaguely if the thing he’s seeing there is the same thing that led Simon to violently pick a flower and cut up his palm.
Simon unwraps his hand, drops the pocket square onto the counter, and holds his hand under the faucet, hissing at the sting of the hot water. Wille wants to help, deliriously craving the touch of Simon’s skin against his again, but he doesn’t know how to insert himself or if he even should. So he just hovers with bated breath, watching closely as Simon cleans the small cuts with hand soap. When Simon turns off the water, Wille quickly goes to get him a paper towel with shaky hands.
He could just hand it over - should just hand it over - but instead he takes Simon by the wrist again and meticulously dries his hand, dabbing each cut with careful attention. It has to be totally obvious how much he is taking his time, dragging this out, even still tenderly stroking his hand after the moisture is long gone, but Simon doesn’t stop him.
He holds his breath the entire time and when he is forced to breathe, it’s shaky and shallow and too fucking loud in the dead silence of the bathroom.
Then, out of the blue, so fast he doesn’t even time to process it, Simon has him pinned against the sink. Their hips flush and stomachs rising together with heaving breaths. With a gasp, Wille’s hands instinctively fly up to the other man’s hips, but they are swiftly pinned to the counter by Simon’s hands.
“Don’t touch.”
Now those are two words that should turn Wille off, but good fucking god do they have the absolute opposite effect on him. Those two words zip through his body, lighting him up like a blazing inferno, and in seconds he’s half hard and lightheaded as all the blood in his brain rushes to his groin.
Slowly, deliberately, Simon’s hips press closer and their crotches rub together.
Fuck.
Simon is hard.
Wille’s cock pulses with aching desire as Simon firmly grips his wrists and rocks their erections together. His eyes are impossibly dark and he’s staring at Wille’s mouth. Unable to resist, Wille leans forward to capture the other man’s lips, but Simon skirts the kiss, instead dropping to lick a line up Wille’s neck, stopping to suck on his pulse point.
A deep moan wrenches itself from his throat when he feels Simon’s teeth scrape across his Adam’s apple.
Wille can’t fucking believe what is happening right now. All day has felt like hell on earth, but now he’s in heaven. He forgot it was possible to feel this good. To have hot arousal surging through his veins and pooling heavily in his stomach. To feel a person’s touch and it’s so intense that he might go up in flames.
Abruptly, Simon pulls his hips and mouth back, but he holds on tight to Wille’s wrists. Wille whines at the sudden loss of contact, thrusting his hips forward, seeking more friction.
Simon leans forward to whisper hotly in his ear, “What do you want?”
Another intense shiver runs down Wille’s spine. He tries to lean forward and kiss him again, but Simon pulls back, shaking his head.
Wille swallows around his dry throat and answers Simon’s question, “You.”
“You’re gonna have to be more specific.” Fucking hell. Simon has never been like this. Voice deep. Eyes ablaze. In fucking charge.
And Wille has, without a doubt, never been this turned on in his life.
What does he want specifically? What doesn’t he want is probably the better question.
But then in a striking moment of clarity, he knows exactly what he wants. The question is…can he say it out loud?
Simon cocks an eyebrow, clearly waiting for an answer. Wille chokes back a moan and stutters out, “I want-“ He squeezes his eyes shut, inwardly cursing himself out. Screw it. He has nothing to lose. “I want you to finger me.”
All he receives in response is silence.
Fuck, what if he fucked it up? He’s afraid to open his eyes and see Simon’s reaction.
But then, without any motherfucking warning, Simon spins him around, shoves him up against the sink, and presses himself against his back. Nimble fingers reach around to open his pants and swiftly pull his underwear down. A warm hand firmly squeezes one ass cheek then slides around his hip to grip his aching cock.
A string of embarrassingly desperate moans spill from Wille’s lips as every inch of his body pulses with fierce arousal and white hot flashes of lightning rush directly to his cock from all directions. The blazing pool of heat in his abdomen threatens to boil over when he hears Simon lower his own zipper.
All of a sudden, Wille feels a bare cock rubbing between his ass cheeks and holy fuck christ almighty, he’s going to die.
Simon’s erection glides back and forth against his ass and along his taint, nudging his balls, and Wille might come just from this and he’s too overcome to even be embarrassed about it. It’s so (pun intended) backasswardly unexpected and so fucking hot and if he thought his dumbstruck brain could handle it, he’d be begging Simon to fuck him right here, right now.
The combination of Simon’s hard cock brushing against his hole and the firm hand on his cock is very quickly driving him well past the point of insanity, because let’s be honest, he’s been on the brink of complete mental collapse all night.
And just when he’s at the cusp, his orgasm within arm’s reach, Simon releases his cock, eliciting a desperate whimper from Wille.
He feels Simon shifting and his eyes flutter open, straining against the glaring overhead light, to see Simon reaching over to a bottle of fancy lotion by the paper towel dispenser. Wille’s pulse skyrockets in anticipation.
Simon’s other hand comes up so he’s bracketing Wille with his arms, as he rubs an obscene amount of lotion over three of his fingers.
Wille nearly faints at the sight. His heart rate is definitely too high. This can’t be healthy.
But randomly, in a jarring moment of amused lucidity, amidst the dense cloud of desire, Wille has the bizarre thought of how grateful he is that it’s Simon’s left hand that is covered in little cuts, just so he can use his right hand to give Wille everything he so desperately wants. The thought makes him want to laugh, but the urge vanishes when Simon speaks.
“You like being fingered, huh?” Simon’s voice is gravelly and low and so fucking sexy.
“I-“ Wille hesitates. He considers just saying yes and letting it happen, but he doesn’t want to lie right now. Not to Simon. “I’ve never-”
There’s a sharp intake of breath over his shoulder, “Not even by yourself?”
Wille shakes his head. His breath hitches when Simon’s erection rubs against his ass again.
“I guess some things never change.”
Confused, Wille stutters, “W-what do you mean?” He rocks his ass back against Simon’s cock in a slow rhythm, his body aching with the desire to feel Simon inside of him.
Simon tightly grips his hip with his left hand, thrusting harder against Wille’s bare ass, “You love using me as your little experiment, don’t you?” The harsh words, though spoken in a low and casual tone, make Wille flinch. Simon doesn’t stop though. He continues humping Wille, pushing him forward so he’s fully bent over the counter.
Wille knows he should stop and clarify that it’s not true. Simon isn’t an experiment to him. He’s so much more. He’s everything he ever wanted. So much so that he’s never had any interest in another person doing this to him. But he’s so fucking turned on and he doesn’t want this to end. He can’t risk bursting the bubble and scaring Simon off, so he remains silent. Maybe there will be a time to explain, but right now he wants Simon’s fingers buried inside him so deep that he sees stars.
So he just groans, “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please-” Wille drops his forehead until its flush against the cold white marble. “Please fuck me with your fingers.”
He hears a sharp breath. “Ask me.”
“I just-“ Wille stammers. His head is spinning with lust and confusion and can Simon just fucking get on with it already? “I just asked you.”
“Ask me.”
Suddenly Wille gets it and it sends a tremor through him. He doesn’t hesitate for a fucking second, “Please fuck me with your fingers, Simon.”
“My pleasure.” The deep words reverberate through Wille’s entire body.
He feels Simon spreading him open and then a finger delicately circles his hole, stroking the sensitive skin with featherlight pressure. He gasps when the finger slips inside.
Simon takes his time, dipping in and out, caressing and pressing forward so slowly it’s almost maddening until one finger is fully inside of him. The finger thrusts in and out in a steady rhythm and Wille matches each thrust with a needy moan.
It feels fucking incredible and not at all how he imagined it.
“Another,” he breathes out through clenched teeth.
“You’ll have to ask more nicely than that.”
His eyes roll back in his head. If it was physically possible to spontaneously combust, he’d be catching flame right now as waves and waves of fiery lust scorch his insides.
“Please.”
“Please what?”
To ground himself in reality, Wille reaches over and grips the faucet of the sink, his knuckles white as he holds on for dear life.
“Please put another finger in me, Simon.”
“That’s a good Crown Prince.”
Fucking hell. For the first time literally ever, Wille doesn’t hate the sound of his title coming out of someone’s mouth. He should be bothered by it, especially coming from Simon’s lips, but he’s so fucking turned on that Simon could call him a stupid pansy ass wanker and he’d wear it proudly like a badge of honor.
The stretch of a second finger snaps him out of that bizarre train of thought, and holy fuck, it burns in the best way. He’s floating in that dreamlike space between intense pleasure and the vaguest, almost imperceptible sting of pain. It feels unlike anything he’s ever experienced.
Simon’s fingers are resting inside of him, letting him adjust, when a hand grips his hip firmly, massaging his skin with rhythmic flexes on his fingers. It’s not exactly tender, but it is soothing. He’s trying distract him, Wille realizes with a flash of heat. There’s something very sweet about it, even though he can see through the mirror that Simon is still wearing an apathetic mask of control.
He’s not sure how long it takes, but eventually he begins to loosen up. Tentatively, he rocks his hips back and moans at the incredible sensation of Simon’s fingers slipping further into him. Simon takes the hint and starts moving his fingers in and out, so patiently and carefully.
But it doesn’t take long before all bets are off. An insane litany of moans and grunts tumble from his lips as Simon begins thoroughly fucking him with his fingers. His brain is swimming with lust when out of nowhere, like a lightning strike, a thrust hits a spot inside of him that steals the breath from his lungs.
The noise he makes is downright carnal and Simon murmurs, “There we go.” He rams into him, hitting the same spot over and over again, and Wille may never come down from this high.
But Simon still manages to send him to new heights when he slips his other hand around to grip his cock.
The pleasure is too good. Too much. It’s everything. Transcendent. Just barely skirting the line of overstimulation. Overwhelming in the best possible way. So much so that he can’t help but babble contradictory phrases like don’t stop and oh god, it’s too much and fuck me and I can’t and harder, please.
His eyes are squeezed shut and his moans echo off the porcelain and concrete and suddenly he is empty. The whine he lets out is truly humiliating. His eyes fly open to see Simon reaching for the lotion again and then with what sounds like a slightly more hoarse voice, he murmurs, “Do you want a third finger?”
An involuntary whimper spills from his lips and because he’s a quick learner, he knows exactly how Simon wants him to respond, “Yes. Please, Simon.”
In the mirror, Wille sees Simon’s eyes turn a shade darker and then he smiles. It’s not the usual happy Simon smile. It’s a satisfied smile. A shit-eating grin. And it is such a fucking turn-on.
With freshly lotioned fingers, Simon sinks two fingers inside him without another word. Wille groans and rocks his hips back. Simon’s other hand comes back up and grips his cock, pulling with more determination now. Abruptly, Wille feels Simon add another finger and he hits that spot again and christ on a motherfucking cracker this is the hottest sex of Wille’s life. That’s it. He’s peaked.
He feels his orgasm building more deeply in his core with each thrust of Simon’s fingers and each stroke of his cock. His stomach is shaking against the hard marble of the countertop and his ragged breaths are fogging up the mirror in front of his face. He looks up to see Simon staring down between their bodies, watching himself fuck him, and he’s biting his lip and it’s so fucking sexy that it fully drives Wille over the edge.
With a deep and desperate groan, white hot pleasure coils in his abdomen and shockwaves shoot through down his cock as he comes all over the front of the sink, his entire body trembling with dizzying pleasure.
Holy. Shit.
Holy shit shit shit.
Holy shit times infinity.
Wille’s chest is heaving against the stone countertop as he floats back down to reality, trying to catch his breath. He hears some rustling and feels a hand fumbling around at his back. He looks up into the mirror to see the gloriously hot sight of Simon jerking himself off behind him. Wille tries to lift himself up to turn around and take over, but Simon holds in him place with a hand against his back. Wille opens his mouth to protest, because he wants to do it. He needs to touch Simon so fucking bad, but it’s too late. Abruptly, with a gasp, Simon pushes Wille’s suit jacket and shirt up and he spills right onto Wille’s back.
Well, fuck.
That was, at the same time, so fucking hot and so very disappointing. He really wanted to get his hands on Simon. To taste him again. To stroke his skin. To make him feel good.
He panics. What if that was his one chance to touch Simon again? To make him come again? One fucking opportunity to give this person pleasure and it’s gone.
The thought makes him want to cry.
He swallows back the lump in his throat. He absolutely cannot cry bent over a sink with Simon’s cum all over his back. That would be humiliating on every possible level - in that life-ruining way where he’d lay awake thinking about it in bed every night for the foreseeable future (as if he’s not going to lay there thinking about this entire night for the rest of his miserable days on this Earth.)
Simon’s breathing evens out and he takes a step back with a heavy sigh. Wille sneaks a look at his face in the mirror and it’s still unreadable. Simon shuffles over to the paper towel dispenser and wipes off his hands, then he pulls his pants back up, refastening the button and zipper without looking over at Wille once.
He then goes to the sink and washes his hands with such a casual air of indifference as if he hasn’t just absolutely wrecked Wille’s ass.
Wille really ought to pull his own pants up, clean the cum off his back, stand up and say something. Anything. Because the silence is oppressive.
Are they really not going to say anything to each other? Is this going to be his last interaction with Simon Eriksson?
It can’t be.
But what does he say? They haven’t acknowledged their past at all. In fact, they’ve acted almost entirely like strangers. Like they never meant anything to each other. Simon just fucked him with all the aloofness of a one night stand, but to Wille, it is so much more than that.
It’s an epiphany.
This is what his life has so thoroughly been missing.
This feeling of passion and all-consuming heat and exhilaration and Simon can’t take it all away just like that. Without a care in the world.
Say something, you bastard. Apologize. Ask him to stay. Beg him to stay.
But he can’t get the words out. He can’t get himself to say a single fucking word. He’s about to make the biggest mistake of his life - well, second biggest - and yet, he can’t get out of his head.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK.
Simon finishes drying his hands, drops the paper towel into the trash, turns to the door, and rests a hand on the doorknob. At the last second, he looks back and meets Wille’s eyes in the mirror.
There is something there.
He’s going to say something.
Wille holds his breath. Please, please, please. Don’t end this.
Simon releases the doorknob and walks back over. He hovers at Wille’s side for a beat and then pulls out his cell phone. He swipes at the screen for a second and then he holds it out to him.
“Put your number in here,” Simon requests in a clipped voice.
Wille’s stomach swoops and his heart soars. Simon wants his phone number. Does this…does this mean that he wants to see him again?
With unsteady fingers, Wille reaches for the phone. A blank contact screen is open. He types in his name and phone number and hits save.
Hitting that save button feels like a lifeline. Like a gift from god. Like a second chance.
Like hitting the snooze button on his depressing, stagnant, shit show of a life.
Like hitting the gas pedal in a getaway car.
Hitting that button feels like hope.
And he’ll fucking take some hope right now.
He hands the phone back and Simon leaves without another word.
Wille stands slowly, his pants dropping all the way down to his ankles, and he stares at himself in the mirror. Slowly, a watery smile creeps up on his face.
He takes back every bad thing he said all day.
This is the best birthday ever.