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Growing up, Simon’s mother created the perfect expectation that meals are supposed to be pleasant and relaxing, a chance to catch up with family or friends, or an opportunity to try something new. Even when living with his neglectful father, Simon looked forward to eating with the rest of his family. There’s always been something warm and inviting about it.
He’s beginning to think Mama was the real charm. Picture this: a dining table in Drottningholm Palace, crisp white tablecloth and sparkling glasses, an appetizer oozing with color and labeled with something that sounds French, idle chatter that remains at an easy volume, always able to hear your neighbor, tuxedos and gowns that cost more than a house payment, guests with more money currently residing in their bank accounts than Simon could ever hope to make in a lifetime—and if you grab a knife with the wrong hand, everything goes up in flames.
Not really, but that’s what it feels like. Luckily, he’s not alone. To his left is his boyfriend Wilhelm, the Crown Prince of Sweden and the entire reason anybody is paying any attention to Simon. Wille grew up in this life, of course, so he grabs his knife with his right hand, and there’s not even a lull in his conversation with a woman sitting across from him. Simon copies him, but he looks at his plate instead, as if he just decided to pick up his own knife.
They’re a few seats from Queen Kristina and the Prince Consort Ludvig, who are conversing with Sweden’s prime minister at the end of the table, the apparent Guest of Honor—which means they have their own crowd of people to entertain. Everyone on their end is either speaking to Wille, or they’re hanging onto his every word. Simon never thought he’d be one of those people who were so mesmerized by someone just because they were granted a bit more importance at birth, but he finds himself watching and listening and admiring, and he is just as entranced as the woman to his right whose cheeks are beginning to burn from her third cup of wine.
It’s not even that Wille is saying anything exceptional or inspiring; actually, he seems to be indulging in everybody else’s interests. That might be Simon’s favorite part. This all makes Wille nervous and anxious: the attention, the expectations, the responsibility. He interlocks their fingers in their final moments of privacy before venturing into the sharp gazes of the public, squeezing Simon’s hand like he’s trying to summon enough confidence for the both of them, and matches the rise and fall of Simon’s shoulders (he’s never admitted that that’s what he’s doing, but Simon has caught him hold his breath and release with the dip of Simon’s chest, so he makes sure his own breathing is as calm and steady as he needs). Yet, when those doors open and the spotlight falls on them—on him—he squares his shoulders and lifts his chin and embodies this other person—the Crown Prince of Sweden. It’s almost like someone has possessed him, their own energy surging through him. Simon admires the hell out of Wille; that’s a kind of bravery he has yet to work out for even himself.
“This is caviar,” the woman to his right says like it’s some kind of scandal. She’s well into her fifties, leathery beige skin with blonde hair fixed into something elegant and curly. They’ve been next to each other for at least an hour now. Between her glasses of wine, she tells him about vacationing in the Caribbean and which fork to save for last. He can’t figure out if she’s annoying or not. Listening to rich people ramble about their excursions is easy. Listening to a drunk white woman try to educate him on etiquette he already knows because he sat through a rigorous course during the summer, selected and required by the queen herself, is anything but.
He decides to humor her, “That’s fish, right?”
She chuckles. “Close! Fish eggs.”
“Ohhh.” Flashing her a polite smile, Simon turns to Wille, knocking their knees together. It’s bad manners, apparently, to grab his boyfriend’s hand under the table. This is Simon’s first royal event since they announced their relationship last month during Midsummer—and he’s more than ready to start bending the rules.
Wille looks over. The show smile he’s been wearing for the last hour softens immediately when they lock eyes. There’s the warm and inviting that Simon has been searching for.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “You okay?”
Simon begins to shrug, but shrugging is immature and improper, so he chooses to nod instead. “Fine. Um, who’s the woman beside me?” Should he have asked an hour ago? Yeah, probably. Did he care, though? No, and he doesn’t now, but he wants to make sure he isn’t going to accidentally piss off a celebrity or government official or some other important person by calling her the wrong name or telling her to fuck off the next time she explains the fork functions.
Wille leans forward to see. Simon inhales, Wille’s cologne filling his lungs. It’s so him, and Simon almost can’t stand it.
“Claudia von Essen,” Wille answers. He’s whispering in Simon’s ear, hot breath rolling down his neck—Simon reaches for his glass of water. Wille continues, “Wife of Hugo von Essen, who’s head of the Ministry of Finance.”
“She’s wine drunk,” Simon mutters.
“I figured she would be. That makes her the easiest person to talk to here.”
“Then we should trade places. You deserve a break from…” Simon glances over that end of the table. “From whoever you’re entertaining.”
Wille grabs his hand under the table, and Simon actually jumps in surprise. Miss Johansson would not approve. Immediately, he intertwines their fingers and pulls Wille’s hand into his lap. This is the most they’ve touched in an hour; he can’t believe how deprived he is.
They agreed to take things slow at first. It’s only been a month since their announcement. With Wille turning seventeen, his mother has turned their summer break into an opportunity to integrate him more into the true royalty life. That means meetings and appearances and events—all with double the sets of eyes since Simon stepped into the picture. He feels like the world is watching, waiting for them to slip up. For the first time, Simon is afraid of it happening.
“This is a hundred times better than it usually is,” Wille tells him.
“Why?”
He smiles. “Because you’re here.”
Mirroring his smile, Simon cups the side of Wille’s face, guiding his chin with his thumb, and kisses him softly. Fear be damned, you know? At the moment, it’s not the world watching. It’s a handful of people, most of which are focused only on the queen. Miss Johansson never has to know.
Silverware clings against plates. There’s still soft chatter rolling around in his head. Nobody has stopped to stare in wonder or disgust, like he’s been imagining recently every time he thinks about kissing Wille in public. They part slowly, Simon trying to savor the feeling of his lips against Wille’s. Anything to get him through the rest of this dinner. Wille’s brown eyes have Simon cornered; he smiles.
“It’s almost over,” he says. Simon knows he’s lying, but he chooses to tell himself otherwise and nod.
As Wille’s hand slips out of Simon’s grasp, he immediately listens in on a conversation across from him.
Okay, Simon thinks, turning in his chair. Let’s go, Claudia von Essen.
That evening, the warm and inviting fades into hot and ravenous. Fresh hickeys across his collarbone, Simon is drunk on Wille’s cologne. His moans are swallowed in kisses that leave his lips red. Maybe the touch deprivation for two hours is worth it if they always make up for it in kissing and teasing and pleasure.
Later, when they’re laying side by side, naked and sweaty and spent, Wille pushes Simon’s curls off his forehead and whispers, “Beautiful.” He’s heard it plenty of times before, along with a string of other compliments and pet names. Every damn one leaves his face burning, no matter how many times he hears it.
“So are you,” Simon replies, tracing his bottom lip. So, so beautiful. How did he get this lucky? He lifts his hand to Wille’s hair, combing his fingers through. Wille moves his hand to his lips, peppering kisses across his knuckles. He tugs Simon forward, and they shift again, landing with Wille on his back and Simon curled into his side, his head in the crook of Wille’s neck.
He smiles, taking the small cross on Wille’s necklace between his fingers. “We survived our last event for a few months.”
“We did.” Wille chuckles. He’s running his fingers through Simon’s hair, carefully maneuvering through the curls. “Now we have to survive another year at Hillerska.”
Surviving at the private boarding school Hillerska is more of a challenge than regular school, at least to Simon. He transferred from his public school just before his first year, which meant leaving behind kids he’d known since he was five and trying to fit into a new stream of people—even though he stuck out like a boulder parting a river current.
“Is it… Is it weird I’m looking forward to it?”
If you heard only of what he went through last year, you’d tell him yes, it is weird. An evil cousin of Wille’s who ruined their old lives forever and broke them up for a few months, Simon letting his dad in only to be crushed again, his sister betraying him in favor of living among the people she idealizes, and facing expulsion when everything boiled over (only two months into the spring semester). Who would want to go back to that?
The thing is, you have to know every ingredient in the recipe. You have to learn about the trust he built, the walls he tore down, and the friends he made. Hillerska became a home against his will, but a home nonetheless. At least the rich people there are his age and will judge him on his clothes instead of his etiquette. That he can handle.
It will be hard adjusting back to a normal life. Simon is returning to the Forest Ridge House this year, so he and Wille will still live under the same roof—like they have for the last month—but they’ll be separated, probably at differing ends of the House, to keep any activity to a minimum. Simon was assigned his own room in Drottningholm as well, but that didn’t last even a night. They hadn’t seen each other in a month, only communicating through texting and after-midnight phone calls. Simon leaves tomorrow morning, and they’ll be separated again for two weeks. He can’t promise even himself that he’ll abide by House rules come Move-In Day.
“I’m nervous,” Wille admits.
“Why?”
“With August gone, I have a feeling I’m supposed to take his place.”
“So what if you are?”
“I’m not a leader.”
“Neither was he.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “But whether we want to admit it or not, he was influential. He cared about connections and everything. I’m just trying to graduate.”
Simon shrugs. “You don’t have to boss people around to be a leader. Just be yourself—that’s enough.” More than enough. If the guys at Hillerska are such sheep that they need someone to look up to, Wille is far more than they deserve. If Simon had it his way, they’d spend the year keeping to themselves, with the occasional visits from Felice and Madison, and tell everyone else to fuck off.
He can hear the smile in Wille’s voice when he says, “Okay, you can boss people around for me.”
Simon laughs. “Don’t tempt me with a good time; you know I’ll take any chance to tell rich people what to do.”
“Yeah, I’m aware. That’s why I can’t leave you alone at a banquet.”
“Not that you should anyway. I feel like it’s a matter of time before I say something I shouldn’t.”
Wille shakes his head. “I think you’re doing fine.”
“I spent half of the night making sure I picked up the silverware with the right hand.” Simon sighs, mumbling, “The only reason I didn’t mess up is because I watched you first.”
Snickering, Wille admits, “I noticed you doing that.”
Simon groans. “That means other people did, too.” He squeezes his eyes shut, his cheeks hot with embarrassment.
“Why do you care so much?” Wille tugs on Simon’s hair, gently forcing his head back so their eyes can meet.
“I don’t,” he replies like it’s a reflex. He can feel Wille twist his finger in Simon’s hair, patiently waiting for the rest of the confession. They do this thing now where Simon tells him everything he needs in order to stop himself from bottling things up. It’s harder than it sounds. “It’s just new and a little overwhelming. Knowing when to speak, how to greet people, what to say…” He shakes his head. “Give me a few months. I’ll be fine.”
“It’s okay if it takes longer than a few months. I’m still getting used to it, too.” Right, this is his first summer as Crown Prince. His older brother Erik was supposed to be king, but he died last year in a car accident. Wille was thrust into this new life quicker than Simon, and even though he’s a few months ahead, they’re basically learning the ropes together.
“You’re doing better than you think,” Simon says. “I’m really proud of you, by the way. You always look like you know what you’re doing, especially after how crazy this summer has been.”
“I’m not sure how true that is. I rarely know what I’m doing.” Simon smiles. “Erik always told me to pretend I’m someone else. I think of him every time I walk in a room.”
Simon lifts his head to look down at him. Wille’s eyes flicker from some spot across the room to him; the brown is glossy with something lost. “He would be so proud of you,” Simon whispers. He means it, although he’s never actually met Erik. The only memories he has is watching him on TV, though that was before he cared about this ridiculous family, of course. Still, he knows he’s right. Simon has watched this boy grow from someone who would rather keep his head down and stay out of trouble to someone who does something because he wants it to happen, even if it’s scary. He’s goddamn proud of him, so Erik has to be, too.
Wille’s mouth twitches. “Thank you, Simme.”
Simon kisses him softly. As soon as news broke last winter about their video scandal, the bubble that had protected their little relationship popped. He didn’t think it could ever be repaired. It still hasn’t, not in the way they remember. But they’re in Wille’s bed in his home, wrapped in each other, naked bodies and warm blankets and no chance of being interrupted. No concern about someone peeking through the windows. No façade they have to put on after Simon sneaks back into his room. This bubble is constructed of ice instead of water; harder to penetrate, and harder to break out of. He can worry about the second part later, though.
“I love you,” he says. His chest burns with how true it is.
Wille smiles. His hand sweeps through Simon’s hair, ever so gentle around his curls, and squeezes the back of his neck. “I love you, too.” Then, he pulls Simon into another kiss.