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Chapter Text

Wilhelm peeked into the kitchen and asked, for what must have been the twenty-seventh time that evening: "Are you sure I can't help you with anything?"

The way Lena was puttering around from side to side in the kitchen like she was putting out scattered fires, you'd think she'd be grateful for an extra pair of hands, but instead, she just said "Nope!" and continued on her Quest for the Perfect Roast Lamb.

A climate conference (and related satellite events) was taking Wilhelm to Canada for an extended period, and he was flying out in the morning, so Lena had wanted to spend this last night with him. She wasn't spending the night because Wilhelm had to get up at 4 am to make his flight, but she'd insisted on them at least having dinner together before he left, which she decided she would make herself. Wilhelm would just as well have had the palace kitchen staff make them something so they could spend more time together, but Lena thought this way it would be more memorable. He wasn't about to take that away from her when he was leaving for three whole weeks.

Her eagerness to do this on her own did leave Wille with nothing to do while he waited, though. He leaned against the doorframe with a sigh. "Will it take much longer?"

Lena threw him a miffed look as she leaned down to check the roast in the oven. "Will you stop pouting?" she said with an amused grin. "Go watch a show, or listen to a podcast, or read a book. You literally have the entirety of the internet on the palm of your hand; I'm sure you can entertain yourself for twenty more minutes."

Wille scoffed. "I'm saving all of that for the flight. It is ten hours, you know."

"Well, you'll think of something," she said as she straightened up, apparently satisfied with the progress of her main protein. "In the meantime, I need you to get out of the way so you don't mess anything up."

Wille laughed at that. "Wow!"

Lena rolled her eyes at him in response. "You know what I mean," she said, shaking her head. "Now, will you please get out of my kitchen so I can get this done quickly?"

"Technically, it's my kitchen," Wilhelm said but pushed away from the doorframe anyway to do as she requested. They spent much of their time together at Wille's residence in the sea wing of Drottningholm Palace, but she hadn't quite moved in yet. Cohabitating before they were married— that would be quite the scandal, and God knew Wille had had enough of that to last a lifetime.

"Not tonight!" Lena shot back in a sing-songy tone before shifting her attention to a large bowl where she was preparing one of the sides; Wille couldn't see what it was but he was sure it would be delicious.

Chuckling to himself, Wille started to make his way to the living room, to try and come up with something to do while he waited. Maybe he'd watch the news for a bit? As long as it wasn't all terrible, of course.

He'd only taken a few steps when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out without much thought, sparing a quick glance at the screen and figuring whatever the call was about— the trip, most likely— it could wait until morning.

His steps halted in the middle of the hallway when he saw the name on the screen.

Simon Eriksson.

Wilhelm frowned down at his phone. Why would Simon be calling him this late? Or, really, why would Simon be calling him at all?

It's not like they hadn't seen each other since Hillerska— they did have a few friends in common, so they'd crossed paths more than a few times in the years since they graduated. And they were cordial with each other, to be fair, but there was always a slight awkwardness there, a forced casualness, a keeping-the-other-at-a-distance reflex that automatically came into place after their breakup because being too close to each other felt like playing with fire. They interacted just fine when part of a group, but had not held a proper, non-small talk conversation between just the two of them since their relationship— if it could even be called that— ended that December.

So why was Simon calling him now? Had he even meant to call him? Was this like a drunk dial? No, Simon still didn't drink, as far as Wille was aware. But then what...?

Realizing belatedly that he'd been standing there like an idiot for an age while his phone was still ringing, he shook himself out of it and glanced back toward the kitchen. "Lena, I've got a call— I'm going to take it outside so the noise doesn't come through, okay? I'll be back in a minute."

"Okay!" came Lena's reply, echoing against the walls of the hallway.

Wilhelm made his way past the living room and down the stairs before he accepted the call. "Hello?" he said, sprinting out the door and into the sea wing's vast lawn. There was no reply on the other end of the line, but he could hear someone breathing. Not in a creepy way, but slowly, like they were having difficulty taking air in, or trying to calm themselves. That immediately made him worry.

"Simon?" he tried again. "Is that you?"

The immediate response was a sob, and if Wilhelm hadn't been alarmed before, well, now he definitely was. "Sorry, I shouldn't have called, I, um—"

It sounded like Simon was about to hang up, and Wille couldn't let that happen; not while he was in that state, at least. "Wait, don't go." Simon was one of the strongest people Wille knew. He'd only heard Simon sound that devastated once, and, well... it wasn't a situation Wille wanted to repeat, that was for sure. Whatever was happening now must be just as painful for Simon. "Hey, what's wrong? You can talk to me."

There were some sniffles and gasps on the other side, and for a second Wille thought Simon wasn't going to answer. "No, no, you're probably busy," came the response, eventually. "It's stupid, anyway; I shouldn't have—"

"It's not stupid if it's got you like this," Wilhelm retorted gently, trying to prompt him to talk without pushing too hard. He knew from experience Simon did not stay in conversations he didn't want to be having. But he'd called; surely that meant he needed to get something off his chest?

"Simon," Wille tried again when the other man remained quiet, "I know we don't really talk like this... anymore..." He realized a second too late that he was wading into uncomfortable territory, clearing his throat before skipping over that slip. "But I'd like to think we're still friends. If there's anything I can do to help..."

The sound that came through the line was something between a sniffle and a scoff, but at least it came quickly. "I don't know that there's anything you can do," Simon admitted, still sounding pained. "I'm— It's just... my father died," he finally admitted, his voice faltering on the last word.

Wille's heart clenched for him. "I'm so sorry," he said, and he meant it. He knew Simon's dad hadn't been the best father, and that their relationship was strained, but he also knew Simon wanted his dad to do better. That he was the only one in his family willing to give his father a chance, even if it ended up in disappointment. So there were some conflicting feelings there, and that... that, Wille could understand very well. "When did it happen?"

"This morning," Simon said, his voice raspy from crying. "Or, well, this morning was when they found him. We don't know yet when exactly he..." He cleared his throat, almost like he was avoiding saying the word again.

Wille started pacing in place. "Was it..." He trailed off as well, not wanting to upset Simon any further, though his meaning was clear. Drugs. Did the drugs kill him.

"No," Simon replied, "it wasn't the drugs. He'd actually managed to stay clean for a little bit..." He sighed. "It was too late for the cirrhosis, though."

"Damn," Wille said. "I'm really sorry, Simon. And I know you must've heard that a thousand times today and you probably expected more from me when you called, but... I don't..."

"No, it's... it doesn't feel empty... coming from you," Simon said in a small voice. Wille's heart constricted again at that admission, and he was about to ask what he meant by that when Simon continued speaking. "I'm not sure I actually knew what I wanted when I called you, I just... I can't talk to Mamma or Sara because they're both grieving in their own way and I don't want to get in the way of that, you know?"

Wilhelm hummed his assent. That was one thing that definitely hadn't changed: Simon's protectiveness of his mother and sister, and his tendency to avoid putting his problems on the people he loved. He thought he had to carry everything on his shoulders, and sometimes, like today, he realized he couldn't. Or, hopefully, he realized he didn't have to.

"And I guess I can always go to Rosh and Ayub," Simon continued, "but they've been there through all my ups and downs with Micke and they know how much it's affected me, so I'm almost afraid they might just say 'good riddance' and that's not... that's not what I need."

Wille knew that feeling as well. Sometimes he managed to stand up to his mother in small ways, and it felt like it should be celebratory. Felice or Lena even congratulated him for it sometimes, and he was grateful for the support, of course, but... as much as he knew it was the right thing to do, those moments didn't make him feel victorious. It wasn't a good thing that everything with his mother had to be a confrontation, even if he did win from time to time. It didn't make him feel good that his mother cared more about his title than about him.

Conflicting feelings, indeed.

"And Frans has been great, he really has," Simon kept speaking. Wilhelm had to think for a second to remember who this Frans person was, but then it came to him: Simon's boyfriend, of course. He'd never met the guy, but Felice had mentioned him once or twice. "But he's just— he's never lost anyone close to him. He still has all four of his grandparents, for fuck's sake, and his family's so bloody perfect that even if he tries, he doesn't... he just can't..."

"...understand?" Wille finished the sentence for him. Simon made a sound of agreement. "Well, maybe you called the right person, then. I do know a thing or two about dysfunctional families," Wilhelm said. He chuckled to himself, but the only humor in the sound was born out of irony: if only the media could hear him say that, it would shatter the veneer of perfection of the Royal Family more than any teenage gay sex scandal ever could.

"Plus," he added, "I know what it's like to both love and hate a parent at the same time."

"Yeah," Simon said, and he sounded sad. Not like before, but about this specific comment. Sad for Wilhelm? For himself? Maybe both; Wille couldn't tell. "But no, I... I was thinking of how you were... after Erik..."

Something about how vacant he sounded when he said that unnerved Wilhelm. "Simon, you haven't done anything rash, have you?" he asked, scared of the answer. "Where are you? Is someone with you?" he asked, already running through scenarios of what to do if the answer to his first question was yes. He vaguely remembered that Simon currently lived in Södermalm, but he didn't know exactly where, and he didn't think he could get there fast enough in case of an emergency.

Simon chuckled, but much like Wille earlier, there was little mirth in it. "Don't worry, I'm not quite at the point where I drown my sorrows in drugs and alcohol. I'm okay," he reassured Wilhelm in a tired voice. "Just... feeling weird, I guess. I'm home. Frans is here, but he's taking a shower. I'm sitting out here on the curb. I just needed some fresh air, I guess."

Wille was about to reply, relieved, when he heard Lena calling out to him. "Darling?" He turned around and found her peering down at him from the kitchen window. "The food's ready. Are you coming up soon?"

Wilhelm pulled his phone away from his ear and covered it with one hand— which would do exactly nothing to muffle the sound of his voice and he didn't even know why he even needed to hide his response from Simon, anyway, but it was a reflex. "I'll be there in a bit. Just wait for me, okay?"

Lena nodded and disappeared from the window, and Wille raised his phone to his ear again. "Um..."

"Sorry," Simon said abruptly before Wille could explain. "You probably had plans with Helena. I'm interrupting. I can go—"

"No, hey," Wilhelm said, surprising even himself. He had been about to tell Simon that he needed to go since Simon sounded like he was feeling better. Somehow, the words that came out of his mouth were completely different. "It's just dinner; it's not a big deal. Your dad died, Simon. The least I can do is be there for you."

"You don't have to," Simon replied.

"I want to," Wille assured him, and he meant that, too. "I want you to know that it's okay to feel whatever you're feeling. Even if it feels weird to you, it's okay. People grieve in different ways. As long as you're not hurting yourself or someone else, however you react to your loss is totally valid." It had taken Wilhelm years to understand that, to understand that the sliver of anger he felt in the deep recesses of his heart toward Erik was a product of misplaced guilt and his own insecurity about not measuring up, and it was all tied up in the process of grieving and moving on. He could only imagine Simon had to be feeling some of that tonight, as well.

"Even getting high and eating plastic grass?" Simon asked, and for a moment the question was a glimpse of the old Simon, the one who loved to tease and laugh. He was still in there, just a little more subdued.

"Or falling in love with a boy." The words were out of Wille's mouth before he could even think to stop them. He didn't think of that period of his life too often— too painful— but talking to Simon was dragging the memories out of him. How intensely everything felt back then, from losing Erik, to August and his own mother betraying him, to being with Simon. Especially that.

Simon hummed in response. "Well, I guess it's a bit late for me on that front."

Wilhelm said nothing to Simon's comment, but in his head, he wondered who Simon was referring to. Frans, probably; they were dating, after all, and it was serious enough that he had stayed with Simon on the day his father died, so it made sense that they'd be in love. Or maybe Simon meant some past boyfriend of his. He might've had many serious relationships by this point.

He certainly didn't mean Wilhelm, though. Simon had liked him a lot back when they were together, had deep feelings for him, Wille was certain, but those feelings hadn't grown all the way to love by the time they broke up. They hadn't been allowed enough time. Or, well, not for Simon. Wille had fallen hard and fast, but they were different in that regard— just as they were different in many, many aspects of their lives. Perhaps that's why weren't meant to last.

"Hey," Wille said instead, not wanting to wade into that quagmire when Simon was obviously in pain. That wouldn't help. Still feeling like he needed to keep moving, he walked up to a bench they had recently installed just by the front door of the house and sat down. His bouncing knee did the moving for him. "How are you feeling now?"

Simon took a deep, shaky breath, then let it out slowly. "Guilty," he confessed carefully. "That was what I was talking about earlier, you know? That night... I remember you mumbling while I dragged you back to Hillerska that you thought Erik's death was your fault."

Wilhelm closed his eyes and threw his head back against the front wall of the house behind him. He remembered that. He remembered more about that night and morning than any person who had been that high had any right to. He remembered it in exquisite detail. Scenes of it were flashing behind his closed lids.

"And I remember thinking," Simon continued, pulling Wille out of those thoughts that he absolutely, definitively should not be having, "'That's ridiculous. How can he think it's his fault that his brother died in a car accident 200 km away?' But then..." A sniffle. "...here I am, wondering if I should've done more. Like, maybe if I'd been around more, he would've stopped drinking earlier. Or maybe I could've made sure he took better care of himself after his diagnosis. I don't know."

There was a pause before Simon asked, "Is that feeling valid, too?"

"It's normal," Wille retorted right away. "It's just not true. It's not your fault that your father died, just like it's not my fault that Erik died."

Simon chuckled, with maybe a little more amusement in his voice now. "And what did it take for you to reach that monumental conclusion?"

Now Wille had to chuckle as well. "Lots and lots of therapy." It shouldn't be funny, except that it was, and they both allowed themselves a brief moment of levity at all the traumatizing and marking experiences they'd had to get through in their young lives, even on opposite ends of the class spectrum. So different, and yet, they somehow still managed to understand each other, even after all this time.

"In all seriousness, though," Wilhelm said when they sobered up, "what happened to Micke was not your fault, any more than it was my fault that Erik died." He shook his head, even though Simon couldn't see him. "That's just the kind of person you are, Simon; you always put others ahead of yourself. But there's nothing you could've done to help him if he didn't help himself."

"I don't always, though," Simon responded, a tinge of sorrow in his tone. "I didn't with us. I put myself first, for once."

"It was the right thing to do," Wille said, softly. He didn't blame Simon for standing up to himself and ending their relationship. He didn't blame Simon for anything. Wilhelm was the one who'd messed up, and it was right for Simon to step away and protect his heart. He deserved nothing less than someone who could love him fully, openly.

"Was it, though?" Simon said, his voice low, and there was a wistfulness to his tone that made Wille's heart start beating really fast. They probably shouldn't be talking about this while Simon was in a vulnerable, raw state of mind, but he was the one who had brought it up... "Didn't feel like it," he added, almost in a whisper.

Wilhelm didn't know if he meant back then or at some point since, but did it even matter? The way things ended between them would always be a gaping wound in the story of their lives, no matter how much they'd matured since then or how stable or happy their lives got.

"No," Wille admitted. "It didn't."

They were silent after that. Wilhelm got to his feet and started pacing in front of the bench, debating with himself whether they (whether he) should end the call now. He still didn't want to leave Simon by himself at such a sensitive time, but wasn't this what they'd been trying to avoid all these years by limiting their contact with each other? This awkwardness of saying too much, of delving too deeply, and being thrown right back to where they were ten years ago?

He was about to suggest they go back to their respective significant others, when Simon spoke up again, tentative like he didn't want their conversation to end either, but at the same time didn't want to push it too far. "That was a textbook response, by the way," he said, maybe a little bit surprised. "The part about not being able to help Micke until he was willing to help himself. It's exactly what some of my colleagues might tell the child of an addict."

Wille recalled then that Simon worked in music therapy, so it made sense that he was in that mental health environment. "Well, I certainly didn't come up with it. I've done a lot of work with charities that help families affected by addiction," he explained, "so I've learned a thing or two."

On the other end of the line, Simon made a sound of surprise. "Really?" he asked. "I didn't picture that as being something you'd be interested in."

"Yeah," Wille admitted. "To be fair, it wasn't my first choice. Initially, I wanted to support several LGBTQ+ charities, but I was... kindly advised by the Crown's Public Relations department that I shouldn't come within 100 meters of any such organization." The disdain in his voice was more than obvious, he was sure. Simon snorted.

"So I figured," Wilhelm continued, "since I know people who have been touched by drugs, have been hurt by them"— Simon himself, or even his cousin August— "that I could try that, instead. I don't know, maybe then I could help someone. At least a little." And truth be told, he wasn't sure how much his presence and public support had helped those people, or the organizations trying to help them, but he certainly felt he'd been changed by them. So that felt like a worthy endeavor.

As if reading his mind, Simon said, "That's great, Wille." It was the first time Simon said his name throughout their entire conversation so far. Wilhelm didn't want to think why that was notable, or why it felt so good. "Not many powerful people give their time and effort to combat the ripple effects of drugs. They think of addiction as an individual problem, but it's not; it's systemic."

"Well, that's me," Wille said. "I'm the system. Figured it was the least I could do."

Simon chuckled at that. "It's really good, though," he insisted, and Wille basked in the undercurrent of pride in his tone. "I had no idea you were doing that. I haven't been keeping tabs. Or more like I've been avoiding it, really," he admitted sheepishly.

Wille laughed. "Completely understandable, honestly." It's not like Wilhelm had been keeping tabs on Simon, either. That'd be super creepy, considering Simon wasn't a public figure. But he heard snippets of information about him and his life through his friends, and he remembered. He had a good memory when it came to Simon.

"Yeah, but now I kinda wish I'd known," Simon retorted, a little disappointed. "It really means a lot, you know. To me." He paused for a beat, uncertain or maybe just thinking of his words. "Tell me about it?" he eventually asked. "Your work with these organizations, I mean. I'd love to hear about it."

"Sure," Wilhelm replied right away before a thought occurred to him. "But... are you sure that's okay? Talking about this today of all days? I don't want to make you feel worse. I can tell you about it some other time if you want."

"No, no, it's fine," Simon assured him. "It's... it's a little bit like what I do in my work. It reminds me that not every case out there is like mine. Like Micke's." A sniffle. "So it might actually help me not think about my own situation. And who knows," he added, with a pinch of genuine enthusiasm for the first time that day, "you might've worked with someone I know. That'd be interesting."

"Okay," Wille agreed. He was deeply invested in his charity work— he truly cared about the people he met and worked with to further their causes— and he really would like to talk about it with someone. Not that he couldn't talk about it with Lena or Felice, or any number of acquaintances, but it was always difficult to tell if they were being complimentary of his efforts because he was truly doing valuable work, or because they just wanted to be supportive. Simon wouldn't hesitate to tell him when he was doing something wrong, or if he wasn't doing enough. He knew that for a fact.

So Wilhelm told him. Told him about the countless hours spent at Fohm, guided by the experts at CAN through their research and the numbers and their plans of action to help municipalities deal with the issue of drug addiction. Told him about the countless international conferences he'd attended, liaising with EMCDDA and UNODC to exchange data and strategies with other European countries. Told him about the countless meetings with non-profit NGOs to learn how official policy eased or impeded their work, and to draw media attention to their training and educational programs. Told him about the countless visits to municipalities all over the country, to put faces to those numbers and hear directly from the people on the ground doing the work about their needs and how the government could best support them.

He told Simon about his frustration with the Crown forbidding him from working with users' organizations— it was "unseemly for a prince" and considered "too political" because some of these organizations advocated for the legalization of cannabis and lowering of criminal sentences for non-violent drug offenders. Simon couldn't fix the monarchy for him (understatement of the century), but he did give Wille some contacts that might be useful to establish some kind of relationship with them in the future.

"You may not be able to support them officially," Simon explained, "but there might be some workaround you can come up with that will let you help them somehow, even taking the publicity out of the picture. If you'd still be up for that, of course."

"I would," Wille replied straight away, incredibly grateful that Simon had given him an alternative way to further his charity work. Before today, he thought he'd hit a dead end. "Thank you, Simon. This truly means so much to me," he added, echoing Simon's words from earlier.

"No problem. It's good to see you using your platform for good," Simon said. Wilhelm couldn't see him, but in his mind's eye, he could imagine him smiling as he spoke. It made Wille smile.

There was silence again for a minute or so, but it didn't make Wille feel antsy like before. No, right then he felt... full. Brimming. Which was saying something, because it wouldn't have occurred to him before tonight that he had at all been feeling empty, but he must have because the buoyancy inside his chest felt so remarkably different. He felt calm, like he was floating. He sat down on the bench again, slowly, relaxing into it.

"I, um..." It was Simon who broke the silence once again. "I should probably go. It's late."

"Right." Wilhelm opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on the horizon, past the well-maintained lawn of the sea wing and over the hedge that separated it from the rest of the slottspark, all the way to the back where the terrain rose into Flora's hill. "Are you feeling any better?" he asked.

"Yes," Simon responded softly. "Much. Thanks for talking to me, really. You didn't have to."

"I wanted to," Wille retorted, his stare lost in the landscape but not really seeing it. "And, Simon... you can call me anytime, you know?" he offered carefully, picking at the stitching at the knee of his dark-wash jeans. "I know things between us didn't end on the best of terms, but we don't have to be strangers... I hope."

"Yeah, I know." The acknowledgment came quickly like he didn't even need to think about it. "And, uh... same to you. If you ever need someone to talk to, you can call me. You know that, right? It's the least I can do."

"I know," Wilhelm said, corners of his mouth crinkling up ever so slightly. "So, um... I'll check up on you later, okay? And do let me know about the funeral arrangements. I may not be in Sweden then, but I'd still like to do something if I can."

"I will," Simon said gingerly. There was a pause for a heartbeat. "Bye, Wille."

"Bye, Simme," Wille whispered with a smile. He ended the call, then just stared at the "call ended" interface on his phone until the screen turned off on its own.

He breathed in deeply, then let all the air out slowly in a deep, heavy sigh. Ran a hand through his hair. Tried to center himself a bit. He still felt almost like he was floating, disconnected from the ground, and it took him a few minutes to get himself back down to earth, push himself to his feet and head back inside.

The kitchen table was all decked out when he made his way there. Flowers, candles, fancy serviettes. A wine bottle in a chilling bucket on the center of the table. A generous serving of lamb roast with a side of Jersey royals with herbs and bacon where he was meant to sit, probably no longer warm.

Lena sat on the opposite side of a table, an empty plate, meal already finished (or discarded) in front of her. She was leaning back in her seat, arms crossed, with a glass of red wine in her hand. Her engagement ring glinted against the deep burgundy color of the drink. Her expression was serious, closed off. She was obviously not happy.

Wille winced. "Sorry, it took a bit longer than I anticipated—"

"Sorry?" she asked, pinning him with an unamused stare. "You're sorry. Right. Wille, I've been sitting here like an idiot for forty-five minutes. Who the hell was calling that couldn't just take a hint?"

Wilhelm swallowed uncomfortably on a dry throat. He could just tell her the truth: that a friend of his suffered a loss in the family and he'd wanted to comfort them in their time of grief. Lena was a wonderful person; she would understand. And yet, when he tried to get the words out, they got stuck in his throat. "It was... about the trip," he said instead, his stomach churning uncomfortably.

Lena scoffed, setting the glass of wine down on the table beside her empty plate. "And it couldn't wait until the morning? Wilhelm, they work for you. You have to learn to say no every once in a while."

Wille clenched his teeth, trying not to get annoyed. It wasn't Lena's fault; she was just jumping to conclusions because she didn't have the correct information. Because he hadn't given her the correct information. He had no right to get mad at her now. "Sorry," he repeated. "I'll make it up to you, I promise. Let me just reheat the food—"

"Yeah, you can do that yourself. I already ate." She pushed back from the table, her chair scraping loudly against the floor, and stood up. She grabbed her purse, which had been hanging off the back of the chair, and shouldered it jerkily.

She walked around the table and stopped directly beside him. "Text me when you land, okay?" she said and kissed him on the cheek. It was a sign that, while she was angry at him at that moment, she was also willing to talk it out later when tempers cooled. Wille nodded, looking down at the food on the table— unable to look at her. The clip-clap of her heels on the hardwood floors echoed down the hallway as she walked toward the stairs.

Wille didn't move until he heard the front door slam closed. Then he leaned his weight against the backrest of his chair with a loud groan. What the hell was he thinking? He was going to have to grovel his way out of this one for sure, probably for a long while. But then he looked at his phone in his hand and couldn't bring himself to regret it.

With a sigh, he grabbed his loaded plate and made his way to the microwave to reheat it. It was only just now hitting him that he really was quite hungry.