Chapter Text
Rosh got home at nearly nine pm, her charts having taken a century and a half to finish at the physical therapy clinic. Rosh slipped her shoes off and walked into the apartment. Yasmina was standing at the stove reading the back of a box and frowning. Rosh loved her partner more than anything in the world, but she couldn’t cook for shit.
“Hey baby,” she greeted, sliding behind Yasmina and kissing her neck. “Need some help?”
Yasmina hummed and handed her the box. “I don’t know why it always sticks to the pan. I put even more water than it said this time.” She was stirring the bulgur with a metal spoon in their teflon pot, and Rosh winced internally.
“Right. Maybe just lower the heat next time?”
Yasmina finally put the spoon down and turned around to kiss her. “I tried that,” she sighed. “By the way, some mail came for you.” She pointed to the counter. Rosh walked over and saw the envelope, and immediately recognized the unmistakable lettering.
“No they did not!”
Yasmina startled and turned around. “You haven’t even opened it yet.”
The fancy embossed silver envelope screamed Wilhelm in every way, and sure enough, the royal stamp sealed the envelope closed at the back.
She tore it open hastily, slightly satisfied by tearing the fine paper in two. A smiling Wille and Simon stared back at her, Simon’s hand on Wille’s chest.
You are cordially invited -
“Oh fuck,” she breathed. Yasmina came over and tucked her chin over her shoulders.
“Is that -”
“Invitation to the royal wedding,” Rosh confirmed hastily, “in Venezuela."
Yasmina audibly gasped, squeezing Rosh’s sides. “We’re going to Venezuela!” She shouted excitedly, right into Rosh’s ear.
“Yeah, and who the hell is going to pay for that,” Rosh huffed. Deep down she knew that if there was any issue, Simon would be more than happy to cover her and Yasmina’s travel costs (read: Wilhelm would be more than happy). A surge of happiness flooded her. Simon and Wille had truly overcome mountains together. Though she and Simon didn’t see each other often (with the exception of the marathon and a few sanctioned visits a year) they always picked up right where they left off. Rosh’s mom had always said that some friends are just a part of you.
She couldn’t believe Simon actually pulled it off, and she started laughing to herself. It was supposed to be a joke, something Ayub suggested a year before when Simon abashedly admitted he and Wille had the marriage talk. Then about six months later, Wilhelm had proposed. She never thought Simon would go through with it; then again, Simon was still the rebel he always was.
“A Swedish royal wedding in Venezuela,” she muttered. “The press is going to have a field day.”
“The Crown is going to have a field day, are you kidding?” Yasmina replied.
Rosh looked back at the picture. Simon and Wille’s hair was vacation long, Wille’s nearly to his shoulders in a rebellion of his own. They were standing in front of a rushing waterfall, the one Simon had told her about their whole lives, their cheeks dewy and full. Though she’d never admit it, tears brimmed at her eyes.
She couldn’t wait to call Ayub.