Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

SIMON  

Simon hates Wilhelmdagen with a fiery passion.

This stupid fucking holiday is his least favorite day of the year. 

Not only because it’s a painful and inescapable reminder of the most difficult, gut-wrenching time of his life, but also because in some way or another, year after year, it always manages to wreck his shit. 

Most years it’s just the extra fucking traffic, road closures, and congestion that make this day harder and more infuriating than any other day; often making him late to work or delaying his bus or getting him stuck behind a slow-moving tourist while trying to do something as simple as walk down the fucking street. 

Three years ago on this day, hours after the parade and procession of horses, which he had carefully avoided like the plague, he stepped right in a steaming pile of horse shit while crossing the street. There’s a fucking ironic, cosmic joke of a metaphor if he’s ever heard one. 

A few years before that, he was minding his own business in a cafe, nursing a latte, when a group of young girls sat down next to him, chatting loudly and obnoxiously about how cute Crown Prince Wilhelm looked with his shorter haircut, while pointing at a small TV in the corner with footage of the festivities. Abruptly, before he could flee or shove his headphones in his ears, their conversation turned to the rumors that have never quite gone away about the Crown Prince’s sexuality and the video. 

They thankfully hadn’t clocked him sitting there, but it still hit him over the head like a bucket of freezing cold water. Hearing total strangers casually gossip about his first time was a cruel form of torture, leaving him shaken and depressed for weeks. 

One year, he finally managed to book a back-up singing gig with a well known pop artist, only to find out that said gig was the Crown Prince’s stupid fucking birthday concert. So obviously he had to back out, which made him look unreliable and he lost out on a much-needed paycheck. 

Another year, he slipped on a melting ice cream cone on a random sidewalk and bust his ass on the pavement. Even though this one probably didn’t have anything to do with a certain royal’s birthday, he still blamed it on him. Because of course it would happen on this, the most cursed day of the year. The one day in which the universe loves to laugh at him and point at him and heckle him and smugly remind him that in this timeline he’s nothing but a laughing stock compared to the perfect Crown Prince.

Because that’s exactly what he’s become. Crown Prince Wilhelm, the shiny, well-tuned instrument of the monarchy compared to Simon’s dusty old guitar, slowly rotting away in an abandoned corner with broken, mangled strings. A shabby castoff next to the pristine ivory keys of Wilhelm’s grand piano. 

God, this day truly brings out the worst version of him - terrible metaphors and all. The emo, depressing, angst-ridden Simon who honestly should know better than to leave the house on this godforsaken day, but alas, he’s a real person with real responsibilities who can’t afford to just languish in bed on a weekday.

In conclusion, fuck Wilhelmdagen. 

▪️ ▪️ ▪️

WILLE

Wille hates Wilhelmdagen with the fury of a thousand suns. 

This stupid fucking holiday is his least favorite day of the year. 

When he wakes up on his 30th birthday, he wishes he hadn’t. He burrows under the covers, desperate to play hookie from his own dreaded celebrations. But unfortunately, barring an aneurism, there’s no way he’s getting out of it. One year he literally had the flu and they pumped him full of enough medicine to kill a horse and forced him to endure an entire day of mind-numbing activities with a 100 degree fever.

A foreboding knock comes from the door and he knows he can’t delay any longer. With an overly dramatic sigh, he reluctantly drags himself from his warm bed into the shower, which he turns up a little too hot just to distract himself from the dread. 

Under the scalding water, he tries desperately not to think about how endlessly long of a day this is going to be. He wishes he could be excited that his birthday concert has been moved to the weekend, but to his dismay, it was only postponed to allow for a private party tonight. And by ‘private’ he means full of strangers and insufferable people he has no interest in seeing or speaking to ever again.

The party idea came from his traitor of a best friend, who convinced Farima that Wille should spend his 30th birthday celebrating with the people who care about him. Of course, what started as a nice idea snowballed from an intimate dinner to a lavish affair at a fancy hotel, also known as the absolute last way he’d choose to spend his birthday. Oh well, it’s not like today is really about him anyway. No, today is all about the Crown Prince and his milestone birthday. Oh joy. 

He knows Felice feels bad about it, so she’s promised him a one-on-one hangout session at her place tomorrow with greasy pizza and a trashy movie. At least that’s something to look forward to. 

So he just has to get through today.

A goddamn parade (WHY), a luncheon with a bunch of elitist asshole politicians (God. No.), an uncomfortable fika with his parents during which his mother will no doubt give him a long and futile lecture about his lack of a wife and heirs (FML), and a huge party that will unquestionably be like his own special Wille-version of hell (😩).

He pointedly chooses to forget about the stupid concert later this week. That’s a problem for future Wilhelm.

Present Wilhelm has enough shit on his plate, starting right now with a breakfast meeting with the Royal Court. Happy Fucking Birthday to him.

With one last wistful glance at his bed, he leaves his room and trudges to the meeting, inwardly trying to hype himself up enough to make it through this day.

You can do this, Wilhelm. It's one day and then you can go back to your regularly scheduled programming. (Just regular old every day hell.)

Okay, here we go.

Time to disassociate, baby. 

Bring it on, Satan. 

***

Fast forward two hours and guess what? Today sucks balls.

Satan has already given him a condescending pat on the shoulder and said, “That’s nice, honey.”

After the dullest meeting of all time, entirely too many uncomfortable birthday wishes from every person he crosses paths with, and a passive aggressive text from his mother congratulating him for being the first ever Crown Prince to make it to thirty without producing an heir, Wille is absolutely fucking miserable on the inside and doing a terrible job of faking a smile on the outside as he endures hell on earth, also known as the stupid fucking parade in his honor.

You know what Wille really loves? Being the center of attention. It rocks. Sign him up for more of this. 

And if he's five seconds away from throwing himself from this carriage in the hopes that a horse or two will trample him, no one needs to know. 

Only ten more hours to go and then he can crawl back into bed. 

Ugh, Wilhelmdagen can go fuck itself.

▪️ ▪️ ▪️

SIMON

It’s only lunchtime and Simon is already fucking exhausted. He loves his job, really he does, but it is utterly draining every. damn. day.

Work with kids, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. It will be so fulfilling, they said. 

Tell that to his back, which is beyond fucked from constantly bending over to pick up toy instruments off the ground, or to retie a pair of shoes, or to apply a band-aid to a skinned knee, or to scoop a crying child into his arms. 

Gingerly, he lowers himself into his desk chair, rubbing at the twitching pain in his lower back with a grimace. God he feels ancient.

He wearily opens his lunchbox and chuckles at the lunch packed for him by Sara. Apparently she thinks that because he teaches children, he needs to eat like one too. Today she’s given him half a cucumber & cheese sandwich, carrot sticks, apple slices, and a handful of cheese crackers.

It’s a little embarrassing that his big sister still packs a lunch for him at 29 years old, but she insists, knowing full well that he’d forget and would resort to a bag of chips from the vending machine. Thank god for her, because after years of learning the hard way, he knows that a bag of chips will not give him enough energy to deal with a bunch of singing and dancing six year olds for the rest of his shift. Especially since he doesn’t get to indulge in a post-lunch naptime like his lucky students. Sigh. 

But that’s all about to change. Sara is moving in with her boyfriend this week, leaving him to live alone for the first time in…well, ever.

When she told him that Benjamin asked her to move in a few months ago, he was a bizarre mix of ecstatic, melancholy, and depressed. 

Ecstatic because for one, he’s genuinely happy for her, but more importantly, because he’s finally going to have his own place. No one will be there to judge him when he eats pie directly from the tin for dinner or when he watches the same episodes of his comfort show over and over again. And he’ll finally have enough privacy to hook up with someone in his own bed. The few times he’s had a guy to bring home, he couldn’t bring himself to do it because...thin walls. There’s no way he’d be able to enjoy sex with his sister within earshot. 

Melancholy because it feels like the end of an era. He’s lived with Sara since they finished uni and they've always continued to exist in that young and irresponsible bubble. Living alone for the first time means he’s finally going to be a real grown-up. He’s out of excuses to avoid the more serious things in life like putting money in savings, grocery shopping and cooking meals rather than ordering takeout, or actually putting himself out there romantically so he can find a partner.

And depressed because not gonna lie, he gets lonely. Even with a roommate. How much worse is it going to be on his own? 

Over the past few years, with Sara in a serious relationship, and Rosh in a serious relationship, and Ayub in a serious relationship, and his mamma in a serious relationship, he’s spent a lot of time alone on his couch with a book or a TV show or on really bleak days, endlessly watching TikToks until his brain turns to mush. 

He wants to say it’s not his fault that he can’t bring himself to get serious with anyone, but the unfortunate truth is that he has impossibly high standards for no good reason. It’s not like there haven’t been men who are interested, but the problem is that they never really interest him. He’s not sure what kind of person he’s waiting for, but he’s still hopeful that he’s going to meet the love of his life from his couch. It could happen, right? 

Right? 

Guys? 

Speak of the devil, a guy he used to date until they decided they were better off as friends is calling him right now. Simon swipes to answer the call, “Oliver, hi.”

“Simon, hey - what are you doing tonight?” The question surprises him. It sort of sounds like Oliver is asking him out on a date, which makes no sense. 

“Um - nothing?” Simon answers tentatively, hoping he’s not setting himself up for an uncomfortable conversation. 

Oliver lets out a relieved sigh, “Oh thank god. Johan is sick and has no voice. We have a gig tonight that we absolutely cannot afford to cancel.” 

Oliver is the guitarist for Benvärmarna, a cover band that regularly performs popular 80s and 90s songs at bars, parties, and weddings throughout Stockholm. Simon has sung with them a handful of times, though not in at least a year.

Oliver continues, his voice thick with desperation, “Can you sing for us tonight?” 

Simon hesitates. Today of all days, he was hoping for a low-key evening. To hide under a blanket on his couch with a glass of wine and a bad TV show, avoiding the news and social media at all costs. Unfortunately he’s also a people pleaser and he knows Oliver wouldn’t be asking if he wasn’t desperate. 

“What’s the gig?” Simon asks carefully, not wanting to repeat a past mistake. 

“An engagement party at the Grand. We’re only playing four songs. We can adjust the setlist to songs you know. And you’ll be home in bed by midnight.” That last part is said teasingly, probably because Oliver knows that Simon is more of a homebody than a party person. It’s a big part of the reason they didn’t work as a couple. Oliver is always up for an adventure, whereas Simon prefers a romantic evening in with cuddles, takeout, and a movie. 

“So what do you say?” 

Simon takes a second to consider the offer while fiddling with a carrot stick. It’s been a while since he’s performed. A few years ago he frequently played at bars and open mic nights or sometimes he’d join bands at their gigs to sing a song or two. Over the past year it’s been more difficult to work up the energy. Most days he has trouble forcing himself off his couch to do basic household chores, let alone get dressed up to perform.

But he does miss the rush of it. Singing in front of people is such a natural high for him and there are days where he yearns for that feeling. Or any feeling beyond blah to be honest.

He’s not even thirty years old and yet he feels like a skeleton most days. He gripes about back pain and falls asleep within two minutes of turning on the TV and he’s spent more time in bed with a heating pad than an actual human being this year. God what a pathetic thought. He really needs to take some risks and do something or he’ll wake up one day as one of those old gays with five cats and no semblance of a sex life. The horror.

So with that mind, he says yes. 

If only he knew what he is actually agreeing to. 

Chapter Text

WILLE

By the time his car pulls up to the hotel for his wretched birthday party, Wille is ready to kill someone. 

It’s been eight hours straight of absolute agony aka being the center of attention the entire fucking day, being subjected to an ungodly amount of birthday songs, shaking hands and taking pictures, dodging questions about his love life, forcing down slice after slice of birthday cake, and desperately wishing for a Wille-sized asteroid to fall from the sky and obliterate him. 

He can’t believe he has to endure hours more of this torture. Why in god’s name did he agree to a birthday party in addition to all of the official celebrations? It’ll all Felice’s fault, which he will not hesitate to tell her as soon as he finds her inside. She owes him big time for this.

Knowing he can’t delay much longer, he checks himself with his phone camera and grimaces at the dark bags under his eyes, the sickly pale color of his skin, and the glaring red blemishes on his cheeks. He picks at his skin, wondering what horrific atrocities he must’ve committed in a past life to still be subjected to these horrible acne flare-ups at the age of thirty. Or maybe it’s karmic retribution for every bad thing he ever did in this life. Taylor Swift is full of shit. Karma is such a fucking bitch. 

His carefully coiffed hair is mostly still in place, thanks to too much hair gel, although there are several greasy strands falling over his forehead after hours of anxiously dragging his fingers through his hair. He’s changed from his standard prince costume into a stiff black tuxedo, which the delusional part of his brain hopes makes him look like James Bond, but he’s fairly certain that he looks more like an awkward loser at a costume party. 

He sighs grumpily at his reflection. If this is what thirty looks like, he’s ready to be put down now.

When he finally drags himself out of the car, his body is heavy with dread as if he’s on his way to his own execution rather than a fucking birthday party. Upon entering the crowded hotel ballroom, he has three simple goals in mind: 1) Find alcohol. Any alcohol, 2) Get some food in his stomach that isn’t cloyingly sweet birthday cake, and 3) Speak to no one.

Obviously that last one is a futile pipe dream, but a man can dream. This is a fun game he likes to play with himself at events like this. How many people can he avoid by taking a fake phone call or pretending to hear someone call for him on the other side of the room or running to the bathroom with imaginary stomach distress? 

One time at a charity gala, in the middle of the most boring conversation in the history of the universe with two older-than-dirt members of parliament, he’d “accidentally” spilled half a glass of red wine on his white shirt just for an excuse to flee to the bathroom and beat his head against a wall. 

He’s not ruling that out as a possibility for tonight as well, so in the spirit of ‘two birds, one stone’ - because yay alcohol! - he plucks a glass of red wine off a floating tray and takes a long swallow. He holds the glass close to his chest like a comfort blanket as he warily surveys the room, eyeing every person in his vicinity with suspicion. The few people he recognizes are all on the list of people who must be avoided at all costs. Anyone he doesn’t recognize must also be avoided at all costs, because stranger danger! 

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he texts Felice a ‘Help me’ GIF and asks where the hell she is and why is it not here. As soon as he looks up from his phone screen, it’s clear that he’s been spotted by the crowd and the greetings start. Hoo-fucking-ray. 

He plasters his best fake smile on his face and starts shaking hands.

Now here’s something that he finds utterly revolting about this kind of event. The handshaking. Every time he shakes a hand, without fail, the scumbag part of his brain will so kindly bestow upon him an intrusive thought such as: how many of these hands have piss on them. Or snot. Or any number of other disgusting bodily fluids. He literally sees a woman lick chocolate off her fingers and stick it out for a handshake in the same breath. WTF.

Then there’s the people who crush his fingers - it’s fine, he doesn’t need fingers anyway - or even worse the hands which linger just a little too long. Sometimes a finger will stroke his palm without his consent and who the fuck came up with the whole handshake concept anyway and when is someone going to invent a time machine so he can go back in time and chop that person’s hands off before the idea ever occurs to them?

Mercifully, after his five-hundredth tack in a row, a familiar hand, one that he actually doesn’t mind touching him, grips his elbow. Felice pulls him into a hug and whispers, “I’m so sorry.” 

Wille isn’t sure what exactly she’s sorry for - the party or the people or her late arrival - but he forgives her anyway when she steers him away from the crowd toward a buffet. 

Felice already called him this morning with birthday wishes, but she still takes a moment to grip his arm and cheerfully tell him, “Happy Birthday, Best Friend!” 

He hooks his arm around hers and says his first genuine thank you of the night, “Thank you, Best Friend.” 

Just being in her comforting presence for a few minutes has already managed to quiet the worst of the storm in his brain. What would he do without her?

God what a fucked up thought, even if it is rhetorical. Without Felice, he’d probably be a total shut-in like Emily Dickinson, because he doesn’t really have any friends beyond her. 

Making friends and keeping them has never been a strength of his, and while he does sometimes envy those large friend groups who brunch together or go on trips or have regular game nights, he knows he’s never going to be one of those people. He’s a one friend kind of person and that’s fine with him. There are people in his orbit who probably think they are his friend, but none of it’s real. Those are just superficial relationships that wouldn’t exist at all if he didn’t have his title. 

Back in the day, when he left Hillerska so abruptly, Felice was the only person he remained in contact with, mostly via text and social media. After both taking gap years, they ended up at Uni together where they swiftly became BFFs and the rest is history.

“Good news,” she says as she passes him an empty plate at the head of the buffet. “There are a few bands playing in a bit, so we can sneak a couple of shots and disappear onto the dance floor.” 

Thank fucking god for Felice. He’s really not much of a dancer, but he knows from experience that it’s an excellent way to get out of the awkward small talk at a party like this.

“Sounds good,” he hums gratefully as he inspects the buffet.

Okay, now here’s a fucking silver lining if he’s ever seen one. The food looks amazing and he’s starving. His eyes hone right in on a platter of salmon croquettes. Fuck yes. His favorite. 

He beelines for them. With a shiny pair of tongs, he places six croquettes onto his plate without an ounce of shame. It’s his birthday, and if he wants to have six salmon croquettes, he will have six salmon croquettes, dammit. 

Felice snorts when she notices, “Leave some for the rest of us, why don’t you.” 

“You’re lucky I love you, because look, I left one for you,” he gestures to the platter with the tongs. 

“Always so generous,” she teases, helping herself to the final croquette.

Wille also loads up on cheese, meat, and bread. The three most important food groups. He pointedly ignores any and all vegetables. 

At the end of the buffet, while he waits for Felice to finish making her plate, he eagerly bites into the first of his six salmon croquettes. He barely manages to to bite back a moan, because holy shit they are so delicious. His eyes roll back and fucking hell he may just have to get a room with these croquettes.

Felice laughs at the blissed out expression on his face as she spoons hummus onto her plate. 

He’s halfway through his third croquette, and seriously considering naming his first born after it, when out of fucking nowhere, his entire body goes cold. 

He nearly drops his plate, because suddenly, unfathomably, a voice he hasn’t heard in years enters his atmosphere. 

A voice he could never forget. 

He could have full blown amnesia, and he’d know that voice. 

With half a croquette hovering in the air in front of his gaping mouth, Wille stands completely frozen as if Medusa herself has just materialized in front of him and turned him to stone. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that Felice has stopped to stare at him.

The amplified voice floats throughout the room, surrounding him from all sides, instantly hypnotizing him like a goddamn siren’s call.

For a second, Wille is certain he’s hallucinating. He must’ve fallen and hit his head. Or an asteroid really did take him out and he’s stuck in a fucked up hellscape where that haunting voice is going to play on a loop and torture him until the end of time. Or is it possible that he’s still asleep and this entire day has been nothing but a grotesque nightmare? Quick, somebody pinch him. 

As if she can read his mind, Felice touches his arm and snaps him out of the stupor. He meets her eyes which are filled with concern. He knows his own eyes must be triple their normal size and full of panic. What in the actual fuck is happening? 

Simon is here.

Simon is here.

Simon is here and he’s singing. 

Wille’s brain is short-circuiting faster than a toaster in a rainstorm and he knows realistically that he must look insane as he stands paralyzed like a deer in headlights at the front of the buffet, holding up the line and staring into space like he’s just seen a ghost. 

Well, he has in a way. Not seen, but heard a motherfucking phantom with the most beautiful voice in the world. 

Terror grips him at the thought of setting his eyes on Simon. He hasn’t seen him in the flesh in over ten years. He hasn’t spoken to him in fourteen years. 

Fourteen.

Fuck.

That incomprehensible number hits him like a punch to the gut. How has it been fourteen fucking years? It feels like just yesterday that he held Simon close and whispered into his hair that he loved him, silently begging for another chance. 

At the same time, it feels like a hundred years. A hundred years of yearning, regretting, wishing, loathing. A hundred years of living with the repercussions of his greatest mistake.

What are the chances that on his thirtieth birthday Simon would be here? Singing a fucking love song. Like an apparition plucked directly out of his wildest dreams.

“Wille, are you okay?” Felice’s voice cuts through the fog, barely penetrating his spiraling manic thoughts. 

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he is powerless to resist the invisible force that, like a magnet, compels him to slowly turn toward the stage until his eyes find him. 

Simon. 

The boy he once loved with every fiber of his being, the same one who haunted his dreams for years, is on stage bathed in a warm amber spotlight, singing and dancing amidst a sea of hanging balloons, streamers, and fairy lights.

And goddamn is he a sight to behold.

Like a lighthouse in a storm, he’s a glowing beacon in a shiny, midnight blue suit that flawlessly hugs every line and curve of his body. (And ex-fucking-cuse me…where is his shirt??) His perfect curls are gleaming as they reflect the twinkling string lights that illuminate the stage. Sparkling eyes and the most dazzling smile light up the entire room. He is beyond beautiful. 

Age has been so fucking good to Simon Eriksson.

Energy-wise, he’s somehow exactly the same as Wille remembers him. Even from across the room, he is projecting the same warmth, confidence, and undeniable magnetism that drew Wille in all those years ago.

He can’t take his eyes off him. 

In fact, his eyeballs belong to Simon now. They might as well be monogrammed with his initials. Might as well be detached, scooped out of their sockets, de-gooed, cast in metal, and presented to him like a trophy. 

And that’s all before Simon turns around to sing to the drummer, revealing the most glorious ass in the history of asses. 

Holy motherfucking hell.  

He was so wrong before. His eyes don’t belong to Simon. His eyes belong to Simon’s ass. Draw up a bill of sale and he’ll sign it without a second thought. 

On the rare occasion that he’s allowed Simon to cross his mind, the details that’ve always stuck with him the most are: soft curls, irresistible smile, the give no fucks attitude, the joyful sound of his laughter, and of course, his incomparable singing voice.

But oh how could he have been so remiss. 

How the fuck did he manage to forget the absolute perfection that is Simon’s ass?

To be fair, Simon never wore pants that tight at Hillerska. But goddamn, that is an ass worth remembering.

He must’ve blocked it from his mind on purpose out of self-preservation. Hid it away in the deepest, darkest recesses of his brain behind lock, key, and poisonous snakes. That’s the only reasonable explanation. 

Wille is so caught up in chastising himself for forgetting such an important detail that it takes him a full minute to notice that Simon has sidled up behind the guitarist, who is unfairly and stupidly attractive in that cool effortless way, and he has an arm wrapped around his waist. With his head hooked over the other man’s shoulder, Simon is very playfully singing “Friday I’m in Love” by The Cure right into his ear. Which is a song that Wille used to love, but now, standing here watching Simon flirtatiously sing it to another man, he fucking hates it.

Simon and this fucking asshole of a guitarist are eye fucking the shit out of each other and Wille is five seconds away from stabbing his own eyes out with the tiny cocktail fork in his hand. 

Burning jealousy spreads like wildfire through every cell of his body, threatening to send him up in flames and burn his entire pathetic existence to the ground until all that’s left is a charred pile of princely ashes. 

Wille doesn’t have a single fucking clue what to do with himself as jealousy threatens to consume him whole. He should turn and walk out of this room right this fucking second, but he can’t look away.

It’s like a train wreck is unfolding in front of his very eyes and he’s helpless to do anything but watch. It’s too late to avert disaster when he sees the last shred of his sanity staring back at him through the window of the train, nose pressed against the glass, as it swiftly derails and barrels over the side of a cliff heading toward explosive impact with the ground. 

What did Wille do to deserve this? For Simon to show up unannounced on his fucking birthday of all days? Why would Simon agree to this? He must know Wille is watching and he wants to say that it’s cruel, but that’s not Simon. Or at least not the Simon he remembers. 

Wille is dimly aware of Felice trying to say something to him and he knows there are countless sets of eyes watching his every move like a hawk, waiting to inundate him with more unwanted birthday wishes. 

Somewhere in the spiraling chaos of his mind, he knows that he needs to put his prince mask back on; go back to schmoozing and people-pleasing and and playing a part. To remember that he’s in a crowded room full of busybodies with cellphones just waiting to destroy his carefully crafted and meticulously maintained reputation with one well-timed photograph.  

But he’s drowning in the musical current of Simon’s voice as it ebbs and flows through him, echoing off every corner of his mind, immersing him in choppy waves, thrashing his entire reality around in a violent riptide.

Under Simon’s spell, everything is insignificant. Who fucking cares about appearances? About his dumb reputation? About the monarchy? None of it really means anything. So who cares if someone takes a photo of him staring at the boy from his sex video? Who cares if a journalist notices him having a panic attack on the dance floor?

None of it fucking matters. 

On stage, the guitarist turns his head to sing into the microphone with Simon, their cheeks grazing, and a radiant smile spreads across Simon’s face. 

Wille is torn between a) wanting to curl up in a ball and cry and b) marching right onto that stage to tear the two of them apart and kick the stupid fucking guitarist in the teeth and take Simon by the shoulders and— 

Well. He has no fucking clue what he wants to do to Simon. 

Part of him wants to bitch him out for his callousness, rip the microphone from his fingers, and demand that he leave. Another part of him wants to drag Simon into the nearest dark corner and kneel for him.

So yeah, there’s that. 

It’s psychotic on so many levels but undeniable - fourteen years and he’s still hopelessly attracted to Simon, whose hips are currently moving in a way that should be illegal.

As he hungrily stares at the fluid movement of Simon’s hips, he’s struck, not for the first time, with an all-consuming regret that he never had a chance to fuck him. Or honestly, to be fucked by him. Over the years, he’s imagined it more times than he could ever even begin to count. In the dead of night in his lonely bed, he’d conjure up each paltry memory of Simon’s touch and try to translate it into something more; to take the mental image of Simon’s hand wrapped around his cock and modify it into a fantasy of his fingers buried inside him. But he could never quite picture it. At least not in the lucid way he so wanted.

Over the years, as the memories of Simon’s touch faded, growing fuzzier and fuzzier with time, so had any hope of ever giving himself over fully to the person he loved most on this Earth. 

Fuck. 

The way Wille’s thoughts are ping-ponging all over his brain from lust to bewilderment to indignation to misery and straight back to horniness is honestly giving him a severe case of emotional whiplash. There’s a very real possibility that he might cry at his own birthday party, which is humiliating on so many levels, but there’s not much he can do about it. 

The song mercifully ends and Simon uncurls himself from the guitarist with a laugh, which can faintly be heard through the speakers. Yet another thing that sends Wille miserably reeling. There was once a time he made Simon laugh like that on a lakeside and yup, here come the motherfucking tears. 

The band launches right into a cover of “Crazy for You” by Madonna. Simon has moved back to centerstage to face the dance floor, crooning the ballad into the microphone and sounding so fucking perfect Wille can barely stand to listen to it. 

He feels Felice grip his elbow, “Wille, are you okay?” He tears his eyes from the stage and blinks at Felice. Under the weight of unshed tears, his eyes won’t quite focus, but he vaguely recognizes that she looks concerned. 

“I’m—” How the fuck is he supposed to answer that question? He’s so far from okay that it’s actually laughable. So he does. He starts laughing hysterically, pulling the attention of several people standing nearby. Felice gives him a strained smile, clearly well aware that he’s losing his mind. 

It doesn’t take long for the manic and insane laughter to dissolve into panic, his chest heaving with fraught, uneven breaths. What the fuck is he supposed to do now? He certainly can’t go back to eating croquettes and partying like his entire world hasn’t just been turned upside down and violently dribbled against the ground like a basketball.

“Why don’t we walk out on the terrace? Get some fresh air?”

Excellent suggestion. If only he could do anything but stand here frozen like the statue version of Han Solo in The Empire Strikes Back, completely stuck in place as if his feet are superglued to the floor.

He watches Simon’s every move, committing every tiny detail to memory, like there’s gonna be a test on this later and one wrong answer will result in an immediate fail. Good thing Wille has always had a Simon-specific photographic memory. If Simon had been a subject in school, Wille would’ve set the curve, received a gold star, and been the top of his class.

The hauntingly beautiful final notes of “Crazy for You” drift through the air and after a generous round of applause, the guitarist announces (how dare he speak) that they have one more song and Simon immediately launches into “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” by Whitney Houston, easily matching the happy vibes of the upbeat song with some very sexy dance moves.

Shit shit shit shit shit. It’s the last song. 

What’s going to happen now? Does he…does he want to talk to Simon? Does he dare? What would he even say to him?

Maybe something like:

“Hey, thanks for singing at my extravagant and completely unnecessary birthday party, which is a huge waste of tax payer money. Wow it’s been a long time. Remember the last time we spoke? I told you I loved you and you told me to have a nice Christmas aka the most humiliating moment of my life. How’ve you been? Do you ever think about me? Guess what, I never got over you. Can I kiss you? No? Okay, bye.”

The absolutely unhinged imaginary conversation in his head is swiftly cut off when the song ends to more cheers from the crowd, reminding him of the very important and pressing question of what the fuck is he supposed to do now? Simon and the band have disappeared from the stage and now Wille feels like a duck in hunting season - sitting exposed and vulnerable in open water - waiting for the shark under the surface to pounce on him and rip him to shreds. (Yes, he’s well aware he just mixed like five metaphors, but what can you expect when his brain is broken?)

Should he hide under a table? Fling himself off the terrace? Pull the fire alarm? Hide behind a curtain until Simon appears, then watch his every move like a creepy stalker? 

Felice, who has apparently hit her own breaking point, grabs him by the shoulders and gives him a not-so-gentle shake. “Wille! Get your shit together.” 

The man-handling actually works enough to snap him out the manic episode before total mental collapse occurs. 

“What do you need?” She asks, reaching up to rub his arms.

What does he need? Another excellent question with many suitable answers, including but not limited to: a lobotomy, a time machine, an elephant tranquilizer straight to the jugular, a new identity and plastic surgery combo, a genie with three wishes, or one of those flashy devices from Men in Black that wipes your memory.

But really he’d settle for literally anything that will make him chill. the. fuck. out.

Felice pulls him into a tight hug, which is probably the closest thing to comfort he’s going to get right now, so he buries his face in her hair and tries to inhale normally. The familiar scent of her shampoo surprisingly helps to take the edge off a little.

Maybe this will be fine. He can walk away right now and save himself from any further anguish. There’s no way in hell that Simon wants to talk to him. And there’s no way in hell that he can handle talking to Simon. Them having any sort of normal conversation is just not in the cards.

These new memories of an older, but equally beautiful Simon singing love songs can join the stack of other memories. The ones he keeps carefully locked away in an iron cage. And that’ll be that.

But no iron cage is truly airtight. Little wisps of Simon still sometimes sneak through the cracks and penetrate his lead-lined fortress without his permission. He’s certain that Simon singing the lyric I’m crazy for you will sneak up on him when he least expects it and ruthlessly wreck him emotionally. Can’t fucking wait. 

Felice is rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles. He counts each spiral until the ragged breaths slow and he can finally take in an entire lungful of air. 

As it turns out, being able to take a full breath is extremely short-lived. Because a simple turn of his head tragically results in him casually witnessing the most horrific thing he’s ever fucking seen. 

A sight so distressing that it unceremoniously steals every single molecule of oxygen from his lungs. If it wasn’t so devastatingly upsetting, he’d probably double over with laughter because never in his wildest imagination could he have imagined such a bizarre sight.

Across the dance floor, Simon is slowly being fed a jumbo shrimp straight from the guitarist’s fingers. 

It’s official. 

Wille is in hell.

And hell is apparently watching Simon eat shrimp from another man’s fingers. 

Satan has really outdone himself this time.

And then, as if things couldn’t get any more fucked up, all of the blood drains from Wille’s face when he sees Simon turn on his heel, set his eyes on him, and head straight for him like a man on a mission. And the worst part? There’s a big fat smile sitting square on his face.

It’s completely and diabolically terrifying. 

What in the motherfucking shrimp hell is going on?

Chapter Text

SIMON

The second Simon is done at work it is go go go, which is frankly impossible after a full day of wrangling screaming children, wrenching play instruments out of sticky fingers, and floundering at an attempt to teach one simple song. 

So after a brief but highly necessary pit stop for a triple shot latte, he catches a bus across town to Oliver’s apartment for some last minute rehearsal with the band. For about two hours, they choose songs, playing through each one several times until they are satisfied with the short setlist. Simon then speed-walks to his own apartment to inhale a quick microwave dinner and to find something to wear, which is a fucking ordeal in and of itself.

Simon has a bad habit of never doing laundry, especially his fancy clothes. Every time he wears a nice button-down or pair of slacks, they go straight into the laundry bin only to live there for eternity, because he may or may not be afraid to wash nice clothes out of fear of ruining them. And who has time to go to the dry cleaner? He’s far too busy watching Netflix and TikToks simultaneously.

It’s his lucky day because he finds, tucked all the way in the mysterious back corner of his closet, a miraculously clean blue suit which should be perfect for the occasion. He’d purchased it on a whim while shopping with Sara a few years ago, knowing full well he had nowhere to wear it, only to promptly forget it ever existed. Thank god for past Simon and his bad shopping habits. 

With his mamma’s help via FaceTime, he manages to iron the wrinkles out without ruining it. It turns out that he doesn’t have any shirts that work with the suit, at least not without making him look like a preppy douchebag, so he decides to forego the shirt. Simon typically doesn’t feel comfortable in stylish clothes like this, much preferring a graphic tee and jeans, but he will make an exception for a performance at a lavish party. It also helps that this look fits in well with Oliver’s band, who tend to wear more fashionable clothes when they perform at parties. 

At this point, Simon is very fucking late. So he hurriedly fixes his hair, with too much product but he can’t be bothered to care, and again it sort of works with the overall look. In an Uber, he applies the tiniest bit of make-up. A few dabs of concealer and a tinted moisturizer to even out his skin tone and eyeliner to make his eyes pop on stage (probably an ill-advised choice in a moving vehicle, because he nearly stabs his own eye out when the driver swerves to avoid a pothole).

Upon his arrival at the hotel, he catches his reflection in the mirrored revolving door and it almost makes him uncomfortable how unlike himself he looks. Objectively, he knows he looks good, but it feels weird nonetheless.

After taking one step into the lobby, he is immediately swept away by Oliver into an alcove that serves as a green room for another few minutes of rehearsal and then straight onto the stage to perform. 

It’s probably a good thing it was such a whirlwind to get ready and get here, because he hasn’t had the time to get nervous. Instead, he’s riding high on an adrenaline rush and a giddy lightness takes over his entire body when he walks up to the mic. 

Under the bright stage lights, he can't see a thing in the dark ballroom, except the hazy outline of bodies dancing in front of the stage. But he can feel the energy in the room and that is enough to have a fucking blast. 

He finds himself really getting into the performance of it all, not just the singing, but really feeling the music as he dances with each member of the band, especially hamming it up with Oliver during The Cure cover. They share a wink which Simon translates as a thank you for helping them out. 

And then it’s over in the blink of an eye. 

As he steps off stage, Simon is on top of the world. There’s nothing quite like the high of performing for a room full of happy people as they dance their asses off. He wipes the sweat from his brow and gulps down several mouthfuls of water. He is definitely out of practice, though. Normally four songs wouldn’t make him feel quite so physically exhausted. Must be a result of his current status as a full-time couch potato.

He is still coming down from the high when Stefan, the band’s drummer, appears at his side and claps his shoulder, “You were fucking awesome, Simon. Thank you so much.” 

Simon smiles and ducks his head bashfully, “Thanks. It was fun.” 

Stefan takes a sip of champagne that he must’ve swiped from the party, “Hey, did you see whose birthday party it is?” His eyes are full of mischief like he has a good piece of gossip to share. 

Simon raises a perplexed eyebrow, “I thought it was an engagement party?” 

“That’s what we were told, but that must’ve been a cover to keep it a secret.” 

With those words, a heavy, sinking sensation of dread pools in Simon’s stomach.

A surge of heat envelopes his entire body while conflicting shivers run up and down his spine, and his heart starts racing faster than a runaway train. 

This is a birthday party.

A secret birthday party. 

No fucking way is that a coincidence on today of all days. 

This can’t be happening. 

Surely it’s not fucking possible that he just performed four fucking love songs at the Crown Prince’s birthday party. 

The same Crown Prince who broke his heart over a decade ago. 

The very same Crown Prince who Simon has desperately tried to forget, but literally can’t because his face is everywhere. In the grocery stores, on the news, all over social media. Sometimes his dumb face is even plastered on the fucking bus stop by Simon’s apartment. Stupid Monarchist propaganda. 

After Wilhelm left Hillerska for Christmas break and never came back, Simon spent the first few years drowning in sadness, full of hurt not only for himself but also for Wilhelm, whose life had been upended by so many forces out of his control like the death of his brother whose enormous shoes he had to fill with no notice.

Simon struggled through nearly every stage of grief as he mourned the loss of the connection between them. In the same breath, he was full of regret and self-hatred for not giving Wilhelm a second chance and full of relief that he wouldn’t ever have to drown in those tempting but dangerous, bottomless brown eyes again. 

He also spent many, many hours staring at his phone, willing himself to text. And then willing Wilhelm to text. How many times had his finger hovered over the call button? Too many to count. 

In subsequent years, he wishes he could say that his sorrow and longing grew into understanding or forgiveness or even apathy. But unfortunately, emotions can’t be controlled that easily and over time his feelings evolved into a simmering anger, then resentment and finally, bitterness. 

He stewed over unanswered questions for so long. Why did Wilhelm never come back? Why didn’t he fight to come back? Why did he never reach out to Simon? Why the fuck did he start publicly dating girls and pretend the queer part of himself never existed? Why did he never contact him to really apologize? (That lame-o apology in the yard outside his house does not count.)

It’s fair to say that, after fourteen years of mixed feelings, the final outcome is that Simon hates Wilhelm’s guts.

It might seem harsh or juvenile, but that doesn’t make it any less true. He hates Wilhelm for being a coward. He hates him for taking his first experience with love and twisting it into something ugly and miserable. He hates Wilhelm for giving him major trust issues, which even after all these years have not quite gone away.

All of which is why, when Oliver materializes out of nowhere and shouts, “Dudes, this is the fucking Crown Prince’s birthday party!” then tries to drag him out into the party for food and drinks, Simon’s first instinct is to get as far away from here as fucking possible. 

Unfortunately, there’s no way out of this alcove without walking out into the ballroom, where his ex (can he even call him that?) is partying with all of the important people in his life. Something Simon never even had a chance to become after Wilhelm so casually threw away his trust like a dusty old newspaper. 

With a steely breath and the vague wonder of what he did in a past life to deserve all of this negative karma, Simon draws back the velvet curtain and warily peers out into the party. To his relief, he doesn’t spot any lanky asshole princes and there’s a clear path to the exit. 

Hastily, he hauls ass across the dance floor, keeping his eyes fixed on the glowing exit sign. When he reaches it, he realizes that he’s a fucking idiot and this is an emergency exit and not the entrance he came in. Swiveling around, he sees the exit to the lobby on the other side of the room. He beelines for it. 

About halfway there, his eyes are assaulted with a sight that makes his body go cold like someone just dumped a giant glass of ice water down the back of his shirt. 

If there is one goddamn thing that’s worse than coming face to face with Wilhelm after all of these years, it’s having to witness Wilhelm wrapped up in the embrace of a girl. 

Oh hell fucking no. 

Upon closer inspection, he recognizes Felice, another person he hasn’t seen in nearly a decade. Despite himself, his blood boils at the sight of Wilhelm burying his face in her hair. His eye twitches when they murmur soft words to each other; their faces close with intense eye contact. 

Where the fuck is this anger coming from? He couldn’t care less that they are together. These are two people who are so far out of his orbit that it doesn’t make a lick of a difference what’s going on between them. 

It’s just…

Why do they have to look so fucking perfect together? Felice is stunning in a skintight blue dress that perfectly accentuates her curves. Her curly hair is pulled up into a high ponytail and she is giving off that relaxed, effortless sort of confidence that can’t be bought. You either have it or you don’t and Felice most definitely has it. Ugh, what a bitch.

And then there’s the Crown Prince.

Simon absolutely loathes how, without his permission, his eyes travel the full length of the man, who looks irritatingly good in a perfectly-tailored black tux that Simon grudgingly has to admit is giving off some major James Bond vibes. And unfortunately James Bond just so happens to be his kryptonite (Pierce Brosnan in Goldeneye can get it). 

Simon shakes his head and mentally backhands himself. You do not have permission to look at Wilhelm in a tux or think about Wilhelm in a tux and don’t you fucking dare think about how much better it would look on the floor.

Wilhelm’s hair is slicked back with product, but a couple of rogue strands are falling into his eyes and just for old times sake, Simon’s fingers itch to tuck them back behind his ear and to trace the curve of his cheekbones and to circle his lips and—

What the fuuuuuck? Knock it the fuck off, you stupid bastard.

Simon inwardly takes himself by the shoulders and gives himself a good long shake. These are not thoughts that he is allowed to have, nor does he want to. Wilhelm fucked him over so badly that he doesn’t deserve to even cross Simon’s mind, let alone capture his attention and hold it in a tight, smothering grip because he is still stupidly fucking attractive, if not more so. 

Simon grits his teeth and bites the inside of his cheek when he sees Felice rubbing Wilhelm’s back in slow, sensual circles. He wants to fucking rip her fingers from the man and shove her to the ground and take Wilhelm by the hand and—NO. You don’t want to touch him. You don’t want to look at him. You don’t want to breathe the same fucking air as him. 

He watches Wilhelm drop his face into the hollow of her neck, and just like that, a seething rage takes full control of his body. 

He is no longer so interested in finding the exit. 

Simon quite literally doesn’t recognize this version of himself, both on the outside and inside. Outwardly standing in the middle of a crowded ballroom in a flashy suit, gel in his hair, eyes smudged with black eyeliner. Inwardly his entire being consumed by a snarling, smoldering fury.

Two minutes ago he’d have done anything to get out of this room. To avoid what is sure to be an unbearably awkward interaction. But now he is actually considering going over there and giving Wilhelm a piece of his mind. 

Actually, fuck that. That’s not enough. 

He wants something different. Something wrong. 

He wants fucking revenge. 

He wants Crown Prince Wilhelm to regret ever having spoken to him during lunch all those years ago at Hillerska. 

He wants Crown Prince Wilhelm to look him in the eye and face him; to remember that he exists. That he once had sex with a boy and begged for him back and no matter how much he tries to bury it beneath lies and posturing and rigid straightness, he can’t escape the truth. 

Somewhere buried in the back of his mind, the sensible version of Simon is tapping him on the shoulder and insisting that he calm the fuck down. This is not him. He doesn’t think this way. He may be quick to anger, but he’s also usually quick to squash down anger with logic and rational thinking. 

Not this time.

This time, there aren’t any rational thoughts here.

Rational is no longer in the room with us. Rational has left the building. Rational can go fuck itself. Simon is so fucking done with being rational. For once, he wants to hand over the reins to the devil on his shoulder. Tell him, “It’s all yours, buddy. Do what you need to do.” To slap Rational Simon across the face and tell him to man up. 

While his inner monologue is reaching critical levels of insanity, Simon is in reality just standing and staring. Party-goers are bumping into him and throwing him strange looks because he’s very much in the way, but he can’t stop. 

Unbeknownst to him, all of this resentment has apparently been building up over the years like a dormant volcano full of molten lava. Well, it’s time for that bad boy to erupt. There’s no stopping it. Fire is about to rain down from the sky, and you know what, he’s gonna fucking do it. He’s going over there. 

What is he going to do when he gets over there? He has no fucking clue, but that’s a problem for future Simon. 

Maybe it’s the outfit and the makeup, but he feels like he’s wearing an invisible suit of armor. He feels fucking invincible. In this moment, he’s not nice guy, music-teacher-of-tiny-children Simon. He’s badass singer Simon, who doesn’t have a single fuck to give.

Squaring his shoulders, Simon takes a step forward only to be stopped by a hand on his shoulder. A second hand appears in his eye line dangling a shrimp in front of his face. The juxtaposition of shrimp popping up out of nowhere amidst his fierce and angry meltdown is such a shock and so hilariously bewildering that it actually manages to momentarily cool the fire raging through his system, making him huff out a short, surprised laugh. Thank god for that, because he was so fucking incensed that there was a solid chance he was about to go over there and punch Wilhelm in his stupid prince face. 

Simon glances over his shoulder to find Oliver holding a plate piled with hors d’oeuvres in one hand and a jumbo shrimp in the other. 

“Simon, try this shrimp. It is out of this world,” Oliver says around a mouthful of food, bringing the shrimp closer to Simon’s mouth. 

Simon can’t think of anything more ridiculous than eating a shrimp out of his ex’s fingers at a crowded birthday party for his other ex, the fucking Crown Prince of Sweden, but he’s apparently gone off the deep end and lost all sense of reason, so fuck it. He bites the shrimp off its tail and chews it slowly.

He’s dimly aware that Oliver is correct. The shrimp is fucking delightful. It’s a little crispy and sweet and coated in some sort of walnut sauce situation and he wishes he could enjoy it, but goddammit he can only think about one thing and that is vengeance. 

Shrimp and vengeance are his state of being right now.

This whole situation is starting to feel like a bizarre fever dream. It’s like he’s floating above his body, watching an idiot version of himself have a full mental breakdown in real time. Look, the floaty sane version of Simon says, there goes the last scrap of his sanity. 

Oliver suddenly leans forward and excitedly whispers to Simon, “Oh my god, there’s the prince. Should we say hi?” 

Simon snaps out of his rage spiral for a second and raises a judgy eyebrow at Oliver, who is very obviously gawking. Since when does he care about royalty or meeting famous people? It definitely goes against the whole cool guy/tortured artist persona he’s got going on. 

Before he can question it out loud, it occurs to him that this might be a good in. Yes. This could work. 

Without realizing it, Oliver has just presented to him, on a silver fucking platter, a reason to go over there that doesn’t involve physical violence. Yet. 

“Oliver,” Simon says abruptly. Oliver is loudly slurping back an oyster, but meets Simon’s eyes. “Can you do me a favor, but don’t ask any questions?” 

Oliver laughs quizzically, “What?” 

Simon bites back a groan, “Please? You owe me one, remember?” He gives Oliver his best pleading puppy dog eyes. 

“Okay,” Oliver agrees easily, wiping his hands on a napkin. There’s a lingering curiosity in his eyes, but he waits patiently for Simon to ask for his favor. 

“We’re going to go say hello to the Crown Prince and the girl he’s with.” Simon takes a deep breath, “And I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend.”

Simon is pretty fucking embarrassed that he, a fully grown adult man of nearly thirty, just asked his ex-boyfriend to pretend to be his fake boyfriend to make an old fling jealous. (God it sounds so stupidly childish when you put it like that.) But if this is cost of sweet retribution, then he’ll gladly pay the price of a damaged ego. 

Simon ignores the shocked confusion on Oliver’s face and adds, “And I need you to ask them how long they’ve been together.” 

Oliver pauses for a beat, looking utterly baffled, then he asks a string of questions, “Why am I pretending to be your boyfriend? And how do you know they are together? Do you know her? Why do you care if-” 

“What part of ‘don’t ask questions’ is confusing to you?” Simon asks dryly.

Oliver rolls his eyes and lets out a short laugh, “You have to give me something if I’m going to pretend to be dating my ex and ask the Crown Prince an embarrassing as hell question. What makes you think they are together?” 

“I just - I need to know.” More embarrassment claws at him, but it’s suddenly urgent that he knows exactly what’s going on between Wilhelm and Felice. And he’s for fucking sure not going to take the time to unpack why he cares. He has a fleeting chance before they disappear, and he’s not going to waste this opportunity to get some closure. Which ideally will come in the form of torture.

Oliver rolls his eyes, but his face is laced with amusement, “Okay.” He takes a sip of his champagne and straightens the front of his suit. “Lead the way.” 

Simon breathes a sigh of relief, and he’s honestly surprised that his breath doesn’t come out as flames like a dragon, because the oppressive anger is still there, simmering below the surface, ready to explode. 

Once again squaring his shoulders, he turns on his heel, plasters a giant smile on his face, and starts to walk over.

This time there’s no shrimp blocking his path.

There’s nothing stopping him. 

He sees that Felice is now rubbing Wilhelm's shoulder and his teeth grind together angrily at the sight. 

On the short walk that somehow feels longer than a marathon, Simon sees Wilhelm’s head snaps over to him and their eyes meet for the first time in fourteen years. 

Wilhelm’s piercing eyes are round like saucers and locked on Simon like he’s staring into the sun. 

Simon doesn’t allow himself to falter for even a second. An eery sense of calm and confidence settles over his entire body like an invisible security blanket. Unlike the last time he had a conversation with Wilhelm when he could barely control his emotions, this time he has nothing to lose and everything to gain. So even when Wilhelm’s face flickers with a series of intense emotions, ranging from panic to disbelief to something more painful, Simon doesn’t let it affect him. This is good. This is what he wants. If he’s managed to blindside Wilhelm, then the plan is already working. 

When he reaches the couple, who are both staring at him with their mouths agape, he jovially says, “Long time no see.” 

“Simon!” Felice says breathlessly, a strained smile on her face. 

“Felice, it’s so good to see you again,” Simon steps forward to give her a brief hug. Under different circumstances, it might actually be the truth, because he liked Felice in school. They weren’t particularly close, but he much preferred her to the rest of their asshole classmates. But now, he’s tempted to hiss at her like an angry cat.

Obviously Simon didn’t have much of a, or rather any, plan going into this, except to rub his (fake) happy gay relationship in Wilhelm’s face and find out how long he’s been with Felice, so he’s running on pure instinct. And it would appear that his instinct is to seem as unaffected as possible by this reunion. And he has a feeling he’s pulling it off based on the poorly concealed look of devastation on Wilhelm’s face. 

Good. 

Felice returns Simon’s hug, “Good to see you too.”

Simon turns to Wilhelm. He acknowledges him by name as well, but without even a shred of guilt he goes for a sucker punch, “Crown Prince Wilhelm.” 

Simon does not miss the flinch on Wilhelm’s face at the use of his full title, something Simon has never once done. He leans in for a hug from him too and there’s that flinch again. 

It is a very stilted and impersonal air hug with barely any contact, which is an intentional choice on Simon’s part to give Wilhelm the hug equivalent of a cold shoulder and to let him know just how much he doesn’t care with his body language. 

What he wasn’t prepared for is the smell.

When he pulls back from the short embrace, Wilhelm’s scent hits him square in the face like a tidal wave. He doesn’t smell like expensive cologne as one might expect. It’s more of a clean smell like laundry detergent with a hint of shaving cream. Masculine, but soft somehow. 

He smells good. 

He smells like a memory. 

Okay, maybe Simon is the teeniest, tiniest bit rattled by the unexpected nostalgia of that scent. 

No.

It’s not nostalgia.

He shoves that fucked up thought to the back of his mind. It’s not possible that Wilhelm still smells the same as he did at sixteen. This is just that asshole part of Simon’s brain that romanticizes things like the nostalgia of smells and tastes and songs, trying to confuse him by making him think he remembers that smell, but it’s not real.

Willing himself to keep it together, because he can’t let something as stupid as a smell interfere with his quest for revenge, Simon refocuses on Wilhelm, who still hasn’t said anything. He looks panicked and his hand is lightly rubbing his chest. Another familiar mannerism that makes Simon uneasy. No, not uneasy - this is good. 

He sees Wilhelm’s eyes flicker over his shoulder.

Right. Oliver. The plan. 

Simon swivels and hooks his arm around Oliver’s, pulling him forward. “Crown Prince, Felice, please meet Oliver Samuelsson.” 

Oliver steps forward to eagerly shake both of their hands, “So great to meet you both. Happy Birthday, Crown Prince.” 

Wilhelm seems to be having a hell of a lot of trouble controlling his face. The thin, tense smile he aims at Oliver does not quite meet his eyes. He mumbles a barely audible “thank you” and immediately takes a deep gulp of his red wine. 

Felice watches Wilhelm closely before she turns to Oliver with a smile, “You two were so great up there.” She gestures to the stage with her wine glass. 

Oliver thanks her and compliments the party. They exchange a few words about the food (Oliver really can’t get enough of that damn shrimp) while Simon pretends to listen, smiling and nodding along. But really he’s observing Wilhelm, who seems to be unraveling at the seams. 

He looks wildly uncomfortable with tense eyes darting between the floor and the two of them and one hand repeatedly dragging through his hair with the other picks at his cuticles. At first, Simon almost feels sympathetic, but then he mentally smacks himself. How many years did Simon spend feeling uncomfortable in public and at school because of that fucking video? Because Wilhelm lied and left him alone to deal with the fallout? Compared to that, Wilhelm can handle one awkward conversation. He can deal with the corporeal reminder that Simon exists and any repressed regrets that come along with it. 

Simon notices with an eye twitch that Felice is discretely rubbing Wilhelm’s back, and Oliver must notice too, because he takes the opportunity to fulfill Simon’s request. 

Gesturing between the two of them, Oliver asks in a friendly, curious tone, “How long have you two been together, then?”

Simon is impressed at how nonchalantly Oliver asks the question. He deserves an Oscar for that performance.

Simon searches Wilhelm’s face for—well, he’s not sure what for exactly—some sort of indication of his real feelings he supposes. He wonders if Wilhelm seems outrageously uncomfortable because of his own guilt or something else. 

Wilhelm stares at Oliver like he has four heads and to Simon’s complete surprise, Felice starts laughing. She nudges Wilhelm’s side gently. “No offense, but never in a million years,” she says teasingly with an undertone of friendly affection. “We’ve been best friends since uni though.” Wilhelm smiles at her weakly. 

For some reason, this information brings Simon no relief. Instead it leaves him feeling surprisingly restless and sick to his stomach. And he has no idea why. 

“I’m single,” Wilhelm blurts out abruptly, making Felice startle next to him. In an instant, his entire face turns bright flamingo pink and his eyes drop down to his feet. The blunt comment hangs there in the air between the four of them as they stand in total silence.

Oh my god. The awkwardness is so palpable you could cut it with a knife. And while you’re at it, you can go ahead and stab Simon in the face with that knife because what the fuck was he thinking coming over here?

Whatever catharsis or closure or satisfaction he thought he was going to get from this was clearly wishful thinking. For some insane reason, he fully expected to come over here and interact with a very specific version of Wilhelm. A more confident, more princely version who radiates straightness and tradition and conservativeness. That’s the version he sees in the news and on social media. 

But this. This is reminding Simon a little too much of the sweet and awkward boy that once stole his heart. He really wishes he hadn’t eaten that shrimp, because his stomach is turning unpleasantly and there’s a sharp pain in his head like he might have a migraine coming on.

The urge to flee is strong. He takes a minuscule step back and eyes the exit over Felice’s head. 

“What about you two?” 

The abrupt question is spoken by Wilhelm, making three sets of eyes snap to his face at the same time. Simon stares at Wilhelm whose face has shifted from bright pink to a deep tomato red. 

There is a tense pause and Simon gets the sense that Oliver is giving him the chance to respond, which is funny because Simon doesn’t have a single fucking clue how to answer that question. The lie that Oliver already agreed to is sitting right there on the tip of his tongue. Yes, he wants to say, we are together and we have nothing to hide. I happily fuck a man who has no problem sharing that with the entire world.

Also on the tip of his tongue? No, I’m single too. 

For some reason, lying doesn’t feel like such a good idea after all. The thought of being dishonest with Wilhelm makes him uncomfortable, which is honestly bullshit. It’s not like Wilhelm didn’t lie to the entire nation when he denied being in the sex video and denied having any romantic relationships at Hillerska all those years ago. Turn about is fair play, but he can’t bring himself to say the lie out loud. 

And why the fuck does Wilhelm even care? The look in his eyes makes it very clear that it’s not just a polite, small talk kind of question. 

Wilhelm is legitimately curious about Simon’s relationship status. 

And that’s so beyond fucked up that Simon doesn’t even know what to do with that information. He grits his teeth, his earlier anger ballooning back into his chest. Wilhelm has no fucking right to ask that question. He can spend eternity wondering if Simon is taken. That would serve him right. 

He opens his mouth to say, “That’s none of your business.” 

But unfortunately it would appear that Simon took a little too long to un-jumble his thoughts, so Oliver takes it upon himself to begin the charade by reaching over to rub the back of Simon’s neck, “We’re—“

Simon can’t fucking do this. 

He cuts Oliver off with a nonchalant, “Not anymore.” He plasters a fake smile on his face, “We’re just good friends now.” He reaches over and squeezes Oliver’s shoulder. Oliver looks perplexed and vaguely amused, but Simon just shoots him a tight smile, trying to telepathically send a message to just go with it. 

Simon takes a peek at Wilhelm’s face and he’s surprised by how fucking miserable he looks. Miserable enough that Simon might as well have said: married with three kids and a dog. Which pisses Simon off even more. What - did Wilhelm expect him to remain celibate after all these years? Never fuck somebody else? Or is he jealous that Simon can still be friends with an ex? 

This was a horrible idea. He should’ve walked away while he had the chance. This conversation is doing absolutely nothing, except helping him suddenly understand why someone might have the urge to punch a hole through a wall. 

And then, strangely enough, he sees someone he recognizes right in between Felice and Wilhelm’s shoulders. A parent of one of his students is standing at a nearby table, drinking a cocktail and chatting with a companion. This is his chance to escape the conversation from hell. Thank god.

Clearing his throat, Simon puts on his best detached voice to say, “I see someone I need to say hello to.” Under the heavy weight of Wilhelm’s gaze, he turns to Oliver and places a hand on his arm to usher him away. “Lovely seeing you both,” he mumbles. 

With that, he steps around the couple, vaguely hearing a similar sentiment and goodbye from Felice. Wilhelm says nothing. 

Having met recently for a parent/teacher meeting, the father of his student Elias quickly recognizes him as he approaches. They exchange some pleasantries and a few amused gripes about how six years old have too much energy for their own good. Even with what is hopefully a convincing fake smile on his face, Simon is struggling to keep his shit together. 

He has no idea if Wilhelm is watching him or even still standing there. It’s probably just paranoia that makes him feel watched like a mouse under the hungry gaze of a hawk. His skin itches as he stands there impatiently, desperate to be as far away from here as possible. 

Finally, they say their goodbyes. Oliver says something about more shrimp but Simon can barely hear it. Every second that passes makes him feel more like he’s about to meltdown like a faulty nuclear reactor.

Even though he bans himself from looking, his traitor eyes flit back over to the edge of the dance floor, but Wilhelm and Felice are gone. Thank god. The last thing he wants is for Wilhelm to catch him looking from afar. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction. 

This time he really does head for the exit with determination. He squeezes himself out of the crowded ballroom entrance, heading straight for the main lobby doors. However, directly across the hall, he spies a set of glass double-doors for an outdoor courtyard with a lush garden. Glittering twinkle lights and glowing lanterns catch his eye and it looks to be mostly empty, save for a few smokers in the corner. 

Without thinking too much about it, he heads out onto the terrace for a breath of fresh air and to take a moment to get himself together before the ride home. The crisp night air is welcome, providing some relief for his overly warm body. 

He walks across the courtyard toward the balcony railing, which overlooks the moonlit river. A cool breeze blows around him as he stands listening to the gentle lapping of the water, unable to suppress the overwhelming wave of emotions that threaten to consume him. The city lights blur together, creating fuzzy outlines and obscure streaks in his vision, as he feels the familiar sting of tears behind his eyes. 

No. 

He will not, under any circumstances, cry at the Crown Prince’s birthday party. 

That would be his final straw and he’d have no choice but to catapult himself headfirst into this river. 

Fuck. He has to do something to combat the tears and the stupid fucking feelings and standing here wistfully staring out into the water is not helping the situation. 

He paces up and down the courtyard anxiously, suddenly in one of those moods where every single thing is fucking irritating. The way his clothes sit on his skin. The way his hair itches the back of his ear. The way these stupid fancy shoes pinch his toes. The way his thoughts are racing anxiously, unable to pinpoint one thing to focus on. 

He knows he should just go home. Curl up in bed with the covers over his head. Pretend this day never happened. Set a reminder in his calendar for this cursed day from now until the end of eternity with red, bold, underlined letters: don’t you dare leave the fucking house.

Why the fuck is this happening? And why can’t he get himself to leave? The excuse of “fresh air” isn’t holding up anymore. Dammit, Simon, you stupid bastard. Just leave. One foot in front of the other. Go the fuck home and drown your sorrows in a tub of ice cream like a normal person.

No, instead of leaving like a sane person, he walks over to a rose bush and plucks a single red rose right off its stem. He first lifts it to his nose and inhales deep, wallowing in the sweet fragrance. Then he trails his fingers over the thorns.

There’s a solid chance that Simon has officially lost his goddamn mind, because out of nowhere, he is hit with an overpowering urge to grip the thorny stem in his hand and squeeze. Hard. 

He wants to inflict pain.

If not on Wilhelm, then on himself. And no, this isn’t a metaphor. He literally fucking does it. 

He squeezes hard. 

And you know what? It’s pretty fucking satisfying. 

A sharp stinging pain shoots through his hand and down his fingers, instantly making his eyes prickle with tears as blood pools warmly in his palm and his grip around the rose becomes slick. 

Hell yeah. 

As he looks down at his hand, smeared crimson with burning, angry cuts, a wave of manic giddiness overcomes him. He starts laughing and twirls around, lifting the rose in the air.

Thank god the smokers left a few minutes ago, because he is being fucking insane and anyone seeing this would probably be on their way to report him to hotel security, “There’s a lunatic on the terrace doing weird things with the foliage. Send help.” 

What the fuck is wrong with him? 

Is this some kind of psychotic episode?

Maybe he’s just sick of doing nothing. Sick of not feeling anything. Of being the good guy who only does boring, normal things. Maybe he wants to be bold for once. 

It’s in this exact moment that he hears footsteps approach. 

The hair on the back of his neck stands up. 

It doesn’t make any goddamn sense, but somehow he knows with 100% certainty who is standing behind him. It’s like a sixth sense. Just like Bruce Willis, he sees dead people. And by dead, he means dead to him. 

He turns slowly, still clutching the rose in his bloody hand, and for the first time in fourteen years, he is completely and utterly alone with Wilhelm. 

They stare at each other like two mountain lions before a fight. Completely still. Eyes wide. Hackles raised. 

Save for the soft and rhythmic rippling of the river, it’s dead silent. The city has gone quiet. No car horns or ambulances or ringing phones can be heard. Just the murmur of water and two boys who once kissed each other like their lives depended on it.

It’s nearly imperceptible but he sees Wilhelm’s eyes flicker down to his exposed chest.

And much like the impulse to stab himself with the thorns, another inconvenient, intrusive urge hits Simon out of nowhere like a dropkick to the chest. 

It’s wrong and fucked up and goes against everything he believes in, but in this moment, looking at Wilhelm standing here, face stricken, breathing hard, and so unfairly hot in his black tux, Simon wants one thing.

And he has a feeling that not a damn thing is going to get in his way.

Sweet, sweet revenge is still on the menu for tonight, but the goal of making Wilhelm feel guilty or jealous no longer feels good enough. No, he wants something more along the lines of poetic fucking justice. An eye for an eye.

He wants Wilhelm to desire him.

To ache for him. To beg for him.

He wants to drag him into the nearest supply closet and rage fuck his brains out. 

And then he is going to destroy him.

Get his hopes up. Make him think he has a chance, and leave him high and dry. 

Break his heart the same way Wilhelm broke his heart fourteen years ago. Tear his still-beating heart from his chest and stomp it into a million tiny pieces.

And he’s going to fucking enjoy it. 

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.

Chapter Text

SIMON

Well that escalated quickly.

Simon is not a stranger to regretting an impulse decision, but he’s never been so mortified and enraged with himself that he wants to never show his face in public again. Hell, he doesn’t even want to show his face in private again.

Thus, he is currently buried under his covers avoiding the real world at all costs. 

If ever there was a day to play hookie and rot in bed, it is today. 

After the shit he pulled last night, it feels wrong somehow to spend an entire day teaching children to play the tambourine or hum scales or how to make singing hand puppets. 

But he took two sick days last month due to a nasty cold, and he feels guilty taking another so soon (curse his perfectionist tendencies), so he drags his ass from bed to quickly shower, remove last night’s eye makeup, and brew an extremely necessary to-go coffee - the whole time avoiding mirrors like the plague. He can’t stand to look at himself. 

On the walk to work, he blares loud Spanish music in his headphones to drown out his own thoughts. Unfortunately he can’t really do anything about the mental images. The dangerous ones like Wilhelm bent over the sink. The mouthwatering sight of his bare ass laid out in front of him with an open invitation. The glorious drag of his bare cock between Wilhelm’s asscheeks. Or staring at Wilhelm in the mirror, greedily taking in the deliriously erotic sight of his eyes rolling back in his head when Simon slipped a finger inside him. 

“I want you to finger me.” Simon shudders as he recalls the shocking bolt of arousal those words had sent through him. And then to learn that Wilhelm had never been touched there before? But wanted it enough to beg Simon for it?

“Please fuck me with your fingers, Simon.” 

Jesus H. Christ. 

Screw it. He cranks up the volume even higher. He’ll risk the hearing damage just to make it impossible to think right now.

Also on the list of things he’s avoiding? His cellphone, which is currently burning a hole in his pocket like it’s a crucifix and he’s a vampire.

He can’t believe he asked for Wilhelm’s number. 

What the fuck was he thinking?

Well, we all know there wasn’t much actual thinking going on there. Not by his brain at least. No, he’d been thinking with his cock. And apparently his cock had a whole fucking lot to say. 

Actually, the truth is that asking for Wilhelm’s number was a way to maintain control, even after abandoning all restraint and coming all over his back (fuck that was so hot it was unreal, but not the plan dammit). Being in such close proximity to Wilhelm had made him so crazy and touching him had awakened some old feelings that have no fucking place in his current reality, and that had pissed him off so much that he couldn’t leave without that last little ‘fuck you’ to Wilhelm and the only thing he could think of in that moment was to take his phone number, give him hope, and then ghost the fuck out of him. 

Except, when a person plans to ghost someone, they usually just delete their number, right? It would be so easy. A couple taps of a finger and poof - Wilhelm would be gone from his life again. Easy as 1-2-3. 

He shakes his head and pushes all thoughts of Wilhelm and Wilhelm’s phone number and flushed cheeks and bottomless eyes from his mind, because this is not how this was supposed to go dammit. He was supposed to come out on top with the triumphant satisfaction of revenge. He’s not supposed to be thinking about the Crown Prince and his deliciously tight ass. OMG SHUT UP BRAIN. 

To combat the forbidden thoughts, he sings through the song he plans to teach today under his breath. He does not think about how ridiculous it is to sing a song about five little ducks while an image of his cum on Wilhelm’s back runs through his head on a loop.

Simon is literally about to slap himself across the face when he runs into a colleague on the street, which mercifully provides a welcome distraction. They chat about their days and how depressing it is that it’s only Wednesday. When they reach the school and Simon goes to push open the door, he catches sight of the cuts on his hand and fuuuuuck. He’s thinking about it again. The way Wilhelm had clenched around his fingers. A shiver of desire runs through him at the thought of sinking his cock into that tight heat. 

GAH.

When is someone going to invent some sort of technology that blasts unwanted thoughts from your head? 

He tries really hard to teach for the first hour, but it quickly becomes clear that his brain is too much of a nonfunctioning dumpster fire today, so he pulls out a tried and true, well tested remedy for dealing with a bunch of overly hyper six year olds when you just don’t have the energy or focus. Something he usually saves for mornings with a hangover. 

He turns down the lights, sits them in a huddle on the floor on their nap mats, and puts on a Disney movie. 

Today it’s Mulan. The best Disney movie, hands down. End of discussion. 

While his students sit transfixed in front of the TV, Simon slumps over his desk with his head buried in his arms and a stream of consciousness that goes something like: what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the—

His phone buzzes on the table in front of him. 

—fuck?

He’s too scared to look, which makes no fucking sense. It couldn’t possibly be Wilhelm. He doesn’t have his number. 

Regardless, he really has to work himself up to look and when he does, it’s just a message from Sara. She says that she’s moved her last couple of boxes over to Benjamin’s place so she won’t be sleeping at the apartment again. 

Well, fuck.  

He’ll be going home to an empty apartment tonight. Which is something that he had been very much looking forward to, but now the concept is terrifying. He’ll be completely and utterly alone with his own unhinged thoughts. 

That just isn’t going to work. 

His newest mental spiral is interrupted when one of his students, Alice, approaches him all teary-eyed because the movie is too scary. He picks her up and takes her over to the snack drawer to distract her with a cookie. And while he’s at it, he decides to distract himself with a cookie too. 

And if he actually eats seven cookies, well that’s no one’s damn business but his own. 

***

After work, Simon would normally go straight home. He might force himself to do a quick workout to justify another night of complete inactivity on his sofa. If Sara was home, she’d make them dinner and they’d catch up on their days then put on a TV series. If she was out, he’d sort out his own dinner, usually his own human version of kibble also known as a bowl of cereal.

But tonight, he can’t bring himself to go home to a too quiet, empty apartment. Alone.

Instead, he dawdles around his classroom, tidying up and organizing, making lesson plans, doing push-ups in the center of the room, ignoring a phone call from Oliver who probably wants details to explain Simon’s bizarre behavior last night, and scraping centuries-old gum off the bottom of desks. 

When he can’t hang around any longer because he’s getting in the way of the cleaning staff, he walks to a nearby coffee shop for a latte. At the last second, he changes it to a double espresso which is a big mistake because he’s already on edge enough.

Sitting on a bench, he sips his espresso with a manic, bouncy leg. He pulls out his Switch to play Super Mario. He’s almost collected all of the gold Star Coins and there’s no time like the present to try to get those last few, even though it’s literally impossible (those game makers deserve jail).  

When he grows bored of that and the bad thoughts start to slip through his defenses, he takes a long walk through Stockholm, people watching and window shopping and trying not to lose his fucking mind. On one street corner, he sees two guys holding each other as they talk in soft, private voices. It sets his teeth on edge. If he had a solid object in his hands, he’d be throwing it at their stupid happy faces and yelling at them to get a fucking room. 

On another street corner, he leans against a bike rack and calls Ayub just for the distraction. 

“Hey, Bro,” Ayub sounds sleepy when he picks up the call. He works nights at a bar in Bjärstad, so their schedules are complete opposites making it difficult to keep up with each other most days. 

“Hey, how are you?” 

“Good. How are you? How was yesterday?”

Simon stops breathing for a second. Panic grips him at the thought that his bathroom tryst with the Crown Prince may have been leaked. His heart beat is still racing a bit even when he reminds himself that Ayub is well aware of his aversion to Wilhelmdagen, so that’s probably why he’s asking. Ayub wouldn’t have asked so casually if there was an actual scandal happening. 

Should he tell Ayub what happened? 

No. 

No way in hell can he ever tell anybody what happened. 

“Fine. Uneventful.” He hopes Ayub doesn’t pick up on what a shitty lie that was. ‘Uneventful’ is honestly the least accurate word he could’ve use to describe yesterday. 

“Good. What are you up to tonight?”

Simon wants to tell his best friend that he’s losing his mind, but he can’t do that without revealing his encounter with Wilhelm. So he lies by omission, telling him “not much” and that he’ll probably just watch TV. Ayub doesn’t ask any questions, because that’s the answer Simon always gives. 

God, what a depressing thought. Simon can’t remember the last time he had an interesting answer when asked about his evening or weekend plans. They hang up not long after that and Simon hangs his head, annoyed with himself for his dreariness and for allowing so much emptiness into his life. Swallowing back a lump in his throat, he stands up and continues his doom walk. 

At some unknown time after sunset, because he hasn’t dared touch his phone in hours even to check the time, his stomach starts growling angrily at him. He walks into the first restaurant he sees, which it turns out is a sports bar. He takes a seat at the bar and because this is apparently the week for terrible choices, he orders himself a glass of white wine. 

It goes down easy. 

The second glass? Even easier. 

The third glass he nurses, but the damage is already done. He never got around to ordering that dinner, unless a liquid dinner counts, so he’s already wobbly on his barstool and the music playing in the bar is suddenly the best playlist he’s ever heard. 

He sings along loudly with every song, drawing strange looks from the men watching sports and amused chuckles from the bartender. 

Speaking of the bartender, he just happens to be a stone cold fox. Tall and muscled with flawless dark skin and a killer smile. And so when “Positions” by Ariana Grande starts playing, Simon finds himself singing directly to the bartender with his best “fuck me” eyes. 

In the back of his mind, Sober Simon is flailing in the choppy waves of alcohol, gurgling and yelling at him that this is a) embarrassing as fuck and b) yet another grave mistake in the making. 

Drunk Simon holds Sober Simon’s head under the surface with a maniacal laugh and keeps eye fucking the bartender in a way that is absolutely inappropriate for any time of the day, let alone before 8:00 pm on a weeknight. 

After the third glass of wine is empty, the bartender slides a shot across the bartop to him with a flirty smile. Simon really isn’t big on shots, having had one too many bad experiences in the past, but he’s well past the point of reason, so he chokes it back with a poorly veiled grimace. 

Twenty fuzzy minutes later, he’s in a dark corridor outside the bathrooms with the bartender’s tongue down his throat. 

It feels wrong. 

But that doesn’t stop him from cupping the other man’s dick over his pants. The bartender pushes him up against the wall and squeezes his ass. 

This is all wrong. 

There’s nothing wrong with a consensual hookup with a hot guy. He’s done it before. It can fun and sexy and a thrill. But after everything that happened yesterday, he hates it. Guilt and humiliation claw at him as the bartender pulls their hips together. 

Why the fuck does it feel like he’s doing something wrong? 

Like he’s being…unfaithful?

Shame burrows itself more deeply in his gut with each swipe of the other man’s tongue. 

This is fucking bullshit. 

He’s tempted to go through with it. Suck this guy off right here and now just to stick it to his guilty conscience. He’s single. He’s horny. He doesn’t owe anybody anything. 

It’s not even a conscious decision when he pushes the man back, saying that he needs a minute; that he feels dizzy. The bartender is kind and understanding and offers him a glass of water. 

He doesn’t deserve a fucking glass of water. 

What the fuck is your fucking problem, Eriksson? 

Red hot anger surges through his entire body. Last night’s encounter with Wilhelm has no fucking right to affect him this much. He knew Wilhelm for three months, fourteen fucking years ago. All he wanted was a little closure, yet he’s been cracked wide open like a meteor has crashed into him, blasting his entire existence into an immense chasm, and he’s trapped with no way out. 

Just to get out of an awkward goodbye, he asks the bartender for his number. That’s twice in less than 24 fucking hours that he’s asked someone for their number with no intention to use it. 

Actually, you know what, fuck that. He’s going to use Wilhelm’s number right this damn second to tell him to fuck off and to forget that he ever existed. 

Back at the bar, he grabs his bag and rummages around for his phone. When he finds it, he stomps out of the bar and sits down on the curb. He angrily scrolls through his contacts - all the way down to the Ws - but when he gets there, his breath catches in his throat. 

He’d fully been expecting to see the name “Wilhelm” but the new entry is labeled “Wille.”

It’s not logical, but seeing that name does something confusing to his insides.

Wille.

The nickname of the boy he once loved with an all-consuming fierceness. A feeling he’s never been able to recreate with another person. 

He’s crying. 

He’s drunk and crying on the side of the street on a fucking Wednesday.

He chokes back a sob.

He wants his Wille back.

Because he was his, dammit. 

Even if only for a brief moment in time. He had fully belonged to him and offered himself completely in return.

Not the Crown Prince. Not Wilhelm. Not the man he fucked in a bathroom last night. He wants his Wille back. The boy he fell completely in love with at sixteen. The boy who was stolen from him by a sex video and his mother’s expectations and his brother’s death and the heavy weight of duty on his shoulders and a rigid, conformist society.

The boy who wrapped his arms around his waist so gently and looked so soft in the glowing amber light of his fishtank and kissed every inch of his body with such an innocent reverence as if he was the most precious thing in the world. 

He swallows a teary hiccup and drops his face into his hands. He’s in one of those drunken fogs where he’s mad at himself for being drunk and wishes he could just snap his fingers and be sober again so he can knock some sense into himself. So he can slap the phone out of his hands and tell himself: Calm down. Take a deep breath. Don’t do anything you’re going to regret. 

Because all the sudden he wonders how much of his Wille is still left in the man he met last night. Is Wille still there lost in the labyrinth of Wilhelm’s mind? Searching for a way out? Does Wille - the first person to kiss down his chest and take him into his mouth, the first person to invade his dreams, the first person to tell him he loved him - still exist? His Wille who was so touch-starved that he asked to be held - is he in there somewhere stuck on a deserted island? Sending up a flare and hoping that a plane will spot the signal and come to rescue him? 

Despite his inebriation, he wants to slap himself for being so fucking dramatic. He tipsily sways side to side on the curb; wishing he could wake up from this drunken nightmare as his thoughts grow fuzzier and more tangled by the second. He stares at the name Wille in his phone; the black and white letters swimming in front of his bleary eyes. 

Wille.

Wille Wille Wille. 

He needs to rescue him. Needs to stare into Wilhelm’s eyes and see if he can find his first love in there anywhere. 

Five minutes ago he was fully intending to text Wilhelm a giant “fuck you” and tell him to never speak to him again. 

Now, he’s typing a text to Wille.

A text that he can never unsend.

▪️ ▪️ ▪️

WILLE

When Wille wakes up on the day after his birthday, the first thought in his brain is Simon.

The second thought is that he can honestly say without a shadow of a doubt that that was the most memorable birthday of his life.

Memorable in more ways than one.

For one, he’ll never be able to un-remember each and every painful detail of meeting Simon again for the first time in over a decade and then the complete 180 degree exhilaration of being alone with him again.

And for two, he can still feel the ghost of Simon’s touch all over his body. And he can quite literally feel him every time he sits down. 

So yeah…

It’s absolutely insane how different it feels to wake up today compared to yesterday. If Wille was the weather, yesterday he would’ve been overcast with a 100% chance of thunderstorms and biblical flooding and the sun never making an appearance again. He was the human weather equivalent of whatever that town is in Twilight where the Cullens live and go to eternal high school just to avoid sparkling all over the place (makes perfect sense - no plot holes there whatsoever). 

But today the Wille-weather is perfectly warm, breezy, and sunny with a 1,000,000% chance of rainbows and French fries raining from the sky. French fries for everyone!

Okay, maybe it’s not all sunshine and rainbows and delicious fried potatoes. It’s not like he has any clue what’s going to happen next. If Simon will even use his phone number. And even if he does, how are they going to have a real conversation? Wille could hardly get a single word out around him. Everything he wanted to say just felt so completely and utterly inadequate. To say that he owes Simon an apology would be the understatement of the century. 

And to say that Simon was intimidating is even more of an understatement. Simon was giving boss bitch energy. So in charge and assertive. Dare he say dominating. And it was so fucking hot that Wille’s cock is twitching awake at the mere thought of Simon’s low, gravely voice and the firm grip on his hips and the unrelenting thrusts of his fingers. 

All this to say that the thought of trying to have an earnest conversation with Simon sounds absolutely daunting and terrifying.  

But still, that doesn’t stop the hoards of butterflies from fluttering around restlessly in his stomach like they’re all hopped up on Adderall and espresso shots. 

Simon, a person he feared he’d never see again, who is so impossibly beautiful, has his phone number and there’s a chance he’s going to use it and that’s enough to pull Wille out of bed with a giddy lightness that he hasn’t felt in years.

Lately, more often than not, Wille can hardly get out of bed. There are days where he has to drag himself into the shower. And force himself to eat. Days where he struggles to find the energy to complete simple tasks like getting dressed and brushing his teeth. 

But today, he practically floats out of bed, he turns up some music on his phone, and bounces around his room at Drottningholm with a buoyant nervous energy as he gets ready for the day. In the shower, he jerks off to the memory of Simon’s dark eyes in the bathroom mirror. The desire on his face as he came all over his back. He nearly falls over from the force of his orgasm, really wishing he would’ve washed his hair first because his legs are suddenly jello and all he wants to do is collapse back into his bed and think about Simon all day. 

After he stumbles out of the shower and finishes getting ready, he swings by the kitchens and requests an omelet. Fiona, the staff cook, looks downright shocked because Wille is very much a black coffee for breakfast kind of person, but she quickly whips him up a delicious veggie omelet which Wille inhales before heading to his car. 

Because he spent his entire day yesterday attending to Crown Prince duties, Wille has today off. He has no plans, except movie night with Felice, so he heads to his apartment, where he stays on weekends and days off. When he has official duties, he stays at Drottningholm or Haga Palace.

Having a separate place just for him is his way of maintaining a tiny bit of control over his own life. To separate Wille from the Crown Prince. When he’s in his apartment, where he doesn’t have any household staff and minimal security, he can just be Wille. It’s his little safe haven and his favorite place in the world. 

When he reaches his building, he knocks on his neighbor Hilda’s door. She is the most precious tiny old lady who watches his cat Charlie for him when he can’t be home. She lets him in and he promptly receives a very angry meow from his cat son.

He picks him up and apologizes with some cheek kisses, which of course pisses Charlie off even more. In exchange for the cat sitting, Wille takes out Hilda’s trash and recycling and helps her replace a light bulb in the kitchen. After bidding her goodbye, he carries Charlie across the hall to his own place, where he feeds him a treat as an apology for being gone so long. 

He spends most of the day puttering around his apartment, playing with Charlie, trying to distract himself with random projects, cleaning his apartment aka standing in front of the TV watching Legally Blonde with an idle vacuum in his hand, and trying desperately not to look at his cell phone.

He can’t stop thinking about Simon and desperately hoping for a text from him. Every time his phone vibrates, he panics and dives for it. Each time the screen lights up his heart skips a beat. If he gets one more motherfucking push notification from Duolingo, he’s going to kill someone. 

Felice calls him a few times and sends a few texts, the sound of each notification leaving him reeling more than the last, but he can’t bring himself to respond. He doesn’t even know what he’d say. They are supposed to have their movie night, but it somehow feels wrong to go back to his regular life after his entire existence was upended so dramatically last night. Not to mention that he can hardly focus on a single thought, let alone a whole movie with a plot. 

Instead, he scrubs the bathtub. The absolute worst, most dreaded household chore and something he typically avoids like the plague. Thus a sign that he is well and truly losing his mind if he’d willingly scrub tile until his wrists fall off rather than be alone with his own thoughts.

Around dinnertime, an ominous knock comes from the door and his instinct is to drop to the ground and hide until the knocker gets the hint and goes away. 

Sorry, nobody’s home. Try again never.

A second knock on the door has a musical rhythm and he instantly relaxes. Only one person would knock on his door like that.

He walks over and opens the door to reveal Felice with two giant iced coffees and a box of donuts, even though it’s 7:00 in the evening. 

He has the best friend in the entire world. 

Felice heads straight over to the kitchen island where she drops everything and then she turns to pull him into a tight hug. 

Wille melts into her arms, feeling the frenetic energy that’s been flowing through him all day steadily dissipate. Between their bodies, Charlie rubs himself against their legs, pulling a tiny smile out of him. He didn’t realize just how much tension he was carrying in his shoulders until this moment. He lets out a long sigh.

Felice laughs and pulls back to look him in the eye, “That bad, huh?”

“Worse.”

She kicks her sandals off her feet, passes him his coffee, and sits on a barstool with her legs crossed. Charlie, who loves Felice more than any other human, immediately jumps into her lap for some ear scritches. 

She lifts her iced coffee to her lips and gives him a very pointed look, “Spill.”

Wille blushes and ducks his head, taking a long sip of coffee as an excuse to ignore her question.

She isn’t deterred, “Wanna tell me where you disappeared to last night?”

What a simple question with such a complicated and fucked up answer. He is at once dying to tell her every sordid detail and at the same time feeling very protective of everything that happened. It feels like if he puts the actual words out there into the universe, it’ll jinx everything.

And isn't it wrong to tell her something that Simon most definitely would not want shared? He wouldn’t just be telling Felice about an impromptu sexual encounter that he had, but he’d be airing Simon’s business too.

But at the same time, he’s losing his damn mind and needs to be psychoanalyzed to the upmost degree, so he’s gotta tell her. But he’ll try to keep it vague.

“I, um-“ He swallows nervously, “Something happened with Simon.” 

Her eyes widen, “Go on.” 

“We…” Fuck, there’s actually no vague way to put it.

“You…talked?”

Wille blushes, “Not exactly.” 

She raises an eyebrow, “Kissed?”

“No, not exactly.” 

“Oh my god,” she exclaims with an annoyed sigh, raising her face to the sky as if asking a higher power to have mercy on her. “Do we have to play twenty questions or will you just tell me?”

Wille turns and buries his head in his arms as he mumbles, his words all jumbled up in embarrassment, “…wehadsex.” 

Felice gasps, then she holds up a hand, “Stop.” She drops her coffee. “We need alcohol if we’re going to continue this conversation.” She stands up and reaches for her purse. “Get dressed. We’re going out.”

“Wha–”

“Wille, we are going out for cocktails. End of discussion.” She adjusts her skirt and fluffs her hair. “I don’t have all day. Get. Dressed.” 

Half an hour later, they are seated in a booth at a bar with two bourbon cocktails and Malin hovering nearby. 

“Continue,” she says as if their conversation had never been interrupted. 

Wille mindlessly plays with his straw as he fills her in on his encounter with Simon, omitting most of the filthier details of him being finger fucked within an inch of his life in a public bathroom. While he speaks, her expression changes from shocked to concerned to vaguely amused to hysterical. Finally, she bursts out laughing.

Wille stares at her with an indignant huff, “What the fuck is so funny?”

“I’m sorry-“ She can barely speak between the giggles. “It’s just-“ She wipes away a tear. “I was so worried about you. I thought you were like drowning in misery or torturing yourself or something. But you were off having sex with your hot ex.” 

Wille rolls his eyes, “Thanks a lot.” 

She laughs again, “This really wasn’t on my bingo card for the year.”

“Felice! What do I do?”

After the giggles let up, she swirls her drink, staring into the glass contemplatively, “Do you want to see him again?” 

He considers her question. Felice knows him better than anyone, but he also knows that she’ll never be able to fully understand the depth of his feelings for Simon. Sure, she experienced first hand his depression spiral over the years, but he also hid a lot from her. His darkest thoughts in which he sincerely thought hard about burning his entire life down for Simon. Or just how long it took for him to stop crying himself to sleep at night because he lost something irreplaceable and it was all his fault. 

He doesn’t even know why he’s thinking so hard. There is only one answer at the forefront of his mind. An answer he knows with 100% certainty and that never happens to him. Wille overthinks everything. He will overanalyze a situation so much that he’ll change his own opinion and end up more confused than where he started. But not now. Now, when faced with the question of does he want to see Simon again, the answer is hell. yes. 

And like a lightning strike in a horror movie, it is in this exact moment that a vibration comes from his phone which is laying facedown on the table between them.

At the sound, an intense shiver travels down the entire length of his body, making his scalp tingle and the tips of fingers twitch and his toes curl. 

They both stare down at the phone like it’s going to catch fire. 

Wille snaps his head up and meets her eyes. She purses her lips. They say nothing. Wille lifts his cocktail and downs half of it in one go. 

It doesn’t make any sense, but somehow he knows with certainty that this is Simon. It’s like his spidey senses are tingling.

“Do you want me to look?” She asks slowly, reaching out to rub his hand. 

Wille isn’t sure he can handle her looking. Or himself looking. Maybe he should just smash it with a hammer. Does anyone have a hammer? 

Rather than look at his phone, he’s going to swear off technology. Never look at a cellphone or tablet or laptop again. People can send him a letter if they want to get in contact with him. He’ll read books the old-fashioned way. He’ll use a magazine to solve crossword puzzles instead of the daily NY Times mini. He’ll use an actual mirror to check his appearance rather than his phone camera. He’ll pay with cash instead of Swish. 

Felice snaps him out of that insane thought spiral with a suggestion, “Do we need a shot for this?” 

Wille has the best friend in the universe.

He nods wordlessly prompting Felice to slip out of the booth to go to the bar. While she is gone, Wille stares at his phone like it holds all the answers to the universe, but if he touches it his face will melt off like in Raiders of the Lost Ark when that one guy touches the Ark of the Covenant. 

She returns with two tequila shots. They clank the tiny glasses with a mutual “Skål” and down the shots. The burn of alcohol is a welcome respite from the nervous anticipation and nauseous stomach. He can’t look.

What if this is Simon wanting to talk to him? 

What if his gut is a fool and this isn’t even Simon? 

What if this is Simon texting him to tell him to go to hell?

What if—

“Wille.”

Wille looks up and Felice is watching him knowingly. “Don’t overthink this. Just look. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

What’s the worst thing that could happen? Simon could disappear from his life again. He could lose him twice. That’s the worst thing that could ever happen and he’s not sure he’d survive it. 

“What if—“ Wille says quietly, almost afraid to say the words out loud, “What if that was my second chance with him and I blew it?” 

Felice gives him the softest, most pitying eyes and he can’t handle it. He stares down at the melting ice in his glass. She replies slowly, “Wille, you can’t change what happened. Last night or fourteen years ago. All you can do is try to do better now. For both of your sakes.” 

Wille exhales heavily. God, this is so utterly depressing. But you know what, it’s also kind of exciting. Much like last night, he feels more alive than he has in longer than he can remember. This is something that has always been synonymous with Simon. Whether they were flirting or pissing each other off or kissing or crying together. He always felt so fucking alive with Simon in his orbit. 

Felice is right. He may have to fight to keep this feeling in his life, but that’s something he can do now. When he was sixteen, he had no fight in him. He didn’t know enough. Didn’t have enough life experience. Didn’t know how to fight against everything he’d ever been taught about life and position and responsibility. Couldn’t fight against the invisible forces of his anxiety and depression and grief. 

But present-day Wille has learned a few things. He knows that some things are worth fucking fighting for. His mother once asked him if Simon was worth it, and at the time, he thought he might know the answer, but doubts wormed their way in and confused him. But now he knows all too well how much Simon had been, and is still worth it.

So he’s gonna fucking do it. 

He’s going to look at his phone. 

And if it is Simon, he’s going to take whatever he says in stride. He will do everything in his power to let him know that he wants to fight for a chance. A chance to finally figure out what they can be to each other. 

With shaky hands, he picks up his phone and cradles it in both palms. When it lights up, he sees a text notification on his lock screen from an unknown number. His pulse races under his skin and he instantly feels hot all over. 

Fuck, it feels so good.

He swipes to open the message and squeezes his eyes shut for a beat. Then he looks with one squinty eye. 

Unknown
Meet me at the corner of Birkagatan and Rörstrandsgatan at 8:00 tomorrow. 

What the actual fuck?

What is happening?

Did Simon just…ask him out? 

Is this even Simon? 

Who is he kidding…of course it’s Simon. 

How the fuck is he supposed to respond to this? A simple “ok” feels grossly inadequate. A “hell yes” feels like too much. Maybe there’s an emoji that will sum up his current feelings (pure elation mixed with nausea mixed with an all-consuming dread mixed with uncontrollable horniness). Let’s see…

🫡 - too desperate?

🆗 - dumb

🫠 - 100% accurate but could be misinterpreted

💀 - again accurate, but might send the wrong message

🥵 - too horny?

🍆 - …

Yeah, he might have to use actual words for this one. 

He knows Felice is staring at him, waiting impatiently for an update, so he holds out his phone and shows her the text. After a tiny gasp, she immediately pulls out her phone and starts typing. A moment later she shows him the address on Google maps.

“There’s a coffee shop right on that corner,” she says, scrolling around on the map. “Maybe he wants to meet for coffee.”

“Hmm,” Wille hums quietly. He’s panicking again. He’s going to meet Simon tomorrow. And he needs to reply to him. Fuck. This is a lot to handle, especially for the awkwardest person in all of Sweden. 

While he mulls over (overthinks) his reply, he considers Felice’s suggestion that they might meet at a coffee shop. Is Simon asking him out for a coffee? Maybe Simon wants to let him down easy over a cappuccino. Or more likely, he wants to throw a cup of coffee in his face. 

Honestly, he wouldn’t blame him. He probably deserves some second degree burns on his face for betraying Simon’s trust and then fucking off without a word all those years ago. 

“How should I reply?” He asks her as he picks up and drains the remainder of his drink. 

Felice rubs her chin thoughtfully, “Honestly, I say keep it simple.” 

Oh that it were so simple. …to keep it simple. 

Wille doesn’t do simple. 

Simple is for normal people with normal brains. Wille does overcomplicated and overthought and out of control and stupid and too much. Always too much. 

“What do you mean by ‘keep it simple’?” He questions with a raised eyebrow. 

“Oh my god, Wille. Just say yes!” She groans, rubbing her forehead with mock annoyance. 

So with trembling fingers, Wille does just that. He texts back a simple: I’ll be there. 

Nailed it.

And now he has 24 hours to freak the fuck out about what to wear, what to say, what to do, where they are going, what’s going to happen...and about a thousand other things. 

Yeah, he’s gonna need another shot. 

Chapter Text

SIMON

What the fuck are you doing, Eriksson?

Being a total lunatic is what.

More specifically, he’s hiding inside a 7-Eleven, peering through the window with his nose pressed against the glass like a goddamn weirdo stalker, watching as Wilhelm paces the corner.

Because he’s about to meet Wilhelm for…what? A date?

Because he’s the biggest idiot in the history of the universe. Look up the word ‘idiot’ in the dictionary and you’ll find a picture of Simon. He might as well get the word ‘idiot’ tattooed to his forehead since it’s basically his entire personality at this point. 

This morning he woke up with the hangover from hell and a horrible feeling of dread in his stomach like he’d done something so fucked up and so humiliating that he may never recover. It took a few minutes of trying to think through the pounding headache to remember that he’d texted Wilhelm. No no no no no. 

He’d asked Wilhelm to meet him today. Way to give yourself absolutely zero notice, you dumbass! 

How the fuck had he, in all his drunken wisdom, managed to do something so fucking stupid???

This right here is exactly why he ought to ban himself from ever drinking again. He can never control his emotions when he’s drunk. And apparently last night, while trashed, his inner sixteen year old had decided to drudge up some old memories and gotten all nostalgic and wistful and if Simon could meet his past-drunk-idiot-self face to face, he’d punch his lights out. 

After bitching himself out the entire way to work, he’d once again been a terrible teacher and put on another Disney movie. Hercules. The second best Disney movie. Don’t come for him.

He spent the rest of the day staring at his phone and trying to convince himself to send a follow up text to cancel. Something like “oops, nevermind” or “jk lmao” or “actually you can meet me at the corner of Nope and In Your Dreams.”

In the end, he sent nothing. 

By the time school had ended, his inner mantra went something like this: It’s fine. This is fine. Everything’s fine. In fact, he’d convinced himself that this is a good thing. Sure, he could stick with the plan to ghost Wilhelm. Leave him standing on the side of the street, block his number, and make him wonder what the fuck happened for the rest of eternity. But as far as revenge goes, it’s a little unsatisfying. Some sick part of him wants to get Wilhelm’s hopes up just a little higher. Make him think he has a real chance beyond a casual fuck. And then pull the rug out from underneath him when he least expects it.

Go big or go home, baby. 

So he’s taking Wilhelm out on a date. God, it’s so fucking weird to even think that. 

Well, what seemed like an excellent revenge plot just hit a tiny bit of a snag.

The snag being that, from the 7-Eleven window, he just took one look at Wilhelm and he looks so fucking cute that Simon absolutely. can’t. even.

No! Not cute. Wilhelm looks normal. That’s all.

Simon wasn’t prepared for this. Wilhelm in jeans. Wilhelm in a t-shirt and zip hoodie. Wilhelm in Converse sneakers. 

If Wilhelm in a tux had been too much to handle, that’s nothing compared to this. Nothing compared to watching a dressed down Wilhelm pace the ground nervously, looking around like someone’s about to jump out at him and shout “PRANKED!” And anxiously biting at a fingernail. And repeatedly dragging a hand through his hair.

Speaking of his hair, it’s different today. Instead of slicked back with product, it’s loose and a little wavy at the ends like he let it air-dry and Simon. Cannot. Fucking. Handle. It. 

Just like at the party when Wilhelm got all awkward, this is reminding him too much of the sixteen year old from his memory and not at all of the Crown Prince, who is always so poised and put together and robotic. 

Actually, he can’t handle any of this. He needs to get out of here.

From the window, he sees Wilhelm pull his phone out of his pocket and stare at the screen, still gnawing on a thumbnail, and then he types something quickly. At that exact second, Simon hears a ding from his phone. Did Wilhelm just text him? 

He sees Wilhelm drop his head, smack his own forehead, and his face contorts like he just groaned out loud. And is he muttering under his breath? 

Curiously, Simon pulls his phone out of his pocket. 

Wille
I’m here!!!

Simon snorts. Wille’s - no! - Wilhelm’s text is kind of cute.

No! Not cute. Annoying. Three exclamation points? Really?

And he really needs to change that damn name in his phone…

He wonders if Wilhelm was just beating himself up because of the overenthusiastic text with three whole exclamation points, and if that’s the case, that actually is sorta cute…no, you bastard!

UGH.

Simon must’ve said that ugh out loud because the shopkeeper is giving him a suspicious look. 

He looks back up at Wilhelm to see him pacing again and looking at his phone every five seconds. Simon glances at the time. It’s 8:07. He’s a little late. Good. Wilhelm can sweat it out a bit. Serves him right. 

And no. Simon isn’t delaying on purpose to get his shit together. He’s fine. He’s calm. The plan is solid. 

Simon manically wanders the aisles of the 7-Eleven for a few minutes, finally buying a Twix and almost choking as he feverishly eats both halves like a deranged raccoon. 

He’s fine. 

After wiping all the excess crumbs off himself and an awkward wave goodbye to the judgy shopkeeper, Simon takes a deep breath and walks outside. Wilhelm’s back is to him as he approaches. God, this is so fucking awkward. For half a second, Simon considers turning and running in the opposite direction, but he’s come too far now to just give up. He’s going to take Wilhelm out, show him an excellent time, and then drop him like a hot potato.

Revenge mode activate!

“Hey.”

Wilhelm jumps in surprise, spinning around so quickly that Simon thinks he might topple right over. His face flickers with every emotion under the sun. Relief, happiness, nerves, panic, curiosity, fear, surprise. His eyes travel down Simon’s body making Simon shuffle uncomfortably on his feet, suddenly a little self-conscious in his old hoodie and baggy jeans. 

“Hey,” Wilhelm replies softly. 

They stare at each other for a moment until they both say “Hur mår du?” at the exact same time. They laugh and Simon is struck with an eerie rush of deja vu. This is so similar to that night many years ago when Wilhelm met him for Rosh’s football match. It’s…disconcerting to say the least. 

It would appear that Wilhelm is thinking the same thing because he actually says out loud with a nervous chuckle, “Wow, deja vu.” 

Simon can’t deal with the fond look in Wilhelm’s eyes, so he snaps his focus back to the #plan.

He returns the chuckle, hoping it doesn’t come off as too fake. He steps forward and gives Wilhelm a short hug. A surprised gasp brushes against his ear and he briefly feels hands on his back. He pulls back quickly.

“Are we getting coffee?” Wilhelm asks curiously, gesturing to the coffee shop on the street corner. 

Simon smiles teasingly, “A bit late for coffee, don’t you think?” 

Wilhelm grins back, looking more relieved by the second, “I thought it was an odd choice…” He laughs a bit, “But I’m always in need of caffeine.” 

“Still a night owl then?”

“Always.” 

Simon shuffles awkwardly on his feet. If this was a real date, he’d say it’s a little awkward, but in that jittery way where your pulse is racing and your heart is in your throat and your stomach is all queasy. But that’s probably just the hastily-eaten Twix talking.

“Malin isn’t happy that she doesn’t know where we’re going,” Wilhelm murmurs with amusement, looking over at the stoic blonde woman who is hovering nearby. 

Simon grins, “Well, she’s really not gonna be happy when she finds out this is all a kidnapping scheme.” 

A surprised laugh bubbles out of Wilhelm, “At least tell me the ransom will be high.” 

“Oh yeah, they’ll have to sell Drottningholm to afford it.” 

Wilhelm barks out another laugh and Simon hears Malin let out a quiet annoyed sigh, which honestly may the first time he’s ever heard her make a noise. 

“Let’s go,” Simon says, tilting his head to the left and away from the coffee shop. 

Wilhelm follows without hesitation. They walk down the street in silence. Simon can’t believe he just bantered with Wilhelm. This doesn’t feel like real life. Never in a million years could he have guessed that this is how this week would’ve turned out. 

About halfway up the street, Simon stops abruptly, “Here we are.” 

Wilhelm looks at the sign on the door and snorts, “Bowling? Really?” 

Simon chuckles, “Yup. Have a problem with that?” 

Wilhelm’s eyes twinkle with delight, “Not at all, but…” He hesitates, a faint blush rising on his cheeks.

“But…?”

“I’ve never bowled before.” 

“You’re joking.” Of course Wilhelm has never been bowling before.

Wilhelm shakes his head sheepishly. 

“How have you never been bowling?” 

“The opportunity has never presented itself.” 

“None of your friends had their birthday parties at a bowling alley?” 

Wilhelm shrugs, “I didn’t go to many of those.” 

Simon stares at him. Sometimes it’s so easy to forget just how different their lives have been, even though this was a big part of the reason Drunk Simon picked bowling. For one, to keep things on his turf. And for two, to see how the Crown Prince’s polished exterior holds up when doing something as undignified as bowling. 

“Well come on then. Time to lose your bowling virginity,” Simon grins, walking through the door and leaving behind a suddenly bright red Wilhelm. 

The bowling alley is thankfully not busy and dimly lit with cosmic neon lighting, because it didn’t even occur to Simon until this exact moment that Wilhelm might not want to be seen in public with him. Then again, Wilhelm doesn’t seem on edge or uncomfortable. He’s not looking around with paranoid eyes. In fact, Simon can’t help but notice that Wilhelm’s eyes haven’t left him once. 

Shaking off that thought, Simon heads over to the counter where he requests a lane and shoes in his size. He turns to ask Wilhelm for his shoe size, and he seems baffled by the question. Simon tries not to laugh. How is it possible that a person can be so out of touch with reality? 

When it’s time to pay, Wilhelm fumbles for his card, but Simon pays with his phone before he can get it out. “My treat,” he says, grabbing his shoes and walking over to their lane. Wilhelm looks both touched and flustered as he puts his wallet away and scrambles to follow. 

They both sit and lean over to change into the bowling shoes. 

“These are hideous,” Wilhelm remarks with a face as he laces up the multicolored shoes. 

Simon laughs, “It’s all part of the humiliating bowling experience. Wearing the hideous shoes, everybody watching your ball go in the gutter, the embarrassing walk of shame back over from the lane.”

Wilhelm raises an eyebrow, “And people find this fun?” He stands up and walks in a circle, testing out the shoes, sliding around on the slippery floor. Simon has to look away because goddammit he’s being cute again. 

Simon stands up as well, ignoring the fluttery feeling in his stomach, “Time to grab some balls.” 

Wilhelm chokes and sputters in response. Holding back a laugh, Simon turns on his heel to walk over to the rack with the bowling balls. He hears Wilhelm trail closely behind him. 

“Alright, let’s see which holes your fingers fit in,” Simon gestures to the balls. 

“Oh my god,” Wilhelm groans.

Simon can’t help but laugh this time as he lifts a ball to test out the weight, “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Is bowling nothing but bad puns?” Wilhelm asks with a chuckle. 

“Correct.” The little devil on Simon’s shoulder can’t resist a few more ball puns, “Alright,” he says, sweeping a hand over the balls. “Take your time getting a feel for each ball. You don’t want your ball to be too heavy or your holes too tight.” 

Wilhelm lets out a hilarious noise that’s a cross between a snort and a choked cough. “Really?” He asks incredulously.

“What?” Simon puts on an innocent face. “It’s important to have the right-sized balls.” 

Wilhelm throws his head back with a laugh. Despite being redder than a firetruck, he makes an attempt at his own ball joke, “Okay, let’s get a closer look at these balls.” 

After sticking his fingers in some holes that are too snug, Wilhelm picks out a shiny ball with swirls of bright orange and pearly white. Simon goes for a solid purple ball with a metallic sheen, cradling it under his arm as they walk back over to the lane. 

Simon spends a few minutes explaining the scoring and how the turns work, hyperaware of Wilhelm watching him closely the entire time, his intense eyes glowing under the blue and purple neon lights. 

Simon bowls first and manages to pick up a spare right away. “That’s how it’s done,” he says smugly as he sits behind the computer.

Wilhelm, on the other hand, his ball goes straight into the gutter on both attempts. Even under the shadowy neon lighting, Simon can see that he is burning red as he walks back over sheepishly. 

Simon teases him, “I can have them put up the bumper guards if you want.” 

Wilhelm pouts, sitting next to him, “It’s my first time.” 

“Listen, we can’t all be athletes,” Simon jokes as he stands up for his next turn. 

As the game progresses, it quickly becomes clear that Wilhelm is absolutely atrocious at bowling. Which unfortunately is rather endearing, especially because he seems to be trying really hard. Simon catches himself a few times with a huge grin on his face, and every time it happens, he has to mentally slap the smile right off his own face. 

To no one’s surprise, Simon kicks Wilhelm’s ass in two back-to-back games, which has Wilhelm sitting all huffy with his arms crossed, even though his displeasure is very much undermined by the amused twinkle in his eye.

During the third game, Wilhelm bowls his fourth gutterball in a row, which results in him groaning loudly and literally stomping his foot, which makes Simon want to scream it’s so cute. To distract himself, he flees to the snack bar where he orders a basket of fries and two beers, despite knowing alcohol is a bad idea. But he needs a little something to take the edge off.

Because unfortunately, watching Wilhelm bowl is affecting him far more than it should. Not only because of the playfulness of it all, but also the normalcy of it. 

It’s like, if he squints enough, he can imagine that this is what it would be like if Wilhelm was just a regular guy he’d met at a bar or bookstore or party, and Simon had asked for his phone number. And he wouldn’t have been able to wait even a day to call him up and ask him out. And it would only take one date for him to realize just how head over heels he could fall for this person. 

There’s also the deeply disturbing thought…is this what life would be like if Wilhelm’s brother had lived?

Would they have stayed together? Would every day be like this? Flirty banter and lingering looks and comforting hugs? Would it be completely normal to grab the strings of Wilhelm’s hoodie and pull him into a deep kiss? Would they go out on dates like this and then go home together? Curl up on the couch and hold each other? 

Fuck.

To combat the unexpected sting of tears behind his eyes, Simon takes a long swallow of the beer that was just placed in front of him. He shakes his head to rid himself of the hollow wistfulness for a life that will never exist. The basket of fries appears, and he immediately shoves a handful into his mouth just to deflect the feelings. Feelings that have no right affecting him like this. Feelings that can fuck all the way off. 

On the walk back over to their lane with everything held precariously in his arms, Simon can feel Wilhelm’s gaze on him and it makes the back of his neck tingle a little…which he finds totally unpleasant. 

Wilhelm takes the beers from him and they sit opposite each other at the table next to their lane. An awkward silence hovers between them as they sip the drinks and share the fries. 

Simon still feels off, but he knows that he needs to steer them back toward the lighthearted, playful vibes. (Because of the #plan. No other reason.). So he attempts a first date joke, “So what do you do?”

Wilhelm does a terrible job of trying to hide a pained grimace behind a chuckle. 

Great job, Simon. Way to improve the mood. Really. You nailed it. 

“Sorry,” Simon winces with a strained smile. 

Wilhelm shakes his head, “It’s fine.” Based on his expression, Simon would guess that Wilhelm is also trying to shake off some of the awkwardness. This time when he speaks, he leans into the joke, “I mainly just stand around looking pretty.”

Simon laughs. Damn, ain’t that the truth. 

“How about you?” Wilhelm asks with genuine curiosity.

A warm flush blooms on Simon’s cheeks against his will. He really wishes he would’ve led the conversation down a different path; it’s embarrassing somehow to share things about his run-of-the-mill life with the Crown Prince. But he answers anyway, “I teach first grade music.” 

Wilhelm looks equal parts shocked and delighted, “Simon Eriksson teaches kids?” 

Simon ducks his head, “What? Is that hard to believe?”

“Not at all,” Wilhelm answers quickly. “I just assumed you perform or make music for a living. Especially after your performance the other night.”

Wilhelm blushes when he mentions the other night, which makes Simon blush a little too dammit. This is the first time they’ve acknowledged that night. (You know, Tuesday night when Simon bent him over a sink and had his way with him? Just in case you forgot.)

“About the other night…” Wilhelm breathes out slowly. “That was—”

NOPE!

Simon cuts him right the hell off with an abrupt, “Be right back.” He stands up quickly, almost knocking over his beer.

Wilhelm stares up at him and opens his mouth to say something, but Simon can’t fucking do this. He hauls ass to the bathroom, shuts the door behind himself, and collapses against the door. For the five-hundredth time today, he asks himself what the fuck were you thinking?!

Despite constantly calling himself one, Simon is not actually an idiot and yet he keeps making the most idiotic decisions of all time. Such as thinking he had the soundness of mind or emotional bandwidth to be around Wilhelm. How the hell did he think he was going to get back at Wilhelm when he can barely think straight? Why the fuck did he ever think this was a good idea when his emotions won’t stop ping-ponging back and forth between irrepressible anger and foolish desire? 

Did you really think you were just going to have some lighthearted fun with Wilhelm, drop him, and then walk away without any remorse? 

It would appear, as he stands staring at the wall, that Rational Simon is back in the room with us. Rational Simon takes him very gently by the shoulders to confirm that this was, in fact, the dumbest plan of all time.

There’s truly no winning here. 

He needs to end this. 

Now. 

It’s not fair to himself. And honestly, he’s starting to think it might not be fair to Wilhelm, who continues to be so obnoxiously sweet as if nothing bad ever happened between them.

Who are they kidding? They can’t just be normal together. Not when they exist in completely different worlds and lead completely different lives. And he mustn’t forget that Wilhelm once betrayed his trust and disappeared without so much as a “see you never” and it could easily happen again. 

With new resolve to walk away from this untenable situation right this second, Simon exits the bathroom and almost walks straight into Wilhelm who is waiting in the hallway. 

Wilhelm looks nervous and uncertain, his mouth opening and closing like he wants to say something. Simon braces himself. When Wilhelm manages to speak though, it is to say something expected. “Um - do you want to play arcade games?” Wilhelm asks with a shy smile. 

The question throws Simon for such a loop that he needs a minute to recover before he can reply. He opens his mouth to say “thanks but no thanks” and to say that he’s leaving and “this was a bad idea” and “sorry not sorry” but he can’t get the words out. It’s like an unknown force is holding his voice box in a tight, unrelenting grip.

He needs more time.

Not more time with Wilhelm! More time to work up the nerve to bail. 

One arcade game never hurt anybody. They can play pinball or skee-ball or something and then he’ll leave. So he nods silently and the happy relief on Wilhelm’s face does nothing for him. It leaves him completely cold. 

It turns out that arcade games absolutely can hurt somebody (mentally) and are way sexier than Simon could’ve ever anticipated. Especially since Wilhelm shed his hoodie at some point and his arms are now on full display. 

First, he watches a little too closely as Wilhelm pounds moles into the ground during Whack-a-Mole. Who said his arm muscles are allowed to flex like that? What gives those veins the right to bulge under his skin like that? 

Next, Wilhelm uses his nimble fingers, which are just a little too long and slender, to win a plush frog from the claw machine. He hands it over to Simon with a bashful smile and Simon definitely absolutely does not plan on keeping this damn frog. It’s going straight into the first trashcan he sees when he leaves this place. 

They play a few rounds of skee-ball and he does not notice how Wilhelm cradles two of those little balls in his hand, nor the way his ass looks when he bends over to grab another ball from the ball slot. 

During air hockey, Wilhelm lets out tiny grunts every time he leans over to hit the puck. And dammit, those tiny grunts are not sexy. 

While throwing basketballs, Wilhelm’s shirt rides up every time he tosses the ball, revealing a tantalizing sliver of skin, which Simon absolutely does not look at, nor think about tracing with his tongue. 

And when Wilhelm straddles a motorcycle for one of those street racing games, Simon totally doesn’t have to turn and look in the opposite direction just to avoid getting an arcade-boner. 

Simon knows it’s a bad idea when they both crawl into the Jurassic Park game and yet he does it anyway because he’s apparently lost all sense of reason. The cramped, dark interior is tiny and child-sized, which means the entire lengths of their sides and thighs are pressed tightly together as they shoot dinosaurs side by side. Wilhelm’s warmth bleeds into his already overly warm body and he can hardly focus on a single thing, let alone try to kill an insane army of velociraptors, so he knows he’s not gonna last long (in the game!). 

He pays no attention to the adorable and infectious laughter coming from Wilhelm as more and more dinosaurs and rabid beetles attack them from all sides. Simon manages to take out a t-rex, prompting Wilhelm to bump their shoulders together with a “nice one.” 

Simon dies not long after that, so he watches Wilhelm fight dinosaurs on his own. He watches the screen. He does not let his eyes wander down to where Wilhelm’s hands are tightly gripping the handles of the toy stun gun. 

When Wilhelm finally gets eaten and dramatically yells “noooo,” Simon turns to laugh at him, but the laughter catches in his throat when their eyes meet. Simon forgets how to breathe as Wilhelm’s shadowy face flickers with emotion and his eyes slowly drop to Simon’s lips. 

Fuck. 

Simon wants to kiss him. 

No he doesn’t. 

Yes he does. 

No he doesn’t. 

This is not part of the plan. 

Wilhelm leans in; his gaze locked on Simon’s mouth. The flashing lights of the game sparkle in his cavernous honey brown eyes, which are so fucking mesmerizing right now that Simon couldn’t look away if he tried. Wilhelm gets close enough that Simon can feel his breath on his lips, sending chills up and down the length of his spine. 

Simon almost lets it happen. He wants it to happen. He needs it to happen. 

But at the last second, he remembers what happened the last time he kissed Wilhelm. How he left him alone and humiliated him and destroyed the beautiful burgeoning relationship that had been forming between them.

He jerks back, ignoring the disappointment on Wilhelm’s face as he swiftly climbs out of the game. It takes Wilhelm a minute to follow and the awkward tension is back. Simon wants out again. He needs to be as far away from here as possible. 

“I should head out,” Simon mumbles, running a nervous hand through his curls. “I have to work early tomorrow.” 

Wilhelm nods slowly, his face still awash with disappointment and confusion. He takes a breath and asks tentatively, “Can I walk you home?”

N-O-P-E. 

Simon shakes his head, “I’m heading to the train station.” 

“To the train station then?” Wilhelm’s face is so hopeful that Simon can’t stand to look at it. But he can’t really think of a good excuse to say no and it’s not a far walk, so he agrees weakly. 

The silence follows them as they walk back over to the bowling lane to change into their sneakers. 

As they exit the bowling alley, Wilhelm holds the door open for him and quietly says, “This was really fun. Thank you for inviting me.” 

Simon hums indistinctly, unsure how to act now that there are no games to distract them. They walk down the street toward the train station in silence. Simon can feel Wilhelm wanting to say something and he really hopes that Wilhelm can’t find the words, because he’s feeling extremely overstimulated right now and he’s not sure he can handle any sort of conversation. 

But then inexplicably, he doesn’t have to worry about conversation anymore. The heavens open up and it starts pouring rain out of nowhere. Wilhelm looks up at the sky with a surprised laugh. Feeling like the universe is playing yet another cruel joke on him, Simon pushes his soggy curls out of his eyes and looks around for an awning to hide under, but of course there’s nothing nearby. 

“My car is on the corner. Come on,” Wilhelm shouts over the sound of the torrential downpour as heavy rain smacks the pavement. 

Simon is already completely soaked and freezing, so it doesn’t even occur to him to argue. He just runs after Wilhelm, dodging puddles and blinking rain out of his eyes. 

They stumble into the back of a black car and Wilhelm slams the car door behind them. In that quiet interior of the car, both men are panting loudly from running and wiping at their wet faces and then they take one look at each other and they both double over with laughter. 

“We look like two drowned rats,” Wilhelm laughs, pushing wet strands of hair off his forehead. 

Simon giggles, “Gee, thanks.” 

Wilhelm smiles wickedly at him, “Only you could make drowned rat look good.” 

Simon gapes at him in response to the sudden and bizarre compliment, which makes Wilhelm smile even harder at him. 

Simon shivers against the cold leather of the car interior. His clothes are sticking uncomfortably to his skin and his socks are soaked through and squelching inside his shoes. Ugh. The worst feeling in the world.

Wilhelm must notice his discomfort as he squirms in his seat, because he begins to stammer, “Do you, um, want…would you - we could—“ Simon can’t help the laugh that escapes him at Wilhelm’s eloquent words. Wilhelm rolls his eyes at the laugh. He takes a deep breath and says more firmly, “My place is nearby. Do you want to stop by to change? I can loan you some clothes.”

Simon stares at him, his teeth chattering. Does he mean the palace? Why the fuck would he take him there? And why the hell is a “yes” sitting right on the tip of his tongue? Suddenly a burning curiosity grabs ahold of him and it won’t let go.

If Wilhelm’s place is nearby and there are dry clothes there, that does sound convenient…

He’s taking too long to answer. Wilhelm is watching him with shy anticipation and there’s also a shred of resignation there, like he already knows the answer is a no and he’s just waiting to hear it, which for some reason makes Simon want to say yes.

Fuck it. He needs dry socks ASAP or he’ll get trench foot and die of hypothermia. He’s certain of it. 

“Okay,” he agrees.

Wilhelm eyes go wide with disbelief and he kinda looks like he just won the lottery and goddammit Simon feels his stomach swoop a little. When Wilhelm leans forward to ask Malin to drive them to his place, he does a very poor job of concealing his delight.

The car makes a u-turn, heading toward downtown. Wilhelm taps at his phone until music starts playing in the car. Simon is shocked to hear WILDFLOWER by Billie Eilish - one of his favorites - float out of the speakers. If someone had asked him to guess what kind of music Wilhelm is into, he’s not sure what he would’ve guessed, but this definitely wouldn’t have been on the list.

With the drum of rainfall against the windows and the darkness in the back of the car and the vibey music, Simon suddenly feels like he’s floating outside his body; like he’s in a montage in a movie. He leans his head back and closes his eyes; most of his senses dulled by the heavy sounds of rainfall and languid music. Through his closed eyelids, hazy streetlights dance across his vision, enhancing the dreamlike trance and quieting his busy brain. 

A few minutes later, he can sense they are sitting at a red light and the prickly sensation of being watched washes over him. His eyes flutter open and instantly meet the glowing orbs of Wilhelm’s eyes in the shadowy backseat. They hold each other’s gaze for what feels like forever. Simon’s breathing turns shallow, and a tingly warmth floods his chest as he returns Wilhelm’s intense stare.

When the car moves, Simon closes his eyes again. The warmth radiating through his chest spreads to his limbs, sparking an intense ache in his fingers. In his head, he replays his memories from earlier — watching Wilhelm bowl gutterballs and play chaotic arcade games and run down the street in the pouring rain. It’s incomprehensible that he now possesses a new collection of Wilhelm memories after all these years. Like his own private highlight reel, running through his mind on a loop, featuring a hypnotic set of cinnamon brown eyes locked on his own. 

The car slows to a stop, snapping him out of the daze. The drive took around fifteen minutes, which amuses Simon because he wouldn’t exactly call this nearby. They could’ve driven him home by now, but he finds that he doesn’t really care. He looks out the window at an older apartment building.

“Do you live here?” Simon asks curiously, turning back to glance at Wilhelm. 

Wilhelm’s shiny eyes are soft, almost sleepy, and his head is still leaning back against the leather headrest. “Mhmm,” he murmurs. God, he is so… Wilhelm interrupts that dangerous thought with a softly spoken, “I have an apartment here.” 

Simon blinks at him in surprise. He assumed that Wilhelm would be required to live in the palace. And who would’ve thought that Wilhelm would live in an older building like this? You’d think it would be in one of the brand new luxury buildings in a trendier neighborhood. But then again, he has no idea what the inside is like. It could very well be a fully renovated apartment with an indoor pool and jacuzzi and totally devoid of personality. 

Guess he’s about to find out. If he’s honest, the thought of seeing where Wilhelm lives is a little terrifying, but also kind of exciting. 

The door opens on Wilhelm’s side opens to reveal Malin with a giant black umbrella. Wilhelm climbs out and takes the umbrella. Simon opens his own door, but before he can step out, Wilhelm is there, pulling the door the rest of the way open, and covering Simon with the umbrella. 

It’s only because of the umbrella that Simon lets Wilhelm press him into his side as they walk up the sidewalk and into the building. The small lobby is ordinary with a wall of little mailboxes, a narrow staircase, and a lift. After shaking the excess water out of the umbrella, Wilhelm leads Simon up the stairs to the third floor. 

Nothing could have prepared Simon for what he finds inside Wilhelm’s apartment. 

Instead of a lavish and impersonal bachelor pad as expected, Wilhelm’s apartment is cozy, warm, and unique.

…And kind of all over the place. 

And by that, Simon means that it looks like a work in progress. Every corner has what looks like a half-finished project.

There is only one picture hung up on the wall, but there is a stack of framed art and photographs waiting to be hung up. The wall behind the TV is half wallpapered with a sage green geometric print. The backsplash in the kitchen is partially tiled and Simon can see a stack of tiles sitting in a corner of the floor under a drop cloth with an array of other supplies. One window is covered by sheer curtains, but another window is still curtain-less with fabric folded up on the windowsill. 

There is hardly any furniture - just one large armchair next to a mahogany coffee table in front of an empty spot where a sofa should go and a mostly empty bookshelf. There is a soft oriental rug in the center of the room. One table lamp is sitting on the floor, presumably waiting for a home on a table that doesn’t exist yet. 

But most importantly, there is a fluffy cat perched right on the edge of the kitchen island, watching him with curious, emerald green eyes.

Simon can’t believe what he’s seeing. Wilhelm has a cat??! 

Wilhelm walks over to greet the regal cat, rubbing a hand down its back. He looks back at Simon and waves him over, “Simon, please meet Charlie. Charles if he’s been bad.” His eyes twinkle playfully. “Charlie, this is Simon.” 

Simon steps closer. Charlie might be the cutest cat he’s ever seen in real life. He is like 90% hair with the floofiest tail ever, a perfectly pink nose, and one of those brainless, dumb boy cat looks on his face and it’s so fucking cute. 

The brown and black striped cat hops down to the floor, sniffs at Simon’s feet, then rolls lazily onto his side and presents his white underside for some belly rubs. Simon doesn’t have a lot of experience with cats, but he is fairly certain this is some kind of trap. But he kneels and rubs his belly anyway. 

After receiving two or three pets, Charlie clenches his arms and legs around Simon, playfully kicking and clawing at his skin, but with no real force. Simon snatches back his hand with a yelp. How fickle.

Wilhelm laughs, crouching down at Simon’s side to scratch the sides of the cat’s face and under his chin. The cat nuzzles his hand, leaning into the attention, purring loudly like a car engine. 

The cat soon grows bored of them both, finding a stray bottle cap to play with - only to immediately bat it under the oven, then he collapses for a tail bath. 

Simon instantly loves him.

“I’m sorry about the mess,” Wilhelm says sheepishly as he stands back up. “I wasn’t expecting a guest.” A blush sits squarely on both cheeks as he shuffles around, moving stuff.

“Remodeling?”

“Sort of?” Wilhelm rubs the back of his neck, looking around. “I’m trying to do it all myself. Picking out the furniture too, but it’s very slow going. Been watching a lot of YouTube videos to learn how to do everything,” he admits with a chuckle and a shrug. 

Simon stares at him. Wilhelm is renovating this place himself? And picking out his own furniture? Doesn’t he have people that can do all of this for him? And why doesn’t he live in the palace where there is undoubtedly a large staff to wait on him? 

And he has a cat? 

Simon is utterly baffled. This reality is so completely unexpected and the exact opposite of the life he thought Wilhelm has been living all these years. It’s so…normal. And un-princelike.

His fragile brain really can’t handle this right now. With every additional second he spends with Wilhelm, the more surprised he is by the person he is discovering behind the prince facade. It’s extremely unnerving to know how utterly wrong he’s been about so many things. 

“Let me get you some clothes,” Wilhelm says, stepping toward the bedroom. “Feel free to have a seat in my one chair,” he laughs. “Oh! And do you want something to drink?” He heads toward the kitchen and peers into the refrigerator. He holds up a can of Coke. “Soda?” 

Simon is still freaking out on the inside as he struggles to take in Wilhelm’s normal apartment and normal cat. Hell, he might need something stronger than a soda. But he nods anyway. Wilhelm presses the Coke into his hand and disappears into the bedroom. 

Simon walks over and inspects the vintagey brown upholstered armchair, but he doesn’t sit in his wet jeans. It looks really cozy and spacious; almost wide enough to fit two people. There is a TV set up directly across from the chair and the remote sits on the arm, making Simon smile. Of course a TV is the one thing that’s fully set up and ready to go. Wilhelm has the right priorities. He can easily imagine Wilhelm sitting in this chair, legs twisted up underneath himself, watching TV with a cat in his lap. 

Once again, a bittersweet melancholic ache prickles under his skin as he finds himself imagining a timeline in which things had worked out and they could do this together. Curl up on a sofa with a pet sprawled across their laps, cuddling and sharing popcorn, arguing about what movie to put on, kissing instead of paying attention to what’s happening on the screen. 

The thought makes him want to cry again. God, get a fucking grip, Eriksson. 

Wilhelm reappears with a stack of clothes, his cat trailing at his feet. “Here you go,” he passes them over with a smile. 

Simon accepts the clothes and walks to the bathroom to change. With a grimace, he peels the damp jeans, boxers, and t-shirt off his clammy body. While he lets his body airdry a bit, he fusses with his hair in the mirror. Because of the moisture, his curls are unkempt in that wild way that he normally tries to the tame with product. But now he just runs a hand through them, letting them go crazy.

He pulls on the gray sweatpants, white t-shirt, and socks provided by Wilhelm. He smirks at the lack of underwear, wondering if that was an intentional choice on Wilhelm’s part or an oversight. It’s fucked up and he’d never admit it out loud, but going commando in the Crown Prince’s apartment is a little thrilling. 

God, there’s something so very wrong with him. 

With a deep breath, he exits the bathroom to find Wilhelm is his own set of sweats, sitting cross-legged in the chair with Charlie in his lap. 

Fuck, the sight of them both is too much to take. 

When Wilhelm sees him, his eyes travel the length of his body and Simon feels a little self-conscious under his heavy gaze. He stands, taking the cat with him, and gestures to the chair with his shoulder, “Have a seat.” 

Simon looks over to the door where his drenched shoes are waiting. He should leave. Being here is too risky. He’s already overwhelmed by everything that’s happened tonight and the sight of Wilhelm in sweatpants is not helping the situation. 

“I can have Malin take you home if you want,” Wilhelm offers, his voice soft and kind. 

Simon really wishes Wilhelm would stop being so disarmingly sweet. It’s like salt in the wound. And it keeps making him want to say yes in situations where the answer should so clearly be a no. 

Simon walks over to the chair and sits, picking up his Coke from the coffee table. He might as well finish the soda before he leaves. Give his shoes a chance to dry out a little. 

After the cat jumps out of his arms, Wilhelm sits on the rug in front of the coffee table and next to the chair. “I really need a couch,” he chuckles, lifting his own soda to his lips. 

Simon nods, taking in more of the sparse details of the room, “Do you always sit on the floor when you have guests?” 

“I don’t ever really have anyone over. Occasionally Felice, but we mostly hang out at her place instead.” He runs a hand along Charlie’s back and up his tail as the cat stands next to him. “Usually it’s just me and Charlie here.” 

So Wilhelm spends most of his free time in an empty apartment with a cat. Sounds familiar, minus the pet. Maybe Simon should get one of those. 

“Can I ask…” Wilhelm begins hesitantly, picking at a small hole in his sock. “Why did you take me bowling?” 

Excellent question. If only Simon knew the answer. Revenge? Curiosity? Pure insanity? Something unnameable that won’t release its death grip on him? 

Simon stares into his soda can, “I don’t - know exactly. I was a little curious I suppose.” 

“Curious about what?” 

Simon lets out an unsteady exhale, “About who you are nowadays.”

Wilhelm stares at the floor, his eyes a little shiny with emotion. He huffs out an unhappy laugh, “Let me know when you find out.” 

“You seem to be doing pretty well for yourself.”

“Then I guess it’s working.” 

Simon’s brow furrows in confusion, “What’s working?” 

“The Royal Court’s carefully crafted image.” 

Simon doesn’t know how to respond to that. Not in a snarky, non-asshole way at least. Instead, he can’t resist asking, “How did you end up living here? Instead of the palace?” 

Wilhelm looks around his apartment with a hint of pride in his expression. “Took me a decade to convince my mamma to let me move out. Wore her down,” he says with a grin. “I just needed some way to feel normal. And I guess this was the best of the worst out of the options I gave her.” 

Simon has no idea why he feels a little proud of him. Given the rigidness of the monarchy, it does seem like quite the accomplishment to win an argument with the Queen. 

They continue talking; the conversation growing less and less stilted as they sit and talk about their everyday lives. Simon shares more about his job and tells him about how he lives alone now and Wilhelm explains that he works from Haga Palace during the week, sometimes leaving Charlie next door and sometimes carting him back and forth in his carrier.

He hates to admit it, but talking to Wilhelm still feels very natural. He’d forgotten how much of an ego boost it is for Wilhelm to give him his complete undivided attention. When he was sixteen, this was one of the things that drew him to Wilhelm. How, despite being an outsider and despite his ethnicity and class, Wilhelm always treated him like he’s the most interesting person in the world. And none of that has changed. In fact, he gets the impression that Wilhelm is telling him more intimate details about his life than he’d share with anybody else. 

Wilhelm is recounting a horrific story from his military training days when Simon’s mind starts to wander. From this angle, sitting slightly above Wilhelm, he has a perfect bird’s eye view of Wilhelm’s lips and his toned arms and he can’t stop looking. Wilhelm stretches his legs out in front of himself, flexing his toes, and Simon’s eyes drop to his lap where his sweatpants are slightly bunching up. 

He really should leave, but something is holding him in place like quicksand. 

And that something is his cock. He feels himself twitching in his pants and the steady thrum of his heartbeat picking up speed in his chest. A warm ache blooms in his abdomen as he watches Wilhelm’s slender fingers wrap around the Coke can. 

Then, out of the blue, Simon’s mouth takes on a mind of its own, and without even bothering to run it by him, it says, “You know, I think there’s enough room for two in this chair.” 

ERIKSSON, you did not just say that!!!

Wilhelm’s jaw drops all the way to the floor and after remaining frozen for what feels like an hour, his eyes darken. He sets his soda on the coffee table and stands up slowly, hovering beside the chair uncertainly. Simon takes a deep breath and shuffles over, leaving a Wilhelm-sized gap next to him. 

As Wilhelm gingerly lowers himself into the spot, all the air leaves the room. The shallow sounds of their breathing permeates the thick air around their bodies.

Simon was right. There is enough room for two in this chair, but that doesn’t mean it’s not snug. Wilhelm’s arm and thigh overlap slightly with Simon’s in such a way that he’s almost in his lap and it’s enough for the arousal pooling in Simon’s stomach to boil over. He’s getting hard. Faster than he has in years. He feels like a teenager again. 

It’s pretty amusing when you think about it. Two adult men - both basically thirty - squeezing into an armchair and getting turned on simply by the proximity of their bodies. But all amusement swiftly vanishes from his mind when he feels Wilhelm’s finger brush against the sliver of skin between his shirt and waistband. 

He swallows hard, his throat suddenly bone dry. He doesn’t dare turn his head because that would put him entirely too close to Wilhelm’s lips and his self-control certainly can’t be trusted right now. Instead, he reaches his own hand out and slips it between Wilhelm’s legs, wedging it between his thighs, gripping a handful of fabric-covered flesh and kneading it gently. 

Wilhelm moans softly and god. Simon is so fucked. He has no idea what the fuck he’s doing, but whatever it is, he needs to get it out of his system. Again. He needs to get Wilhelm off. It’s not even a choice. He’s utterly powerless to resist as if he’s being sucked into his orbit by an inescapable gravitational pull. 

Fuck it. This is happening. 

He slides his hand up and covers the bulge in Wilhelm’s sweatpants with his palm, squeezing firmly. Wilhelm’s head falls sideways onto his shoulder with a shaky exhale. Simon massages his hardening erection over the pants, feeling himself fully stiffen in his own sweatpants. 

Wilhelm is breathing really fucking hard against his neck and Simon suddenly feels a mouth on his throat, softly kissing below his ear then sucking lightly, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. 

Fucking hell, he’s going to die. 

Wilhelm’s hand slides up his thigh, heading for his cock. But Simon can’t.

He just can’t.

To put some distance between them, he twists so he’s slightly on top of Wilhelm and slides down his body. He drops out of the chair onto his knees, tugging on the waistband of Wilhelm’s pants as he goes. 

Wilhelm lets out a surprised gasp; his eyes dark and swimming with lust. He lifts his hips, allowing Simon to pull his pants and briefs down to his ankles. Simon stares hungrily at Wilhelm’s flushed cock where it rests against his stomach. He didn’t get a good look last time because of the angle of Wilhelm bent over the sink, but now he has a hell of a view and fuck is it perfect. 

He runs his hands up Wilhelm’s bare thighs, stroking the light blonde hair of his legs, then without further ado, he swipes his tongue across the tip of Wilhelm’s cock, tasting him. Wilhelm moans and his hands instantly find their way into Simon’s hair. Simon bites back his own moan at the shivery pleasure of fingers massaging and very lightly scratching his scalp. 

He swirls his tongue down the full length of Wilhelm’s cock, paying close attention to the underside, licking right below the head. Wilhelm squirms beneath him, tugging harder on his curls with each moan he lets out. 

As he takes Wilhelm fully into his mouth, sucking lightly, Simon’s brain is a hot mess littered with about a million different emotions. Full of disbelief that is even happening right now, flabbergasted with himself for initiating it, unbelievably aroused, smugly proud of himself because Wilhelm is already trembling below his mouth, overcome with nostalgia—

No! You are not allowed to get nostalgic about sucking a dick!

In an attempt to turn off his brain, Simon takes Wilhelm in deep enough that his cock nudges the back of his throat, making himself gag a little. The deep moan that flies out of Wilhelm’s mouth combined with the almost painful grip on his hair makes Simon go slightly feral. 

He doubles down, bobbing his head and letting Wilhelm brush the back of his throat over and over, breathing through his nose and suppressing his gag reflex as best he can. 

Reaching between Wilhelm’s legs, he cups his balls and gently massages the soft skin between his balls and hole, then he rubs his rim in delicate circles. 

“Fuck, Simon,” Wilhelm moans desperately, and Simon really can’t fucking deal with the erotic sound of his name spilling from the Crown Prince’s lips. 

Wilhelm’s fingers slip out of his hair and around to the back of his neck, tenderly stroking the base of his skull, sending goosebumps straight down his spine. Simon is getting more and more overwhelmed with each soft touch and by the searing arousal in his gut and by how hot Wilhelm is as he writhes underneath him. 

Two days ago when Simon fingered him in the bathroom, he had been driven by a bizarre combination of anger, resentment, lust, and the need for control. To show Wilhelm that no matter who his family is and no matter what his title is, that he’s still helpless to his desire for a man. He’d wanted to treat Wilhelm like his plaything and then throw him back in his toy chest and move on to a newer, shinier model. 

But now, his desire to get Wilhelm off is coming from a very different place. He wants Wilhelm to want him and think about him and he wants to watch him come undone for no other reason than he deserves to feel good.

And that thought, much like almost every second of the night so far, is too much for Simon to deal with. Everything about Wilhelm is too much. These feelings that he’s evoking in Simon feel too big for his body. Feelings for Wilhelm that he thought were long dead and buried. Feelings that are, in fact, alive and well, and threatening to send him up in flames until all that’s left is a charred and mangled, but still barely beating heart. 

This is fucking bullshit. 

Simon was supposed to get revenge. Closure. Redemption. He was supposed to be the one coming out on top. 

But it’s so the opposite. He’s so very, very fucked. Somehow, and he’d love to know how, Wilhelm has the upper hand now. He has Simon wrapped around his stupidly gorgeous finger. He might as well have tossed a lasso around him and drug him straight through the mud into his tight grip. 

Under the weight of this realization, Simon needs two things. He needs to make Wilhelm come harder than ever and he needs to get the fuck out of here and to safety. He’s already caught fire, but maybe he can douse the flames out there in the rain. 

Simon wraps a hand around the base of Wilhelm’s cock, stroking him firmly, and he sucks the tip into his mouth, humming to send vibrations down the other man’s cock. Right at the exact moment he hollows his cheeks and takes Wilhelm all the way into his throat, he slips the tip of his finger inside him. 

It works like a charm. Wilhelm trembles and curses and his fingers fly into Simon’s curls, holding on for dear life as he comes down Simon’s throat with a strangled groan. 

Simon loves every second of it. 

And he needs it to never fucking happen again.

Chapter Text

WILLE

Wille needs a plan. 

A plan to get Simon back. 

Because he’s in love with him. Again.

Pfft. Bullshit. He was never not in love with Simon.

But to feel it again with such intensity is something else. After many years of pining, he had carefully locked these feelings away in a vault behind laser sensors and collapsing ceilings and a sphinx with a riddle, then conveniently lost the combination. 

Well, that vault has been violently cracked wide open with a crowbar by the man himself. Simon has expertly infiltrated his secret tomb, bust open his chest, and stolen his heart for the second time. 

Maybe his thirties will be the best years of his life after all, because Simon is back in his life with a vengeance. 

If he can manage to keep Simon around that is. A task that feels, at the same time, utterly impossible and sorta kinda maybe possible. But he’s up for the challenge. He has no choice really. He can’t fumble Simon again. If there’s a chance he can keep him, he’ll do everything in his power to make it happen. 

Thus, a plan is needed. A plan to woo Simon Eriksson. 

Good thing he has plenty of time to brainstorm ideas. This morning he has to back-to-back meetings with the Royal Court, then he’ll attend a series of charity events with his mother, followed by a state dinner. All activities that require absolutely zero brainpower, so instead of doodling on the meeting agenda or trying to subtly solve a crossword puzzle on his phone like he normally would, he makes himself a list. 

💜 HOW TO GET SIMON ERIKSSON BACK 💜

• Send him cat pictures.
  
  
• Text him a link for a couch and ask his opinion.
  
  
• Ask him what kind of coffee he likes and surprise him with one.
  
  
• Stand outside his window with a boombox bluetooth speaker.
  
  
• Suggest a bad action movie marathon.
  
  
• Offer him a back massage.
  
  
• Kiss the hell out of him.
  
  
• Apologize.

That last one is pretty sobering. He knows the real answer is that he needs to have a ‘Come to Jesus’ moment with Simon. But how do you effectively apologize for something you did at sixteen and not have it come off as extremely fake? Every time he tries to think of the words, they feel so utterly inadequate. There aren’t strong enough words to explain his regret, his self-loathing, his sorrow for the years lost. 

But he has to try.

But when? And where? Apologizing in the middle of a bowling alley or coffee shop or movie theater is not going to work. He doubts he’ll be running into Simon at any parties anytime soon. How does he get Simon alone again? 

Time for another list, baby!

🤔 WAYS TO GET SIMON ERIKSSON ALONE 🤔

• Host a dinner party with a very exclusive guest list of one.
  
  
• Casually bump into him on the street at the exact moment a thunderstorm hits.
  
  
• Adopt a first-grade aged child and enroll them in Simon’s music class. 
  
  
• Ask for his help with laying some tile in his apartment. 
  
  
• Dick pic

Wille’s mind wanders back to Simon kneeling for him last night, which is all kinds of wrong given that Jan-Olof is currently sitting across from him and droning on about the logistics for a trip to France.

Fuck, that was hotter than hell. He’ll never be able to look at that armchair again without getting a little stiff.

In fact, he’s feeling a little hot under the collar right now as he fiddles with the top button of his dress shirt and reaches for the glass of water in front of him. With some effort, he navigates his thoughts back to the plan to win Simon back. 

Might as well start now. Strike while the iron is hot and all that. 

He pulls out his phone and finds a picture of Charlie curled up in a ball asleep with a paw draped across his eyes. It’s pretty fucking adorable if Wille does say so himself. 

Without hesitation, because he doesn’t want to give his overthinking scumbag of a brain a chance to catch up, he texts the picture to Simon. 

Step one of the plan to trick the love of his life into falling for him? Complete. 

LET’S GOOOO. 

▪️ ▪️ ▪️

SIMON

OW.

You know what shouldn’t hurt as badly as it does? A tiny six year old stepping on your foot. Well, his feet are no match for Gustav, the six year old equivalent of a bull in a china shop, who just accidentally stomped on Simon’s foot during a Salsa dance lesson. 

OW.

And there goes the other foot.

Today Simon is actually attempting to be a real teacher; although, he will admit that he stared at the dvd for The Princess and the Frog for a solid ten minutes before deciding against it. He should probably try not to get fired this week. 

So he’s teaching the Salsa. And teaching the Salsa to a bunch of Swedish children is…interesting. There is a complete lack of rhythm, a total absence of coordination, and it is utter chaos. 

At least the distraction is good. He hasn’t thought about Wilhelm’s smile, or Wilhelm bowling, or Wilhelm in sweatpants, or Wilhelm coming in his mouth, or Wilhelm’s disappointed face when Simon hastily left his apartment immediately post-BJ, or anything Wilhelm-related whatsoever the entire day. Not once. Not a single time. 

And he’s not thinking about it now. 

Nope, his mind is empty as he steps forward and back, hands on his hips, demonstrating the basic moves of the Salsa and trying not to laugh as his students attempt to repeat after him. 

His pocket buzzes. Without thinking, he glances at the screen only to see a text notification from Wilhelm and suddenly his students aren’t the only ones without any coordination. His heart is beating way faster than the rhythm of the song and he can’t find the beat to save his life. He nearly trips on his own two feet as he tries to get back into step. 

Shaking his head, he tries really hard to forget about the text and focus on the dance lesson, but it’s a lost cause. Now that he’s knows it exists, he can only think about the endless possibilities of what could be in that text from Wilhelm. This is the first time Wilhelm has initiated a conversation between them and Simon doesn’t have a single clue what he could possibly want.

Abruptly, he announces they are taking a break and pauses the music. He instructs his students to go to their desks and provides cartoon pictures of sea creatures with musical instruments for them to color with crayons and markers. 

Once they are all engrossed in the coloring, he steps over to his desk and digs his phone out. Bracing himself, he taps on the notification which opens to a picture of Charlie the cat.

Oh. My. God. 

Wilhelm did not just text him the cutest cat picture ever. Without any context.

Is this whatever the cute and innocent version of a thirst trap is? Because unfortunately, it might be working given that he is suddenly smiling like an idiot. 

Knock it off, you bastard. It’s just a cat picture. You see them on Instagram all the time. There’s nothing special about this one. 

He glances at the picture again. The mental image of Wilhelm laying in bed next to a sleeping cat and snapping a picture is precious enough to coax another smile out of him. 

Oh. My. God. Again. 

Get a grip!

It’s just a cat and Simon most definitely will not be responding. He locks his phone and drops it onto the desk with determination.

He will not respond to the adorable cat picture. 

He will not.

▪️ ▪️ ▪️

WILLE

Wille claps as his mother finishes her speech at a charity luncheon for…what was it again? Hell, he can’t keep track at this point. 

It’s possible that his thoughts might be a tiny bit preoccupied by the depressing lack of buzzes coming from the lifeless cellphone in his pocket. He wills it to buzz. He’s absolutely desperate to feel the shiver of a vibration against his leg. 

It’s been three hours and twenty-two minutes (not that he’s counting) since he sent the cat pic and Simon still has not responded. 

But Simon is most likely at work. Maybe he can’t look at his phone at work. He’s teaching kids about music, and surely that must require a lot of focus…

Lunchtime comes and goes and still nothing. God WHY. 

Okay, maybe Wille needs to try another approach. A cat picture doesn’t necessarily require a response, but a question does. 

He finds the link for a dark green tufted couch he’s been considering and pastes it into a text with a quick message to ask what he thinks. Before he hits send, he wonders how many texts is too many texts in one day and how many texts until he gets blocked? 

Surely two is not too many. 

With a silent prayer to not be blocked, he hits send.

Then, he unfortunately has to shake about a thousand hands in a receiving line (ugh), all the while fantasizing about a gorgeous set of velvety brown eyes (yay). 

▪️ ▪️ ▪️

SIMON

Simon is doing something very, very, very, very, very, VERY bad. 

Very bad and naughty. 

He’s having ice cream for dinner.

And he may or may not have eaten a cream-filled pastry for lunch.

Not a single nutrient has entered his body today. His mamma would kill him if she found out, but she probably won’t have to bother because the diabetic coma is imminent. 

But you know what, it’s Friday. He’s an adult. He’s had a hard week. He deserves ice cream for dinner. He earned this. 

Yes, he also earned the whipped cream on top. 

He walks out of the ice cream parlor with his giant cup of dulce de leche ice cream and a generous dollop of whipped cream, licking the strays drops off the sides. He slowly heads in the direction of his apartment as he shoves a giant spoonful into his mouth.

His phone buzzes in his front hoodie pocket and he groans into his ice cream.

Not again.

If this is Wilhelm, which he has a strong feeling that it is, this will be fourth text from him today. The fourth text that will go unanswered. 

Because Simon absolutely refuses to acknowledge any of the three previous bizarro texts. Not the cat picture, nor the text asking for his opinion on a couch, nor the text asking if he’s ever seen the 90s movie Speed with Keanu Reeves.

Still ignoring his phone, he shovels another massive spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. 

What is Wilhelm playing at? Does he think one bowling excursion plus one blow job is enough to tear down the walls between them? Does he think things are now completely normal between them? Does he think, god forbid, that something is going on between them?

Surely he’s not that delusional. 

Nothing is happening between them. Or will ever happen…again. 

Simon has gotten it completely out of his system.

He eats another spoonful of ice cream. Or maybe Wilhelm is looking for some kind of weird exes with benefits situation? He must think that because Simon has gotten him off twice that he’s willing to be his little secret again. 

Think again, buddy. 

As he turns a corner, an image of Wilhelm’s hard cock pops into his head out of nowhere (wtf brain??) and a tiny bolt of arousal zips through his abdomen. 

Fuck. 

Then, his bastard brain so rudely reminds him of how it felt to sink his fingers into Wilhelm and how tight he was. He wonders how it would feel to fuck that tight ass. He imagines the noises he would make. The look in his eyes. His fingernails scratching down his back. His tongue in his mouth. Or better yet, his tongue in his—GAH. FUCK. BRAIN FREEZE.  

Stopping in his tracks, he squeezes his eyes shut and licks the roof of his mouth as his head and throat throb with icy pain. He bounces in place, holding his forehead. Ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch. 

Then he blinks and he’s perfectly fine. Ugh, stupid ice cream.

The brain freeze seems to have fucked with his head just enough to leave him with the thought…maybe it wouldn’t be such a big deal to tell Wilhelm that yes, actually, he does quite like the couch he picked out…

Nej. 

You are not replying to Wilhelm.  

You are going home. You are going to eat a vegetable. You are going to run on the treadmill. You are going to do laundry. You will not think about Wilhelm’s ass or touching it in any way with any body part. 

He pulls his phone out and yup, it’s another stupid text from Wilhelm. What is his fucking damage? 

Wille
Omg, I just saw the cutest dog with curly hair on the street.
Made me think of you.

Wilhelm has lost his goddamn mind.

▪️ ▪️ ▪️

WILLE

During the state dinner, while sitting in between the daughters of two different rich CEOs (very suspicious seating arrangement), Wille stares at his phone where there is still no fucking text from Simon. 

He knows he needs to take the hint and back off, but he can’t. He’s like a madman possessed with a single mission to coax a reply out of Simon. He doesn’t think he’s been blocked (yet), so maybe he could just send one more text. 

So he drafts approximately 9,000 new messages but sends none of them. He has no idea what else there is to say, and at the moment, his best attempt has been: You up? And that’s obviously not going to work if he’s trying to win Simon’s heart. It might work to get in his pants though…

Tempting.

His phone buzzes, nearly giving him a heart attack, but it’s just Farima telling him to get his nose out of his phone. He glares at her and considers flipping her off, but he supposes that would be considered rude.

Instead, he wanders over to the dessert buffet where he loads up a tiny dessert plate with like fourteen desserts until it’s a precarious heap of sweet, sweet deliciousness. He shoves a cream puff into his mouth and groans as he chews.

Fuck, this cream puff is so delicious that it may have just made the whole Crown Prince thing worth it. Everything in his life that has led him to this moment…it was all worth it to be here in this exact moment with this cream puff. 

Back at his table, he eats his feelings aka the other desserts which are delicious, but nothing compares to the glorious cream puff. He texts Felice about the cream puff with a ridiculous number of heart-eye emojis just for an excuse to look at his phone again.

Still nothing from Simon.

He slumps down in his chair and shoves a third cream puff into his mouth. Blah. 

***

Around midnight, Wille is in bed with a stomachache and the lights turned low, reading on his kindle with a snoring Charlie sprawled out next to him. He really needs to go to sleep soon since he tragically has to be up at 6:00 to leave for Öland for his all-day birthday concert hell-extravaganza.

But this novel isn’t going to read itself. He’s giving Game of Thrones another try, even though he has the attention span of a goldfish and can’t keep any of the characters straight. 

It doesn’t help that his focus has been utterly shattered by the whole Simon situation. He can’t stop overthinking and the panic has set in. 

What if he’s being ghosted? 

He’s run out of excuses for why Simon hasn’t texted him back. He can no longer pretend that Simon is busy at work or that his phone died or that he’s busy making dinner or stuck in a traffic jam inside a tunnel with no service. 

All day he’s refused to admit it, but now in his lonely bed in his quiet apartment, he can’t ignore the obvious and depressing truth.

He’s lost Simon again. 

Even just thinking those words sends him miserably reeling. He swears he can physically feel his heart breaking in his chest. His shoulders and collarbones feel tight. A persistent dull ache throbs in his wrists and fingers. Every nerve in his body yearns for Simon.

It’s all a little dramatic given that he only met Simon again two days ago, but that doesn’t make it any less painful. Part of him wishes he could hit rewind and return to the blissful ignorance, because it’s as if he’s had a sneak peek of Heaven only to be sent straight to hell. 

So he’s trying to read. Just to distract himself from this reality which he is so desperate to reject. 

Ironically, just as soon as Wille has gotten as dramatic as humanly possible, his phone buzzes on the nightstand. 

He doesn’t dare look. He just stares at the sepia background of his kindle while his heart pounds in his chest. 

It’s after midnight. 

Who would be texting him after midnight? 

He knows the answer deep in his bones. 

It has to be Simon. 

It’s insane how fast relief floods his entire body like he was just dying of thirst in a desert only to stumble upon an oasis. Logically he knows he shouldn’t get too carried away before he looks, but that doesn’t stop his heart from soaring with euphoric giddiness. Please please please let this be Simon giving him a chance. Or even just Simon with a neutral response. He’ll literally take anything. Give him crumbs. Anything but a rejection.

But what if it is Simon telling him that he never wants to see him again? Please god no. 

Or on the flip side, what if it’s a late night booty call? Please god yes.

Or Simon asking him to meet him for another mystery activity like mini-golf or billiards or something? Please god anything like that. 

Before he looks, he stares at Charlie, breathing in and out slowly as he counts his tiny cat snores, trying to calm his racing heart. Finally, he grabs his phone and rips the band-aid off. 

Simon
Come here. You can meet me in the back. 

The text is accompanied by a pin from Google Maps. 

Wille’s heart lurches in his chest and his jaw drops. Simon wants to meet him RIGHT NOW?

He can’t meet Simon right now. It’s after midnight. He’s already in his PJs. 

He’s not prepared.

There is no way in hell he can meet Simon right now. 

He taps on the pin. It looks like a bar. Wille reads a few reviews of the place. It sounds like a dive bar. 

Simon wants to meet him at a dive bar right now? 

Him? The Crown Prince? Has he lost his fucking mind?

There is no way he can go. His security would never allow it. Crowded bars are completely off limits unless they have been carefully pre-vetted. There has to be a proper side or back entrance for Wille to enter/exit, and they have to do a security sweep and check the alcohol and all kinds of ridiculous things before Wille can go to a place like that. If Wille wants to go somewhere spontaneous, it becomes a whole circus. And a sketchy dive bar would most certainly not be allowed. 

The only reason he was able to go bowling with Simon is because Wille had thrown a massive hissy fit and promised Malin that she could make him leave if she wasn’t comfortable with the mystery location once they got there. He’d also convinced Malin that it was most likely a coffee shop. 

He stares at the ceiling. 

Who the fuck is he kidding? There is no way in hell that he’s not going to meet Simon right now. 

But in order to make that happen, he’s gonna have to do something he hasn’t done since he was a teenager. He has to sneak out. 

Which is not going to be an easy task. There is definitely a security guard posted at his door right now. And there is a guard at both the front lobby entrance and the back entrance as well. Wille is on the third floor, so he can’t climb out a window without breaking all of his limbs (which might be worth it to see Simon, tbh).

He racks his brain trying to come up with an idea. Think dammit.

It takes twenty minutes, but Wille comes up with the stupidest plan ever for sneaking out of his own apartment like a teenager sneaking out of their parents’ house for a rager. Why did no one tell him that when you turn thirty you apparently become fifteen years old again?

The first part of the plan is to order a pizza. Don’t ask questions. 

Then, he changes into a gray crewneck sweater, jeans, nikes, and tops it all off with a dark blue baseball cap. He also grabs sunglasses and shoves them in his pocket.

He’s going incognito. 

To manifest that this idiotic plan is going to work, he grabs his phone to send a text to Simon to let him know he’s coming.

Wille
On my way!!

WTF, what is it with you and the exclamation points, you dumbass? And would it kill you to give a text a quick once over before you hit send? Jesus…

The next part of the plan is to throw on a bathrobe over his outfit. He takes off the hat and shoves it in his back pocket. He creeps up to his front door and presses his ear against it to carefully listen for sounds in the hallway like he’s Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible. Excited butterflies flutter rampantly in his stomach as he takes an unsteady breath and cracks the door open. 

He pokes his head out, careful to keep his sneakers hidden behind the door. His security guard Axel, who is like nine feet tall and terrifying, is stationed across the hall. Thank god it’s not Malin. She would’ve seen straight through him. 

“I, um - “ He clears his throat, “I ordered a pizza. Can you go grab it?” 

Axel blinks at him in surprise, probably because a) it’s after midnight and b) Wille attended a four-course dinner only a few hours ago. But he quickly schools his features into a neutral expression, then he nods curtly and walks to the stairwell. Wille ducks back into his apartment, shuts the door, and waits thirty seconds.

He then rips the robe off, shoves the cap back on his head, whispers goodbye to Charlie who is watching him with blatant judgment, then he hauls ass down the hall to the stairwell. He runs down one flight of stairs so fast and with so much panic that his brain briefly forgets how stairs work and he nearly falls face first down the stairs.

When he hits the second floor landing, he throws open the door and hides on the second floor, warily peeking through the tiny window until he sees Axel pass by with the pizza. 

Okay, now he has a very narrow window in which he can get out of here. Axel is going to knock on his door with the pizza and get suspicious when he doesn’t answer. 

The more he thinks about this, the dumber this plan becomes. It would’ve been better for them to think he’s still in his apartment, so they don’t go looking for him.  Maybe he should go back up…stop overthinking, you idiot! It’s too late. 

He sneaks down to the lobby and peeks around the corner at the front door, where a second security guard Björn is standing outside the door. He pulls out his phone and texts Björn to tell him that he’s accidentally locked himself out of his apartment while collecting the pizza and Axel doesn’t have the key. 

It’s stupid and probably won’t even work. 

But like clockwork, Björn enters through the front door and heads for the elevator. Wille is already doing a little happy dance as he watches Björn step onto the elevator. As soon as the doors close, he runs for his life. 

Once again, thank god it’s not Malin because she could catch him. But those two burly dudes don’t stand a chance. 

High on adrenaline, he runs for three straight blocks without looking back. His phone vibrates repeatedly and he knows it’s his security guards asking where the hell he’s gone, but he doesn’t care.

He’s going to meet Simon. Fuck yes. 

Eventually, when he’s far enough away and he doesn’t see any scary black cars chasing him down, he slows to a walk; his pulse pounding in his ears. Now to figure out how to get to the bar. He’s never taken the train or a bus in Stockholm before, and he’s not even sure if those are running at this hour. It’s too far to walk. He doesn’t have the Uber app on his phone. He’s going to have to hail a regular old cab. 

After five minutes of walking, he sees a taxi. He holds up an arm and it pulls right over. Well done, sir. It’s kind of exciting doing a normal thing like hailing a taxi. 

In the back of the car, he buzzes with nervous energy, trying to guess what’s about to happen. Is Simon drunk? Is he alone or is he out with friends? Does he want to…talk?

The dark ride brings him back to last night when he locked eyes with Simon in the back of the car. Gazing into his eyes was like staring into the sun. Simon is so fucking captivating, and in that moment, Wille could’ve sworn that Simon was captivated by him too. It felt like they were the only two people in the world. 

His thoughts then stray back to sharing an armchair with Simon. To Simon dropping to his knees for him. To his lips wrapped around his cock. 

That may have been the most unbelievable moment of his life. Not only because it was literally unbelievable that it was happening - that Simon let it happen and initiated it, but also because it was 100% without a doubt the best blow job of his life.

Which isn’t super surprising given that every sexual experience he’s ever had with Simon has been better than the last. Sex with Simon has always been so much more intense than with anyone else. In fact, many times over the years Wille has caught himself thinking that he doesn’t even care that much for sex. Sure, an orgasm is always enjoyable, but he can achieve one of those on his own without the awkwardness and without feeling the need to perform for someone.

But sex with Simon is different. There’s no embarrassment or awkwardness there. It doesn’t feel like a performance. It’s natural and instinctive and fucking incredible every time. They just fit together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. And Wille has a feeling it has everything to do with how much he loves Simon.

Although, as incredible as it has been to have Simon touch him again, Wille won’t be satisfied until he can get his hands on Simon - something that he still hasn’t managed to do. 

Last night after the impromptu blow job, Wille had been drifting back down to earth in a sea of bliss when Simon stood up abruptly and moved toward the door. He grimaces as he recalls the embarrassing desperation in his voice.

“Wait,” Wille breathes, scrambling to pull up his boxers and sweatpants. “Let me - let me take care of you.” The desperate words spoken in an almost incoherent stutter, but he knows Simon gets the gist when his shoulders stiffen. 

“Please,” Wille whispers, practically begging Simon to stay. 

“I have to go,” Simon mutters quickly, shoving his feet into his shoes. With a hand on the doorknob, he freezes and without turning back, he murmurs, “It was nice to see where you live.” And then he’s gone. 

That was single-handedly the most confusing moment of Wille’s entire life. To have Simon so close and yet so far at the same time. The abrupt change in mood and then Simon’s parting words had been bewildering to say the least. Something that happened a few times over the course of the evening. One second he’d have flirty and carefree Simon in front of him - so magnetic and full of life - and then suddenly he’d be closed off and pulling away. 

It almost makes Wille happy to see the little cracks in the veneer, because it’s the tiniest indication that maybe Simon isn’t as detached from everything as he makes it seem. That maybe there is something brewing under the surface.

At the party, Simon had gone from cheerful and uncaring to cold and detached in a matter of minutes, but Wille never got the impression that he had any lingering feelings of regret, at least until he inexplicably asked for his phone number. 

Last night, the hot and cold moments were even more confusing. All day he’s been struggling to understand what it all means. Why did Simon ask him out? Was it really just curiosity? Why take him out and flirt with him but not want to kiss him? Why blow him and then leave so abruptly?

All excellent questions that Wille doesn’t have a clue how to answer, but in the end all he can do is cling to the tiny bit of hope that those parting words offered. Simon had left on a strange note, but there was a barely-there tenderness that hadn’t been there before. 

Maybe there will be a time for them. If there’s even a sliver of a chance, he’s going to cling to that sliver with a death grip. He’s not giving up. He’ll wait for him no matter how long it takes. 

The taxi pulls up to the bar. Wille shoots Simon a quick text to let him know he’s arrived (actually remembering to omit all exclamation points for once - nailed it), then he turns off his phone. He bypasses the main entrance and walks into the alley next to the bar, heading for the back. 

He paces the dark alley, nervous anticipation itching under his skin as he fiddles with his cap, making sure all of his hair is tucked away. 

The backdoor of the bar swings open and there he is.

Simon. 

Fuck, he looks so gorgeous. Much like yesterday when the sight of Simon in a purple hoodie and jeans had taken his breath away, Simon is a vision in cargo pants and a fitted black t-shirt. His curls are perfect with just a touch of product and a few tantalizing curls falling over his forehead. What Wille wouldn’t give to twist one of those curls around his finger. To kiss the crown of his head and nuzzle the mop of curls, which undoubtedly smell amazing. 

But more than anything, he’s dying to kiss Simon’s lips. They look so fucking kissable, glistening under the dim streetlight, and unbearably tempting. Knowing what those lips once tasted like, how soft they once were - it makes the desire to kiss them again all the more potent. 

“Hey,” Simon murmurs, stepping outside to meet him. His eyes flicker up to Wille’s hat and Wille thinks he sees a hint of an amused smile before it disappears. 

“Hi,” Wille breathes.

“I can’t believe you came.” 

Wille watches him closely, trying to figure out what’s going on his head, “I can’t believe you asked me to come.” 

Simon rubs the back of his neck sheepishly before admitting, “Me either.” 

They stare at each other.

“What, um-“ Wille swallows thickly. “Did you want to talk?”

Simon bites his top lip and then slowly shakes his head. Wille feels his heartbeat pick up speed again. At this rate he’s gonna need a pacemaker by the age of thirty-one. 

“I want…” Simon takes a step closer, his eyes flitting back and forth between Wille’s. Wille holds his breath. “To see you dance.” 

Wille gapes at him, “What?”

Simon’s eyes twinkle mischievously. “You heard me,” Simon grins, then he tugs on Wille’s arm. “Come on.” 

Wille follows Simon through the back entrance into the bar, which is very tiny, very packed, and very dark. Booming pop music flows through the space, mingling with the thundering sound of too many voices, almost piercing enough to hurt his ears. Simon leads him to a corner of the bar to wait for a bartender. The bartop is a little sticky and wet. In fact, every surface seems to be sticky - including the floor, he notices with a grimace as his sneakers stick a little with every step. Wille now understands why so many of those Google reviews referred to this place as a dive bar. 

He’s never really been in a place like this. 

Even in his party prince days, he went to posh nightclubs with private VIP areas and bottle service. Never a rough and dingy bar like this.

He likes it.

There’s something about being crammed in with sweaty bodies and overwhelming music and the almost humid quality to the air that makes him feel intoxicated and that’s before he’s even had a drop of alcohol. 

Being here with Simon is the most intoxicating part. He’s had so many dreams like this where he gets to do normal things with Simon like disappear into a crowd together with no security breathing down the back of his neck. Getting a tiny taste of it right now makes him almost wistful for an alternate universe where doing something like this might be the norm, rather than an exception to the rule. 

Still waiting for the bartender, Simon glances over at him and their eyes lock. It’s too loud to have a conversation, so they are left to communicate with only their eyes.

And their eyes are having quite the conversation. 

First, their eyes roam each other’s features, lingering on the lips. Then, they try to drown in the pools of each other’s eyes, which sparkle with the reflection of string lights above the bar. Wille pushes up his sweater sleeves, feeling overly warm amidst the body heat, and Simon’s eyes drop to his forearms, roaming the exposed skin with interest.

Wille gulps.

The longer they look at each other, the more Wille wants to shove Simon up against this bar and crush their bodies together. Instead, he cautiously slides his hand across the sticky bartop and rests his pinky against Simon’s. 

Simon doesn’t pull away and that’s enough to make Wille’s heart soar. HE’S TOUCHING PINKIES WITH SIMON. Life is good.

The bartender finally makes his way over to them and Simon leans forward to shout a drink order into his ear, tragically separating their pinkies. Stupid fucking bartender. 

Wille is distracted by the side view of Simon’s full lips, viscerally remembering how they felt kissing down his cock, when he sees Simon tap his phone to pay for the drinks. Wille groans inwardly. Simon keeps paying for stuff, which is so backwards. 

In fact, Simon has been doing everything for Wille and leaving Wille with nothing to do for him except be at his mercy. Wille wants to do something for him. He’s desperate to get his hands and mouth on the man. Desperate to buy him a drink. Desperate to do something, anything to show him how much he cares. 

But it’s obvious at this point that Simon is being very guarded and careful about how much of Wille to let in, and beggars can’t be choosers. He’ll gladly take whatever Simon gives him. In the meantime, he’ll keep trying until he finds a crack in the marble to worm his way into.

Two mixed drinks appear in front of them. Wille shouts into Simon’s ear, “Next round on me.” 

Simon shrugs, lifting his drink. He slowly, deliberately takes the straw into his mouth for a sip with full eye contact. His tongue darts out to lick his lips as he swallows. Wille is fucking mesmerized.

Because his throat is suddenly a little dry (wonder why), Wille takes a sip of his own drink, which he dimly recognizes as a whiskey sour. His eyes are still glued to Simon’s mouth when he feels a tug on his sleeve. Simon tilts his head over to the packed dance floor with a mischievous smile. 

Wille swallows another mouthful of his drink. He might need to chug this if he’s going to dance with Simon aka humiliate the hell out of himself. Still, he lets Simon pull him by the front of his sweater onto the dance floor. As if there’s not a corner of this Earth he wouldn’t follow Simon to.

At first, they dance together with a modest amount of space between their bodies. Simon bounces up and down with a silly grin on his face and it’s infectious, easing some of the nervous tension in Wille’s body as joins in, trying not to be embarrassed by his lack of rhythm. 

Simon whips his hair side to side, making Wille laugh. 

Fifteen minutes ago when Simon said he wanted to see him dance, Wille’s overactive imagination had jumped straight to a scene out of Dirty Dancing, but this is turning out to be super fun and lighthearted and they are just vibing off the energy in the room as they take turns making each other laugh with exaggerated dance moves. 

That is until someone bumps into Wille from behind and he finds himself smashed against Simon’s chest.

Their eyes meet. 

And suddenly it is like a scene from Dirty Dancing. Their bodies rock together in perfect sync, much slower than the upbeat tempo of the song playing. Wille ceases to breathe as Simon loops an arm around his neck, his hips swaying sensually, their crotches just barely brushing. 

Wille slides an arm around Simon’s waist, pulling him closer until they are completely flush from head to toe. He’s still somehow holding his drink with the other hand but he’s tempted to just drop it so he can fully wrap himself around Simon. It’s not like the floor could get stickier anyway. 

Fuck, it’s hot in here.

Wille really wishes he wouldn’t have worn a sweater because he is burning up under Simon’s smoldering gaze. A trickle of sweat slides down the side of Simon’s face down to his jaw and Wilhelm watches it in a trance. He literally can’t stop himself from dropping his mouth to Simon’s jaw and licking up the bead of sweat. 

Somehow over the thunderous din of pounding music and voices, Wille hears Simon gasp near his ear and the sound goes straight to his cock. Wille drops his mouth into the crook of Simon’s neck, scattering a line of kisses across his throat and up to his earlobe. 

He continues upward. Maybe, just maybe Simon will let him kiss him now. He’s sure as hell going to try. Right when he reaches Simon’s cheek, Simon spins around and presses his ass against him, still dancing and moving his hips in hypnotic circles. 

Wille stomach lurches with the weirdest combination of utter disappointment from the lack of a kiss and feverish arousal from having Simon in his arms. But like he said earlier, beggars can’t be choosers and he will fucking take Simon’s ass pressed against his crotch if that’s all he’s willing to offer right now. 

Heat pools low in Wille’s stomach as he slides an arm back around Simon’s waist, swaying against his back…or maybe gyrating is the better word. The teasing friction of Simon rubbing against his cock is starting to feel a little too stimulating for a public place, but he refuses to stop.

Somewhere in the back of his mind amidst the foggy haze of horniness, Wille knows that this is very dangerous territory. He’s well aware of the shitstorm he’d have to face if someone were to take their picture right now.

But he doesn’t fucking care. 

Let it happen. He’s practically daring the universe to let it happen.

The devil on his shoulder is even prodding at him, “Take your own selfie and post it. Who gives a damn.” 

Wille shakes his head and drops his mouth to the back of Simon’s neck, nipping and licking at the damp skin and nuzzling his sweaty curls. Touching Simon like this feels like a dream. A perfect fantasy come to life. 

It feels too good to be true. 

Feeling flush and tingly all over, he takes a sip of his drink to cool himself down. His other hand, which is still wrapped tightly around Simon, slips under the hem of Simon’s t-shirt to stroke the hot and sweaty skin of his stomach and actually - fuck - there’s not a chance of cooling down. There’s a much higher chance that he’s about to melt into a giant puddle of Wille-goo. 

Wille loses track of how many songs they dance to as their bodies grind together. All he knows is that with each new song he loses another piece of his sanity. Simon is driving him fucking crazy with his fluid dance moves and he keeps look over his shoulder with the sexiest hooded eyes and Wille never wants to leave this dance floor. If he had a free hand, he’d call up a realtor and buy it on the spot so they can live here dancing together forever. 

To Wille’s chagrin, Simon doesn’t seem to share the same feelings, because he pulls away and bounces over to the bar. Wille follows closely at his heels. This time when Simon orders new drinks Wille manages to swoop in with his phone and pays before Simon can tap his. Simon glares at him with mock annoyance and Wille smugly exaggerates a shrug as if to say: so sue me. 

With fresh drinks in hand, Wille follows Simon back to the dance floor, but he’s surprised when Simon grabs his hand and drags him through the crowd toward a flight of stairs. Simon leads him up three very windy and very narrow sets of stairs until he pushes against a door and suddenly they are outside. 

A crisp breeze hits Wille square in the face, instantly sending a wave of cool relief over his sweaty skin. The roof deck is far less crowded than the dance floor with a small group chatting quietly in one corner and a few others smoking in another. Twinkle lights line the rails and criss-cross across the night sky. 

They walk over to the railing to look out into the brisk Stockholm air, sipping their drinks in a comfortable silence. But Wille’s eyes quickly stray from the city view to the one that really matters. He only has eyes for Simon. A deep ache blooms in his sternum as he takes in the beautiful features of Simon’s face under the glowing lights. He drinks in every detail - the rich velvet pools of his eyes; the soft slope of his nose; the fullness of his cupid’s bow; the golden glow of his flawless skin. 

Wille could stand here and look at him forever.

In the blink of an eye, something complex flashes across Simon’s features, like the wheels just started turning in his head. The sparkling lights in his eyes, which just moments ago were sweet and vibrant, begin to dim until all that’s left is a blank and heavy stare. 

Wille wants to ask him what’s going on in his head, but he’s afraid to burst the bubble. He doesn’t want Simon to pull away again. But it may be too late—

“Why did you never come back?” 

The hushed question steals the air from Wille’s lungs. 

This is the last thing he expected Simon to bring up out of the blue like this, especially since they were grinding and practically dry humping on the dance floor just minutes ago. 

Wille drops his eyes to the melting ice in his drink. Are they really doing this right now? At 2:00 am on the rooftop of a dive bar? Dimly, he considers patting himself on the back because he did it. He got Simon alone. But now he has to talk and talking is really not a strong suit of his. 

“I-“ He hesitates. This is a moment he’s gone over in his head so many times and yet he has no idea where to begin. 

As he stares at the other man’s profile, taking in the way he is pensively staring into the distance, another dizzying surge of affection washes over him. In comparison to the fourteen years since Simon came and went from his life, the amount of time they’ve actually spent in each other’s presence is such a blip, and yet somehow Simon has taken up so much space in his heart the entire time.

He can only imagine the impact Simon would have on his life if there’s an actual future for them. One where they can actually spend time together. For the millionth time, he imagines a future of waking up every day with Simon in his bed. Making him breakfast. Coming home to him. Kissing his forehead as they fall asleep wrapped up together. 

Tears fill his eyes. He has to be honest with Simon about everything. It’s the only thing he can do to try to keep him in his life. 

With a tight breath, Wille replies in a murmur, “It was my choice…to not come back.” 

Simon turns his head sharply and stares at him, “What?” 

Wille knows that everyone must assume that he was forced to leave Hillerska by his mother and the Court, but it was actually quite the opposite. 

Eyes turned toward the ground, Wille exhales quietly, “My parents wanted me to go back to Hillerska. Thought it would be good for me to be in a familiar place, but-” He swallows thickly, “After my first Christmas without my brother and…after losing you, I couldn’t get out of bed.” 

Wille stares into his drink, not daring to look at Simon’s face. “I couldn’t do anything. I just wanted to waste away.” He shifts awkwardly on his feet. The words he’s saying carry such heavy meaning, but he is far enough removed from what happened at that time that he can look back on it and understand the pain he was in, but not feel it with real intensity. But that doesn’t make it easy to talk about.

“I ended up not going back to school that year at all. I needed - um - to get help. Which thankfully I did.” He glances over at Simon who is listening with wide, inscrutable eyes.

“By the time I was well enough to go back to school, I couldn’t face returning to Hillerska. I was too humiliated.” 

Simon lets out a tiny scoff, which makes Wille’s head shoot up. “What?” He asks uncertainly. 

Simon purses his lips and shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “l was humiliated by that fucking video too, but I didn’t run away,” he says defiantly.

Wille stares at him in horror. He scrambles to explain himself, “Simon - that’s not. That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t humiliated because of the video. I was ashamed of myself for what I did to you. For so obviously lying and leaving you to deal with the fallout on your own. I was too humiliated to face you again.” 

Simon doesn’t say anything. He still looks closed off and about five seconds away from bolting, so Wille decides to slightly change the subject.

“I came to see you once, you know,” Wille admits with a sad smile. 

Simon frowns and raises a questioning eyebrow. 

Wille continues sheepishly, “About four years after I left Hillerska. I’d just finished my first year of uni and I had spent so long trying to work up the courage to call or text you, but I knew it was something I had to do in person.” 

Now that he’s started talking, the words are just flowing out of him. Wille has never told another person this story. Not even Felice. Even though it’s a little scary, there is something almost cathartic about saying it out loud.

“I saw on Instagram that you were performing at an open mic night, so I went. Hid in the corner,” Wille chuckles lightly. “You were … so amazing. You sang that Adele cover and I literally melted it was so good.” Oh my god, you did not just say that out loud. 

Simon looks like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information, but Wille thinks he might’ve just seen the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips. 

Encouraged by the little ghost of a smile, Wille goes on, “I was going to wait for you. And try to talk to you.”

Simon interrupts with a muted, but curious, “Why didn’t you?” 

Wille smiles sadly, “There was, um, this guy. There with you.” Wille rubs the back of his neck, remembering how completely destroyed he’d been in that moment. “I saw the guy hug and kiss you. And I just bolted.” 

Simon nods slowly. 

“Anyway, I kept thinking about maybe going to see you sing again, but then I had my military training and an internship in the UK and then suddenly it was ten years later.” Wille laughs a bit, “When did that happen?” 

Simon is still eyeing the door and Wille breathes in deep, trying to resign himself to the fact that Simon is probably about to disappear again. 

Simon runs a hand through his hair and opens his mouth to say something. Wille braces himself for what is undoubtedly going to be very difficult to hear.

“What Adele cover are you talking about?”

Wille blinks. 

Really?

This is the thing Simon wants to hear more about?

“Uh…” Wille falters.

“I sang a lot of those,” Simon says matter-of-factly with a short laugh. “If you can even remember…”

“Of course I remember.” Of course he does. “I remember everything you ever sang.” 

A soft smile takes shape on the corners of Simon’s lips.

“One And Only,” Wille answers, watching the other man closely. At twenty years old, those lyrics had killed him. I dare you to let me be your one and only. Each word, sung so beautifully by Simon, had been like a shot to the heart. 

Simon nods, “That was a good one. I remember that night.” 

Wille stares, trying to understand what is happening. Did…did they just have a serious conversation and come out on the other side okay? Is Simon thawing out a bit? Is this the real Simon letting him in? Or is the mask back up? It’s hard to tell. 

But there’s a new warmth emanating from the other man that feels genuine. If this is a tiny fragment of the real Simon peeking out from behind the cold exterior, Wille’s number one goal in life now is to thaw Simon’s entire heart until his sunlight shines through enough to bask in it. 

Wille thinks about his plan to get Simon back. He could keep trying to inch his way in with cute little messages or vague invitations to hang out, or he can take a leap of faith. There’s of course the risk of falling without a safety net to break his fall - gravity is a cruel bitch after all - but maybe, just maybe Simon will catch him.

So he takes the leap. 

“Can I take you to dinner? On Monday?”

Wille holds his breath, feeling every ounce of blood in his body pulse in anticipation of the answer. 

Simon’s mouth drops open in shock, but it’s not an immediate no. Thank fuck. Wille crosses his fingers at his side. He bites his lip, silently begging the universe to please just give him this one thing. 

Please. 

“Okay.”

And just like that, Wille is soaring.