Chapter Text
It’s a chilly Sunday afternoon in January, and Simon is cooking a roast. Plushie Simon is helping him, carrying vegetables to the pot as Simon chops them on the worktop. He can only carry a few pieces of carrot at a time, or half a potato, but Simon is glad of the company. His husband, Crown Prince Wilhelm, is in the living room with his own cuddly counterpart, permanently banned from all kitchen prep after what became known as The Béarnaise Incident.
“Are they watching that Harry and Megan documentary again?” Plushie Simon asks, rolling his eyes as various indignant noises filter in from down the hallway.
“Probably,” Simon sighs, “I wish they’d stop. Wille gets so angry about it.”
“So does mine,” Plushie Simon agrees, “he wouldn’t shut up about it for two hours last time.”
Simon finishes fussing with the meat, wiping his hands on a tea towel, “Do you think Wille will tell the Buckingham Palace story again?”
“The one about the toilet?”
“Yeah.”
“Ugh.”
Simon laughs. Wille once got trapped in a toilet at Buckingham Palace at the age of nine, and was only freed when his screams alerted some very confused tourists. He tells the story at every dinner party they attend.
“At least we’ve been spared another rewatch.”
“Very true. Shall we invent some more things to do in here while the potatoes boil?”
“Good plan.”
As predicted, both Willes talk in-depth about the documentary all through dinner. Wille does pause to tell the Simons how tasty everything is, though, making them both blush and smile and say ‘it’s nothing, really.’
“He’s in such a terrible situation,” Plushie Wille says, “and all that stuff about William.”
“Hang on,” Plushie Simon interjects, “ he’s in a terrible situation?? She gave up everything to be with him, and the way the press treats her.”
“Yes but he gave up a lot, too.”
“Not comparatively.”
“She was already famous, though.”
“Yeah, but she doesn’t have a career any more. Not like she did.”
Wille and Simon glance nervously at each other as the plushies’ discussion becomes far more heated.
“So you’re saying the prince has it harder than the non-white, non-royal, racially abused ‘foreigner’ he decided to marry?!”
“Let’s stop now, guys,” Wille tries to intervene, but the plushies carry on, until Plushie Wille storms off to their bedroom and Plushie Simon sits huffily on the end of the sofa.
“Oh dear,” Wille says, passing another plate to Simon to dry, “should we do something?”
“Delete that documentary off your Netflix list,” Simon tells him, “never watch it again.”
“Besides that?”
“I don’t know,” Simon sighs, “they’re basically us, so just let them get over it.” He’s worried, though. Seeing the plushies argue in their goddamn Hillerska uniforms of all things brings up so many memories he’d rather forget.
Wille must be feeling the same way, because he pulls the plug out of the sink and then pulls Simon into a hug, wrapping his arms around him from behind.
“Wille?”
“Mmm,” Wille nuzzles his face, pressing a gentle kiss behind his ear.
“You have wet hands.”
The plushies seem more civil with each other by bedtime, so Simon can let his worries go for a while. He’s just got Wille’s shirt off, kissing him everywhere he can reach, when the bedroom door creaks open and Plushie Simon shuffles in, looking small and forlorn as he stands on the rug.
“Can I sleep in the drawer tonight, please?”
“Oh no,” Wille quickly covers them with the duvet, “did you guys fight again?”
Plushie Simon sniffs and nods. He walks over to the chest of drawers, waiting for Simon to open it for him.
“Erm,” Simon looks down at himself, “give me a minute.”
Plushie Simon seems oblivious to what he’s just interrupted.
“Are you OK?” Wille asks.
“I just need some space.”
Wille’s face falls, and Simon cringes. He climbs out of bed and walks over to his plushie, opening the second drawer up for him to climb into.
“I’d better check on Wille,” Wille says, pulling on his dressing gown.
Simon makes Plushie Simon a little nest out of socks and shirts, helping him to get settled.
“Thanks.”
“It’s fine.”
“I hate arguing with him,” Plushie Simon mumbles, “how can he be so dismissive of my feelings?”
Simon doesn’t know what to say. Sometimes he forgets that the plushies are basically the high school versions of him and Wille. They haven’t grown up and matured the same way they have, “I’m sure you guys will work it out.”
“What do you do, when you argue?”
“Pretty much the same thing you’re doing,” Simon admits, “but your point was valid. Sometimes Wille needs time to figure things out on his own.”
Plushie Simon nods.
“Try to get some sleep, anyway,” Simon says, “you can talk more tomorrow.”
Things are still frosty when Simon gets home from work. The plushies are no longer on speaking terms, and Wille looks distressed.
“Thank God you’re home,” Wille unwraps Simon’s scarf as he leans down for a kiss, “they’ve been giving each other the silent treatment all day, it’s like living with my parents again.”
They suffer through another dinner, and two hours of TV before Simon decides to call it a night. Wille is still hand wringing as they brush their teeth and change into their pyjamas. Plushie Simon is back in his drawer, and Simon’s fairly sure he heard Plushie Wille crying from the bathroom. He lays there in the dark, reliving every fight they’ve ever had and wracking his brain for a solution, when he hears the bedroom door inch open.
It’s Plushie Wille. Simon pretends to be asleep, watching him creep across the room through one half opened eye. He climbs into the drawer with Plushie Simon, speaking to him in hushed whispers. They don’t sound angry any more, and eventually Simon drifts off, leaving them to their conversation.
He finds them together the next morning, fast asleep and smiling, snuggled up under one of his old Hillerska t-shirts. Plush Wille is the big spoon, naturally, holding Plush Simon close with an arm around his tummy. Simon tiptoes back to bed, back to his own Wille, careful not to wake them.