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Chapter Text

“Alec in ten…nine…eight…”

Soft footsteps against black vinyl pattered across the darkened stage, the room filled to the brim with quiet anticipation.

The star took his place, front and center.  He knew this by heart.  He could pinpoint each and every backup dancer with his eyes shut.  He could identify the tingling in his fingertips as the steady, contagious confidence that grew in him with every performance.

“Five…four…”

Simon breathed in once, deeply.  Then again.

He heard the audience shuffle in their seats, watching, waiting.

Simon loved this feeling.

“ ...One…”

A spotlight shone on Alec Baldwin, standing off to the left of the stage.  He addressed the camera.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Simon Eriksson,”

Mellow guitar chords rang out from speakers next to the stage.  The audience whisted and clapped for a few moments, falling silent the moment he raises the microphone to his mouth.

He sang it just like he had a million times before.  This one had become a quick favorite amongst the public.  The sexual ones always did.

The choreo was quick, simple, made interesting only by the lighting, the barely-there costumes, and the fact that Simon had perfected the way to move his hips in order to be just distracting enough.

The beat progressed, the warm stage lights wrapping around him like a blanket, and then the hands of his dancers pressed against his body as the final chords vibrated through the floorboards.

It was Simon’s favorite type of performance.  One song.  Step under the lights, do a damn good job, and quit while you're ahead.  Over just as quick as it begins.

The only difference now was that Saturday Night Live was arguably his biggest gig yet.  Not that it would stay that way for long.  (With the release of his next album he was a strong contender for the Grammys this year, God willing).

Simon wiped the dew of sweat from his forehead as he worked his way through the backstage area where there were some of the most anxious he’d seen in a while people jam-packed closer than graduation day at Hillerska.  He didn’t care.  He loved the pre-show chaos.

Both fortunately and unfortunately for him though, his show was done, and Simon didn’t plan on being here any longer than he needed to.  Not when there was the New York City nightlife just outside the building and he had the wonderful privilege of a bank account with a balance over fifty dollars.

Now, don’t jump to any conclusions.

Simon was well aware that his poor little teenaged self would gauge his own eyes out at the sight of Simon clubbing, which is exactly why he had rules for these kinds of nights.

He recited them in his head like a prayer before any substance-fueled night:

1. No drinks harder than wine.
2. No drugs harder than weed.
3. Never to the point of blackout.
4. Never alone.

He’d followed his rules to a tee for three years now, never once slipping into “addict territory” as Sara called it.  Simon was very proud of himself for that.

He’d been steadily rising to fame for about ten months after releasing his first album before he realized that his sobriety oath from seventh grade simply wouldn’t hold up.  It was a slow discovery at first, accepting sips of thousand-dollar chardonnays from some of the classiest and most elegant women he’d ever met at parties he most certainly didn’t belong in.  Then he’d taken it one step further and ordered a scotch to match the drinks of the Oscar winner he’d been seated next to at the Met Gala.

When he’d smoked his first joint at the VMAs afterparty, high off winning his first big award, Simon decided it may have been time for a little self reflection.  He made his strict list of rules the morning after while trying to nurse himself through a splitting headache.  He saved a photo of it onto his phone, taped the paper up on his wall, and went out to have some goddamn fun.

He truly didn’t expect the partying to be as big a deal as it was.

Simon thought he had earned a reputation very early on in his music career of being the “good boy”.  He was never caught drunkenly tripping over himself on the sidewalk, never losing his temper with paparazzi or shit-talking his peers.  He didn’t think a snapshot of him leaving a nightclub with bloodshot eyes, clinging to the arm of a 6’2” bodybuilder would provoke quite so many headlines.

Clearly he was mistaken because after his headache finally cleared the next morning, he’d made the dire mistake of checking his phone.

Royal Scandal Turned Popstar Simon Eriksson Spotted Stumbling Home In NYC With Another Hottie!

Sound the Alarms!  Young Musician Simon Eriksson Shows True Colors Tonight on the Streets of New York!

Will History Repeat Itself?  Swedish Singer Simon Eriksson Seen Out With a New Boytoy Outside a New York Club.

The headlines varied in their levels of exploitivity, but they all told Simon the same thing: They were waiting for this to happen.  The newspapers, the magazines—hell, maybe even his own fans—they’d just been waiting months for Simon to slip up, to give them a reason to bring up that video again.

All the work, all the effort he put into building his image, controlling his own narrative in the eyes of the public just to be thrown back into the box he was in seven years ago.  That was a slap in the face

Simon had spent the next couple weeks shut inside.  It felt too similar to the days following the video.  He barely ate, afraid to take the six minute walk down to the store.  He’d avoided his phone like the plague which eventually led to his manager just about pounding his door down to make sure he was still alive and remind him he had a scheduled appearance on a late night show the following night.

Simon had tried to let his newly-returning shyness seep into his wardrobe before the interview, buttoning up his deep green silk shirt all the way to the collar, something he hadn’t done since his Hillerska days.

Maddie was the one to snap him out of it.

(Yes, that Maddie.  She’d been pursuing fashion, Simon had been pursuing music, and who better to hire as his stylist than the girl who kept him looking his best through the worst three years of his life.  It just worked out.)

She’d come into his dressing room before the show, just to make sure he still knew how to dress himself, and her hands had immediately gone to the line of buttons, wordlessly popping them open one by one.

Simon tried to stop her, expressing his doubts, his fear of being seen as that guy again.  She simply took his head in her hands, brought his face two centimeters from hers, and whispered:

“Honey, embrace the whore.”

So Simon did.

And since then, he went with his gut.  He’d shut down pushy interviewers, flipped off photographers when they got a little too close, and he was never seen with less than two shirt buttons open.

Not to mention, he went out as often as he pleased, and left with whoever he pleased, slutty reputation be damned.

It had all been very freeing for him.

Simon got a little braver with his second album.  The songs were less sappy, less sad than his first, and it made sense.  He wrote his first album at nineteen, still running high off the emotions of graduating, escaping the three year torture that his time at Hillerska had been.  Not to mention the memory of seeing Wilhelm’s face on that day, giving the prince one last goodbye before turning towards his mother’s car kept creeping back into the forefront of his mind.  Simon had chosen to pick those memories from his brain and put them onto paper.

His second album was much more fun.  It was the sort of thing you’d expect a twenty-one year old in New York to make.  His song carried a more sensual undertone, and so did his music videos, and his performances, and his interviews.

Simon, for lack of a better term, embraced the whore.

And it felt fucking good.

It felt especially good on nights like these.

Simon was right in the center of the dance floor (he often was), riding the post-performance high and feeling the buzz under his skin from the couple drinks he’s had already.

Speaking of—Simon checked his phone.  Twenty-six minutes since finishing his last beer, that was enough.  He squeezed his way out of the crowd, getting groped one too many times for it to be an accident.  He approached the bar, a sleek polished wood counter with LED lights shining dim light from under it.  This was one of those high-end places, one of Simon’s personal favorites when he had shows in the city.  What was even better was the hotel they’ve got right above it.  Simon found that it was a great place to crash when he didn’t feel like making the forty-five minute trip to his house outside the city.

“Can I get another?” He addresses the bartender, waving his empty bottle.  The bartender—Nate, as his name tag reads— returns with a new one and pops the cap off.  Simon thanks him and it looks like Nate was about to turn away before something clicked in his eyes.  That was an expression Simon knew all too well.

Nate’s eyes narrowed, “Wait aren’t you…”

Simon raised an eyebrow.  Getting recognized used to be the bane of his existence when he was a teenager, then it got fun, then very annoying.  However it was still fun sometimes, especially when the guy recognizing him had a sharp jawline and enviable biceps.

When Simon didn’t answer, Nate’s ocean green eyes shifted down Simon’s face, his chest, then back up again and a slow smile spread across his face.  Simon internally high fived himself.

“I just watched you perform earlier, didn’t I?”

“Might’ve…” Simon plays it coy—that usually works for him—and takes a slow sip from his bottle.  Nate’s eyes drop down to his lips again, just as expected.

“Unless that was another sexy dancer with pretty eyes.”

Simon laughed with faux shyness.  He was definitely getting railed tonight.

“I get off in twenty,” Nate cut straight to the point, “I’ve got a place down the street.”

“I’ve got a place upstairs.”

Simon woke up to sweat-dried sheets and the sun stinging his eyes.

His head hurt, his limbs ached, but at least he was alone.

Simon had woken up to one too many men pressed against him to appreciate the ones who don’t overstay their welcome.  The best possible feeling after a blurry, sweaty, loud night was being all alone, finally able to breathe again.  Simon had to focus on his breathing a lot during sex, not to fast, not too loud, not too deep or too shallow to make it sound like he was having an asthma attack.  It was a lot of work.

Simon rolled onto his back and took a deep, lingering breath.  Just because he could.

He’d have to get up soon.  Gather his things, get home to regroup and rest before his Tonight Show appearance to talk about his upcoming tour.  He had to call his mom.  And his sister.  And maybe even Ayub or Rosh.

He had his European leg of the tour in a few months after he finished the U.S.  He really should try to see them.

Just talking to them would be a start.

Simon’s a bit ashamed to admit it (and he wasn’t ashamed about much anymore), but somewhere in between his first tour and second album, his friends had gotten a little lost in the mix.  He tried for a while to stay in touch with them, visit when he could, try to maintain some semblance of what he used to be, but that task proved to be easier said than done.

Long story short, Simon hadn’t spoken to his friends in years.

He only cried about it once.  It was the day after his second album launched, he had wanted to call Ayub and see what he thought, or text Rosh and tell her about the fifth track, an indie rock type song he only wrote because of how much she loved that style.  That was when he realized it had been months since they spoke, and what kind of pretentious asshole calls his friends for the first time in months to ask what they think about his own album.

So Simon chose to wait.

The waiting turned into forgetting, and the forgetting turned into comfortable silence.  And Simon’s been up to his neck in comfortable silence for two years now.

That was enough to break Simon out of the moment.  He hoisted himself up with a sigh, squeezing his eyes shut and reaching around for his bag.  He went about his hangover routine.  Take some Tylenol (always in the left side pouch), check his phone (some messages from his manager, probably about tomorrow.  He can check later), and check his wallet for any missing bills—something he always does after bringing someone back to his room.  Sure enough, the leather wallet was about fifty bucks lighter.  Simon didn’t mind much, he stopped caring about getting stolen from a while ago.  It was basically charity at this point.

He didn’t bother wiping off his smudged eyeliner before making the trek down to the parking garage.  A pap photo of him in rumpled clothing and messy makeup stopped being big news a long time ago.

He followed the same routine he had been for years, maneuvering through the busy city streets before escaping onto a smaller road towards his gated community.  It was a secluded place, maybe even isolating for those who lived there alone, which Simon did.  But what could he say?  He felt a bit too old and a bit too famous for roommates, and he was sure as hell too young to settle down.  So, big empty house it was.

He called his mom on the way home, warmth spreading through his chest at hearing her familiar “Hola mí amor” through his car speaker.  He let her go on about this new girl who started at her work, not much older than Simon.  He let her ramble about their— her — neighbor who she suspects stole a package off her porch.

Simon really has to move her out of that neighborhood.

He ended the call like he always did.  A promise to call back soon, an “I love you” and a quick goodbye.  Then he was alone again.

Simon took a long, really not luxurious shower just to get the smell of sex out of his skin.  He properly went about his skincare routine in front of his oversized bathroom mirror hanging above a black marble counter then made his way back to his room, took in the view of a dense green forest and cloudless sky, and promptly collapsed on his bed.

Then his phone rang.

Delightful .

If that was Sara he was going to have to give her a tongue lashing, she had the tendency to call at all the worst times.

Thank God that when Simon looked at his phone he saw his manager’s name, the one person he had to be nice to every time.

“Hey Kat,” Simon barely noticed how exhausted he was that day until he heard it dripping from his voice.  He winced.

“Hi…” Kat dragged it out.  She never dragged things out.

Oh no .

“What?” Simon all but snapped up on his bed, tiredness be damned.

“I just said hi,” Nope, she sounded way too sweet.  Something was definitely off.

“You said it weird.  What happened?”

Kat sighs, thankfully dropping the act as quickly as she’d started it, “Nothing happened .  Not yet at least.”

“Well, what’s going to happen?”

“Nothing! Not unless you agree.”

Simon supposed that made him feel a little better.  But only a little, because the question still stood, “Agree to what?”

“There’s a benefit concert,” She started, her voice switching straight into Manager Mode, as Simon thought of it, “A huge one, like, millions of bucks going into this.”

“What’s the cause?”

“LGBTQ+ rights and awareness.”

Simon narrowed his eyes, he knew there was more.  There had to be, “Why wouldn’t I agree to that?”

Kat was silent for a moment, and he’d known her long enough to know that she was rehearsing her words in her head.

“Well, their headliner just dropped out so it would be short notice, just a couple weeks away,” She paused again, “And it’s in Sweden.”

Simon’s heart jumped at the thought of going home, not necessarily a good jump, but not a bad one, “What else.”

“It’s being organized by the crown prince.”

Simon’s heart jumped again, in a bad way.

“Oh,” He barely muttered.

He even sounded pathetic.

Simon lost focus for a second, losing himself in the texture of the bed linens on his fingertips and the soft gray paint on the walls.  That was until he heard Kat’s rambling.

“—and you know how these things work there’s so many people around you probably won’t even see him—”

Kat didn’t technically know about Wilhelm.  Technically .

The official narrative is that the two were never involved and Simon has never negated that, not even to his manager.

In other words, Kat doesn’t know.

But, she knows.

The only people who believed the crown prince’s statement from eight years ago are the ones who wanted to.

And if there were any doubts about her knowledge before, they were being shot right out of the sky by Kat’s quick, desperately reassuring words.

“—and of course, of course , I wouldn’t have asked you if there were a better option but…Come on, Simon, let’s be real.  Your queer, Swedish, and obviously the most famous person they’d be able to get over there.  You really would be the best person for this job.  So just…” She trailed off, finally seeming to have worn herself out with her overexplaining, “I don’t know Simon.  Just consider it.”

Simon was silent for a long time, taking in what all of this would mean.  He’d go home, he’d perform in front of thousands, he'd put his heart and soul into raising money for what was important to him.

That's all fine and great.  He’d done that before.

He hadn’t done it in the same vicinity as Wilhelm.

Simon had gone on national television, both America and Sweden, and performed his little heart out knowing full well who could be watching.  But at least then, he had the luxury of denial.  He could pretend Wilhelm didn’t know where he was, what he was up to, that he had put on paper exactly how he had fallen in love with him.  It was unlikely, sure, but it was possible.

Ashamed as he was to admit it, Simon had been hiding from Wilhelm for six years.  And he’d been doing a damn good job at it.

But if he were to do this concert, there's no hiding from him.  Simon didn’t need to see Wilhelm at the venue to feel him there, to be able to pick out the feeling of his gaze on him amongst thousands of eyes.  It’d be like performing naked.

Actually, no.

Simon would perform naked a hundred times before singing his breakup songs—or worse, his sexual songs —in front of Wilhelm.

The thought made him physically shudder.

Fuck, singing about how much he loves grinding against guys on dance floors while caramel eyes he hasn’t in years burn straight through his skin—

Oh my , Simon shut himself down, that’s an awfully interesting shade of gray on those walls .

He stared a bit longer, trying to get his thoughts in order, trying to regulate his breathing.

“...Simon?”

Shit.  Kat.

“Uhm,” Was about as far as he got, still trying to rid his thoughts of some very unwelcome memories in order to make an informed decision.

“Look you don’t have to say yes,” Kat’s voice softens in the way it always did when she could tell Simon was overwhelmed, “Just think about it, that’s all I’m asking.”

And Simon did.

He thought about alright.

He thought about what it might be like to see Wilhelm’s face at twenty-four.  Had he changed?  Was he more serious now?  More decisive? More confident?

Simon thought about whether Wilhelm had gained muscle for precisely three seconds before finally speaking.

“I’m gonna take a nap.”

Chapter Text

Swedish Crown Prince Holding Benefit Concert in Support of LGBTQ+ Awareness, One of His Many Fundraisers for the Community

Simon had been staring at that article for about fifteen minutes.  Not reading it, exactly.  Just staring at the title, the picture.  Obviously he knows Wilhelm’s face, he’s seen him on the news, magazine covers, it was inevitable.  But Simon had stopped examining every press photo of the prince a long time ago, back before it got too suffocating to see his face.

Simon took in every detail of the image.  He looked older, he stood taller.  Clearly he’d gotten better at faking his smiles.  The curl of his lips and crinkles by his eyes almost looked genuine.  Almost.  So much it nearly made Simon nauseous.

The strain behind his eyes grew.  Simon had been staring at his phone screen in his darkened bedroom for far too long.  He hadn’t been able to fall asleep.  He even went through all his time killers.  Simon put on a full face of makeup, took it all off, went through his show choreo one more time, did some pushups, tried to jerk off and stopped the second hazel eyes flashed through his mind, did more pushups, then finally surrendered to his phone.

He supposed he’d have to get used to seeing his face at some point, especially since he’d be seeing the real thing in two weeks.

Simon groaned, burying his hands in his hair.

Obviously he’ll perform at the concert.  And obviously he’ll talk to Wilhelm there.  He knew he would the second he hung up the phone.

This was what he’d been waiting for.

Ever since graduation—maybe even since that fucking statement— Simon’s just been waiting for something .  Something to pull him back into Wilhelm’s world.  Some circumstances beyond his control to give Simon an excuse to be weak again.

Here it was.  Simon would fly home, he’d see his mom, his sister, and—God willing—get a chance to see Wilhelm.

His stomach lurched.  Thank God he’d eaten next to nothing in the past twenty-four hours because he was seconds away from puking his guts out.

Simon gave up then.  In the darkness of his bedroom, the curtains drawn and sheets tangled all around him, that goddamn article still open on his phone, Simon gave up and closed his eyes.

The details were fuzzy.  He couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said to Wilhelm the last time he saw him, or how many classes they had together their third year, what he was eating when Wilhelm introduced himself, what hour of the night he pedaled through the streets of Bjärstad to the soccer field.

He remembered the important bits though, the shade of gold that tinted Wilhelm’s skin the morning after, the struggle of trying to keep his cool after he slapped his hand over Simon’s mouth, the way Wilhelm smiled when Simon said he liked him too, the tear that slid down his cheek when he realized that wasn’t enough.

Simon fell asleep at three in the afternoon, thinking about Wilhelm hugging him on the sidewalk and resisting the urge to google the nearest liquor store.

“And you’re absolutely sure?”

Simon tightened his death grip on his coffee mug (aquamarine, hand painted from Seville).  He stood hunched over his kitchen counter first thing in the morning, holding his phone firm to his ear.

“Yes.  I’m sure.”

Kat’s silence was the loudest fucking thing he’d ever heard, “You don’t sound sure, Simon.”

“Just book it, please.”

Kat sighed, “Alright.  We’ll fly you out in a few days.  Think about a set list, you’ve got about twenty minutes onstage and they can pretty much accommodate for anything within reason.  You know, backup dancers, things like that.  I’d recommend some more—you know, some more toned down songs.  I mean, it is a benefit concert so songs about one night stands aren’t really the vibe we want.  Also I assume you’ll want a few days to chill out and see your family once you get there…”

Simon phased out most of what she said.  He opted for staring at his kitchen.  It was early in morning, just breaking dawn, it used to be Simon’s favorite time of day.  But that was when he was back home.

The sunlight here wasn’t pretty.  It didn’t dip everything it touched in gold the way he remembered.  Staring at his kitchen now was like watching a shitty film noir.  It was the same dull feeling he got in any room of his house.

Simon never knew that sunlight could be dull until he lived alone.

“—Also, going back to the set list…” Kat's voice got quieter, just barely softer.  That gained Simon's attention, “Let’s steer clear of the songs…um, the songs off your first album.”

The songs about Wilhelm.

“I know they’re some of your most popular ones but, I think you understand…”

“I understand.”

“Okay, good,” Kat said, sounding a bit too relieved.  As if Simon would walk the audience, of which the prince is a part of, through his eighteen year old heartbreak.  He wasn’t an idiot.  Not really, “You good to fly out Wednesday?”

“Let me know the time and I’ll be there.”

“You’re such a fucking dumbass.”

Simon looked up from his gelato at Maddie, the glitter in her space buns shimmering in the sunlight, “What?  Why?”

She widens her eyes even more, staring at Simon like he was proposing arson.

“You’re gonna fuck him.”

Simon blinked, “What?”

“Holy shit,” Maddie threw here spoon down and leaned back in her chair, drawing the attention of a few others around them (as if one of the biggest pop stars around didn’t do that enough), “You’re planning on giving the performance of your life in front of your first love that you haven’t seen for five years and you’re planning on not fucking him?”

“Six years.”

“ What? ”

Simon cleared his throat, darting his eyes around and lowering his voice, “It’s been six years.”

Maddie’s eyebrows knitted together hopelessly.  She shook her head, her voice holding nothing but resignation, “You’re a dumbass.”

Simon stared at his gelato, melting into lukewarm slush by the second.  He was desperate to change the subject.  Maddie’s accusations had done nothing to calm his nerves, “But you’re coming right?”

“Well, I’m not letting you dress yourself,” Maddie—thank God —dropped the subject, “Knowing you, you’d pick out a nice lace top and leave it completely unbuttoned.”

“I would not.”

“Of course you would,” Maddie paid him no mind, continuing to chow down on her ice cream, “You’re an attention whore, Simon.  Especially for the attention of your Prince Charming ,” Maddie whispered the last couple words very conspicuously.  Simon scoffed.

He leaned forward in his seat very solemnly, linking his fingers together on the table.  He made sure to mutter every word as quietly as humanly possible, “Maddie, listen to me, I am not trying to gain anyone’s attention at this concert,” She tried to protest but Simon beat her to the punch, “ Especially not his.”

Maddie looked unconvinced, so Simon did what came naturally.  He took the slut route.

“Besides…” He pressed the tip of his spoon to his lower lip, “If I wanted to be an attention whore I’d just go bat my eyes at a bartender.”

The rest of that statement was left unsaid, but Maddie caught on anyway.

She narrowed her eyes at him, “Another one?  When?”

“Saturday.”

“What the fuck is it about performing that make you so horny, dude?  I’m a little concerned about you.”

“Maybe it’s because I let out so much energy on stage,” Simon took another bite, staring thoughtfully down at the wire tabletop, “Like, I’m basically walking through a cloud the second I step off.”

Maddie considered it, “Lucky Wille.”

Simon glared, then he blushed.

Simon hated flying.

He hated it.  Every rumble of the plane or shift in altitude brought him closer and closer to losing his shit.

And yes, maybe a good percentage of the discomfort could be attributed to where he was going, but the fact remained.

At the moment, he was trying to forget his name and focus on his custom-made playlist of Taylor Swift’s best work.  He cracked open the tombs that were his eyes for a split second to find the stewardess looming above him, a sugary smile on her face.  These attendants tended to fuss over him just a bit, even more than they did to the other first class passengers.  Simon would have taken his private jet, but it was down in Jersey and with tour a few weeks out, Simon wasn’t about to call up his pilot and request an impromptu transatlantic joyride.

So Simon was slumming it in first class this morning, staring up at a very stiff looking woman with a tight silver bun.

She was staring at him.

“...Sorry?” Simon was forced to put Ms. Swift on pause, “I didn’t catch that.”

The woman laughed robotically, “Apologies, I asked if you’d like anything to eat or drink.  Mimosa?  Some breakfast?  We offer fresh fruit, or breakfast sandwiches.  Or if you’d prefer—”

“I’m alright actually.  Thank you though.”

The woman blinked in mild surprise.  Simon always got the same reaction when he turned down grade-A service, “Okay,” She said shortly, then turned to the guest on the other side of the aisle.

Simon closed his eyes again, sending his mind somewhere way outside that rattling death box.

We could leave the Christmas lights up ‘till January

This is our place, we make the rules

It had become a real challenge to not think of Wilhelm over the past couple days.

Simon would have to talk to him, right?

It was the crown prince’s benefit, and Simon was the headline performer.

They’d have to at least shake hands.  Right?

Simon wasn’t even sure he could manage that.

And I'm highly suspicious that everyone who sees you wants you

I've loved you three summers now, honey, but I want 'em all

Would Wilhelm like his performance?  Did he like his music at all?

Had Wilhelm even heard his music?

Dear God, he fucking hoped not.

My heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue

All's well that ends well to end up with you

Maybe Maddie was right.  Maybe he’d find himself locked in a hotel suite with Wilhelm, popping open a bottle of champagne even he couldn’t afford.

Maybe they’d get to know each other so intimately again, tangled up for hours in the highest hotel room in Sweden.

It was almost scary how vividly Simon could picture it.

“Drink?” Wilhelm would ask in the way he did, as if he wasn’t offering Simon a glass worth three months the average salary.

Simon would take it wordlessly, keeping his gaze locked into Wilhelm’s as he took a sip—that was, until Wilhelm’s eyes inevitably dropped to his lips.  Simon would grin, playing all his cards the right way.

“You were great tonight,” Wilhelm steps within three feet of him, setting his champagne flute down with a soft clink , “Couldn’t keep my eyes off you.  Just like back at Hillerska.”

Simon blushed like he hadn’t done since he was a teenager, “Good,” He sets down his glass too, there’d be time for overpriced alcohol later, “I miss having you looking at me.”

Wilhelm chuckled, very softly, very low.  It made Simon shiver, “I’ll look at you all night long if that’s what you want.”

Wilhelm was in his space now, dragging his fingertips up and down his sides, raising goosebumps from Simon’s skin.  He brushed his nose against Wilhelm’s, “I want a bit more than that.”

He presses their lips together slowly.  So slowly.

“And you'll save all your dirtiest jokes for me…”

Simon was a little confused as to how Wilhelm was singing as they were kissing, but not nearly confused enough to stop.

“And at every table, I'll save you a seat, lover…”

Simon didn’t remember Wilhelm’s singing voice sounding so nice, or…high.

He pulled away from the kiss and cracked his eyes open, his heart dropping to his stomach when he didn’t see the blond haired object of his affection.

Simon woke up to people standing in the aisle, Taylor Swift’s “Lover” playing its final notes through his earbuds, and a very conveniently aimed phone camera pointed right towards him.  He rubbed his eyes thoroughly and looked back up, the thirty-something brunette standing by his seat was no longer holding up her phone at an unnatural angle.  Instead she was clamoring with her bags while making purposeful eye contact with anything that wasn’t Simon.

Great.

Somewhere along the way, Simon had gotten used to having his life be recorded.  He didn’t like it, but he was used to it.

A shrill voice came buzzing through the speakers, “ Now touching down in Stockholm, Sweden.  Time of day: 8:32pm. ”  

He shoved any floating remnants of his dream out of his head and stood up, refusing help with his bags from three different people (only one of them worked for the airline).  He made his way steadily towards the plane door, bag straps digging into his shoulder, the stuffy air of the cabin starting to get to his head.

Oh well , he thought, into hell we go .

He carried that thought through the terminal, into the car sent to pick him up, across the route through Bjärstad towards his home.

The dread in his gut only eased up at the sight of his mother’s smile.

Chapter Text

There’s something so humbling about sleeping in your childhood bed after years of jet setting around the world.

Sure, Simon has broken records with his singles.  He’d once been approached by Lady Gaga at an awards show to be told that his third album was to die for (Simon may or may not have been compelled to break into tears after the interaction).

But regardless, he ended up right back home, sitting on his lumpy twin mattress, staring over at the fish tank that’s been empty for years.  The warm yellow light above it remained, painting the room in an uncomfortable familiar glow that did nothing to calm his nerves of being back home.  Sara would be coming tomorrow, having taken a few days off work from her marketing job in Söderköping.  She hadn’t been thrilled about the last minute visit on Simon’s part.  Apparently she was trying to “climb the ladder” at work, something difficult to do when you take unexpected vacations to visit your popstar brother in your hometown.

When all is said and done, being home is a strange emotional anomaly.

For the past three hours, Simon’s been barrelling through memories ranging from heartwarmingly nostalgic to uttery soul-crushing, particularly when he passed his father’s old (current?) apartment complex.

Simon wouldn’t know.  He hadn’t spoken to his father since he graduated.  He could be dead in a ditch for all he or the rest of his family knew.

He chose not to dwell too much on those memories.

Instead, he reacquainted himself with his home, running his fingertips along the frayed edges of his old music posters that his mother refused to take down.  He made his way out to the kitchen to help Linda prepare dinner for the two of them, one of the only Venezuelan recipes he had ingrained in his memory.

They ate comfortably in front of the television, just how they used to, a poor ripoff of The Kardashians serving as background music to their conversation.  His mother stressed about her lack of suitable wardrobe for a royal benefit concert.  Simon promised to take her and Sara shopping the next day.  It was possibly the only redeeming thing he found about being home.

That night, Simon momentarily loosened the tightness in his chest to something bearable, each laugh he pulled from his mother helping to ease his nerves just enough to smile.

When a news story about the prince’s concert flashed onto the screen while they were channel surfing, Linda did him the courtesy of clicking away just as fast and not saying a word about it.

When the clock read 11:14, she placed a soft kiss on his forehead and told him she was going off to bed.

Simon managed to do the same thirty minutes later, taking solace in the fact that at least one person in the world could still make him feel grounded.

Simon really loved his mom.

Simon also loved his sister, albeit begrudgingly.

He was woken up the next morning by a suffocating bear hug, something that would feel like an attack after living alone for years.  He peeked his eyes open to take in Sara’s face, grinning down at him with childhood excitement.  That was all it took for Simon to swallow his tiredness and give his sister a proper hug, only to be told a second later that he looked like he’d been beat up judging by the dark circles under his eyes.

After counting exactly four pops in his back as he sat up to stretch, Simon followed Sara out to the kitchen where his mother, bless her heart, had already prepared a stack of pancakes and an equally appetizing pan of scrambled eggs “for my two working babies” as she put it.

It was well known amongst the three that none of them worked harder than Linda.

True to his word, Simon took them shopping, it was a bit of a drive to get from their neighborhood to a nice enough clothing store, but Simon insisted.  What was the point of having money if you didn’t spoil your family?  At least that was how Simon justified it to himself, ignoring how this day was a blatant apology for not coming home nearly as much as he should considering he has the means to do so.

They knew it too.

Simon knew they knew it every time his mother tightened her grip on his arm in between racks of overpriced gowns.  He knew it every time Sara glanced his way after commenting about their next reunion.

He knew they were waiting for him to leave again, and they weren’t wrong for doing so.

But Simon had commitments.  He had a house outside Stockholm, a plan in place for the next five months that would keep him from coming back any time soon.  That was unavoidable, unchangeable.  So he decided the best course of action was to shower the two most important women in his life with gifts while he was still able to.

Pushing down guilt had become a specialty of his.

“At least try it on, Mom,” Simon urged his mother towards the changing rooms, a modest emerald dress in his hands.

“Simme, please, you saw the price tag—”

Simon rolled his eyes, “You should have seen how much this shirt costs.  That dress would be gorgeous on you.  Try it on.”

Simon could probably count on one hand the number of times he’s told his mother what to do, but sometimes you’ve gotta make sacrifices.  That dress really was perfect for her.

Simon smiled and waved over one of the assistant shoppers who have been eying him anxiously since he walked in.  If he thought he got attention in the states, it was nothing compared to the recognition in his hometown.

The employee hurried over to him, her blond ponytail bouncing behind her, “How can I help you?” She asks, smiling wide.

“Hi, can we get her a changing room please?”

“Two!” Simon turned to see Sara scurrying over, four hangers slung over her shoulder, giving her a sequined cape of red, silver, and gold.  For all Simon knew she was planning on taking them all home. “Two change rooms, please.”

The employee stuttered, looking to Simon and waiting for him to nod before taking the women back to the changing rooms.  Simon took his idle place in a white upholstered chair, sitting patiently.  He heard the telltale whispers from behind him, the regular hushed voices, the rustling that’s no doubt someone scrambling for their phone.  No doubt there’d be posts about how Simon was treating his family to a shopping trip by the end of the day, painting him as something other than an absent son trying to buy his family’s forgiveness.  No one else needed to know that story.

In the end, Linda walked out of the shop reluctantly clutching one bag, Sara strutted out with three.  Simon followed behind them both, relishing the sight of his sister excitedly sifting through her bags.  At the very least, he can give his family the superficial joy of buying new clothes.

Simon treated them to a nice dinner that night and reveled in the long lost feeling of normalcy.

Sara had a way of cornering Simon at the most specific times.

She’d interrogated him about his relationship with Wilhelm while he was hot off the anger of talking to August.

She’d berated him for having too much faith in people after finding out he’d been visiting Micke.

She’d called him the morning after he’d flipped off paparazzi for the first time to ask what exactly had gotten into him.

Sara just always knew exactly when something was shifting.

Simon really should have expected her to wordlessly sit herself down on his bed that night.

She didn’t speak right away, so Simon stared at her hesitantly, “Can I help you?”

“Why would you agree to this?”

“Agree to what?”

“Do you think you’ll talk to him?”

Simon groaned, throwing himself bad against his pillows like a teenager.

He thought about lying to her, like he did to Maddie.  But that wouldn’t fly.  It never did with Sara.

“Maybe,” His voice came out in a quiet breath like it was meant to stay in his head.  He rubbed a hand over his eyes and did his damndest to sound more sure of himself, “I don’t know.  Maybe.”

“I think he’s excited to see you.”

That got Simon’s eyes to snap right back open, “Have you talked to him?”

Sara shrugged as if it wasn’t a decision altering piece of knowledge, “He keeps in touch with Felice, she keeps in touch with me,” Simon didn’t respond for a moment.  I was still jarring to think that he had an indirect line to Wilhelm if he ever wanted one, despite having spent years acting like they were on different planets.  He was about to open his mouth to say so, but Sara spoke again, “Not all of us jumped on a plane and forgot how to call the second we graduated.”

Ouch.

Simon deserved that.

Still, the guilt of disconnecting himself from his home sat comfortable in the back of his mind, making room for the much more troubling part of what Sara just told him.

“Did he—” His voice cracked pathetically as he sat up, struggling to regain control over his rampant thoughts, “Did Felice say he wanted to see me?”

Sara raised her eyebrows, her mouth dropping open just slightly.

Ah , Simon thought, the coveted Bitch Face .

Tonight it screamed nothing but ‘How fucking stupid are you?’

“You know Wilhelm’s planning the concert, yes?”

“...Yes?”

Sara brushed her curled hair behind her shoulder, “So you know that this is practically a royal event, and plans for performers would have been set in stone months ago?”

Simon stared at her, “Their headliner dropped out last minute.”

Sara stared back, “Who?”

Simon didn’t know.  He didn’t ask.  He hadn’t bothered looking into who exactly he’d be replacing which, now that he thinks about it, might have been a poor choice.

“What are you suggesting then?” He asked, a pronounced line between his brows.

“I’m suggesting that Wilhelm had his people make up a story about some unforeseen circumstances to get you to Sweden.”

Simon nearly flinched.

Say what you will about Sara, but no one could say she wasn’t honest.

In any place other than his childhood bedroom, with anyone other than his sister, Simon would have denied it until he ran out of breath.  But he’s home now, sitting on his comforter with his sister again, his sister who he vowed to never lie to.  Simon dropped his gaze, running his fingers along the covers.  The ones he had back at his house were softer, had a higher thread count, but Simon would happily throw them in a firepit in exchange for these.

“You think…” He quietly voices the thoughts currently blaring in his ears, “You think he wants to see me again?”

Sara looked at him like he was stupid.  Again.

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Because,” Simon scoured his brain for a reasonable answer, or whatever the hell he’d been feeding himself the past six years, “Things ended sort of badly.”

“Half a decade ago.”

Simon really didn’t have a response for that.  Sure it had been a while, but heartbreak didn’t really have a time limit.  Not for him.

“It’s still hard.”

“How would you know if you haven’t tried?”

Simon couldn’t tell if he wanted to hug her or throttle her for being so logical.

Sara sensed his uncertainty because of course she did.

“I’m turning in,” She stood up, patting her stomach, “Had a few too many of those breadsticks.”

With a swift kiss to Simon’s forehead, Sara was out of his bedroom door— curtain —and Simon was alone again.

Simon laid back on his worn mattress.

Three days.

He had three days to keep up his six-year long act, then it was back to the trenches.

As it turned out, and as Simon would have predicted had his mind not been preoccupied, he had exactly one day to himself before having to make the drive to the outdoor venue.  The illusion of free time was dashed by rehearsals, soundchecks, and lighting tests.  And as the headlining performer, the attention of the entire production crew was entirely on him, all the time.

They’d finished their second runthrough of his set and were taking a break when Simon was approached by yet another wide-eyed man, probably just as eager to please him as the past six had been.  All afternoon long, “no I don’t need food”, “no I’m not too warm”, “yes the humidity in here is just fine” .

Simon was exhausted.

It must have shown on his face somehow, because the man narrowed his hazel eyes just slightly and relaxed his shoulders so they weren’t drawn up nearly to his ears.

“Hi,” He said, the deepness in his voice was far too masculine for the nervousness evident in his tone.

Simon smiled politely, just like he’d been trained, “Hey.”

The man cleared his throat, then held out his hand, “Sorry I don’t think we’ve been introduced, I’m Lars.  I’m one of the lighting technicians.”

Simon shook his hand, pensively trying to assess the situation.  Lighting technicians aren’t usually the ones attending to his every need, and this guy didn’t strike him as a superfan.

Maybe he’s going to bring up the video.

Simon shook the thought from his head.  No one had mentioned that to him for months.

Remembering his manners, Simon shook his hand, noting how Lars’ hand practically enveloped his own in size, “Nice to meet you, I’m Simon.”

“I know,” Simon could have sworn he saw a faint pink blush spread to his cheeks, “I just thought I’d introduce myself, see if there’s anything you might need, if you’re hungry or anything.  I know these things can drag on…”

Oh.

He was hitting on him.

Simon reassessed the situation.  He was an attractive enough guy, tall, sweeping blond hair coming to rest just above his narrow shoulders, a little bit like—

“There’s a place down the street that makes pretty good burgers,” Lars suggested, painfully hopeful.

Simon deflected, “I’m alright actually.  Some people here I think were hired specifically to make sure I don’t go hungry.”

He deflated, shoulders sagging pathetically.  Simon might’ve felt bad if this had happened a couple years (which it had), but not anymore.  He didn’t owe this stranger a date.

God he could practically hear Maddie’s firm voice ringing out in his head.

“O—Okay,”

Simon stood there a second more before offering a friendly smile and a “thanks anyway” before heading back on stage for one final rehearsal.  As runners and crewmembers were scrambling about below the gaping stage, Simon took a moment to admire the arena.  His agent wasn’t lying, the prince had really gone all out.  Row after row of seat climbed upwards higher and higher to touch the glass-paned ceiling, revealing a blue cloudless sky.  But Simon only marveled at it for a second before dropping his eyes to look straight ahead.

The VIP box.

No doubt it was being prepared at that very second to house the crown prince.

Simon will have a hard time keeping his eyes away from it.

Simon stared at himself.

Nothing unusual when preparing to go on stage, he periodically checked his makeup, his outfit, his hair in the dressing room mirror before any performance.  He’d never stood like this though, stiff, unmoving, picking apart every aspect of his reflection with anticipation of what they’d say about it in the press.  He hadn’t done it since his first time getting chastised for partying, and before that when the video was leaked.

Simon hated this feeling.

It took him three seconds of Maddie’s support to break him out of it the second time, but it took months after the video.  It took months of being repulsed and embarrassed by his body so much that he covered the mirror in his room with a blanket for weeks before finally getting fed up and putting on makeup for the first time.  Just to spite them.  He wasn’t quite sure who ‘them’ was, but coating his eyelashes in dark mascara in the still silence of his bedroom felt like sweet rebellion.

He had been sixteen then, he was going on twenty-five now.  With sickening disappointment rippling through his body now, Simon realized just how little had changed.

He stared at his eyes, lined lightly with the slightest hint of black pencil.  He stared at his lips, which he considered one of his best features, sat tensely pressed together, completely bare save for sheer, colorless lip balm.  Very out of character for him nowadays.

If he were in a movie, this would certainly be the moment when he’d shatter the mirror with his knuckles and glare at his jagged reflection with all the angst of a tortured teeneager.

He could tell right then, this was not going to be the performance of a lifetime.  He’d just have to deal with it.

“Knock knock.”

The telltale click of the doorknob turning was what finally brought Simon’s eyes away from the hell that was the five-feet-wide mirror in front of him.  Maddie slid into the room, her eyelids painted with soft purple glitter and her hair done up in space buns, just like the (not so) good old days.

“How are we doing in here?” By her tone you would think she was talking to a kindergartener preparing for a piano recital.  She was trying to comfort him, pretending like he wasn’t about to perform to a stadium of people knowing full well that Wilhelm would be watching him.  It wasn’t working, but Simon appreciated the effort.

He didn’t answer, didn’t tell her about the nausea creeping its way through his insides.  He didn’t even try to lie to her either.  That’s how fucked up he was feeling.

She looked at him for one second more before stepping within an inch of his space, her hands flying to the buttons on his shirt, all of which studiously fastened except for the very top one.  Maddie undid the second button and didn’t go any further, Simon kept his mouth shut and let her.

She stepped back to assess Simon’s face, and if it were anyone else Simon would’ve reverted to his long-buried shyness and hid himself behind his hands.  But this was Maddie, practically, embarrassingly , his only friend nowadays.  She could read him nearly as well as Sara.  There was no hiding from her.

“Smudge your eyeliner a little more, you look like you’re on Toddlers & Tiaras.”

“Kat thought I should keep it subtle this time.”

“Kat’s a cold-hearted bitch who doesn’t give a flying fuck about unblocking your chakra.”

(Maddie and Kat had weekly brunch dates.)

And with that beautiful sentiment, she was gone, presumably headed to her seat in the stadium which would no doubt be next to Felice, who would no doubt be seated by His Royal Highness.  Simon wanted to throw up.

He wouldn’t look.  Simple as that.

He would keep his eyes on the floor seats, perform like any other concert where the love of his teenage years wasn’t looking down at him from the VIP box.  How hard could that possibly be?

Simon repeated those sentiments like desperate prayers in his head as he was being rushed through the backstage area.  The other acts had already performed and Simon, being the most famous name on the roster by far, was closing out the show.  He was offered a floor seat to watch the show before his slot, which he refused, determined to keep his mind out of that gaping, horrifying room as long as he could.

He was regretting that choice now as a brand new, nauseatingly sour batch of nerves settled itself deep in his gut.  He wished he had gone out earlier, caught a fleeting glimpse of the VIP box and been done with it, familiated himself with the crowd from the safety of a chair in the shadows of the high-end lighting equipment.

But no.  Simon chose to be a little bitch about it.

Now there he was, time moving painfully slow as he stepped into the scalding lights.  He was walking like he’d never walked before, shoulders stiff, arms hanging awkwardly at his sides, wrists knocking against his hips with every little movement.

Simon was so deep in the recesses of his head that he barely heard the thunderous cheering, enough to shake the whole place and send vibrations through the stage under his feet.  It was a small comfort, knowing that his presence was, at the very least, accepted by the thousands of people before him.  It was a comfort before he reached the microphone, resting cockily on its stand at the center of the stage, the ring of the spotlight illuminating its glossy black finish along with the million or so dust particles dancing in the air around it.

Simon was definitely losing his mind now.  He got the sense that the microphone sitting only three feet from him now was daring him to fumble over his words, to forget his lyrics, to accidentally sing the entire set to the barely visible glass box just above his eyeline, all of which he had vowed to not do.

Simon breathed.  Deeply.  Filling his lungs with air and ever so slightly puffing his chest just like Maddie had taught him when he was still new at this, still fighting off panic attacks in moments just like this, when he felt like he was feebly treading frigid, violent, towering waves.

Just don’t look up.

Such a simple solution.  Such an easy goal for the next twenty minutes.  Simon had spent days tricking himself into believing he could do it.  This should be fine.

The microphone is right in front of him now.  He has turned his body to face the crowd still cupping their hands in front of their mouths and hollering their loud, loud admiration.

Smile, Simon.

He smiled perfectly, robotically.

He kept his eyes trained on the floor seats, hundreds upon hundreds of adoring fans jammed packed in here solely for him, the humanitarian purpose of this entire event fading into an afterthought.  Whatever it takes for people to open their wallets, he supposed.

They’re getting quieter.  Start talking, Simon

He brought his smile down about 40% to begin speaking seriously.  That oddly specific and calculated tip came from Kat in the early days of his career.  Where Maddie’s advice was deeply personal, impossibly compassionate attempts to keep his confidence up, Kat was a great help in the technical department, helpful tidbits of information along the lines of “Yes, five seconds is too long to shake someone’s hand” or “Dear god, do not compliment his teeth.  I don’t care how white they are.  That is a one way ticket to getting socially blacklisted, my friend.”

Simon began with his prewritten opening remarks.

“Hi.”

His voice rang out from various speakers lining the rounded walls.  It would have made him wince, but Simon had perfected his poker face years ago.

“My name is Simon Eriksson,” He spoke in his native tongue, then paused for a split second, already anticipating the dozens of scattered whoops that came after he introduced himself.  Then, he continued.

“I’ll get to singing in a second, but first I want to take a moment to thank you all—” A girl screeched incoherently, the rest of the crowd remained quietly attentive, “—For being here tonight and supporting the rights of the LGBTQ+ community,” Another miniature round of applause started and ended before Simon continued.

“I’m so incredibly grateful to—” Don’t mention him by name , “—the organizers of this event, as well as all of you for coming out and showing your support.  Coming from such a wonderful and progressive country as Sweden—” A man hollars, “I’m so proud that we’ve all come to recognize our privilege and use it to help those who haven’t been as lucky.  Now, we’re nearing the end of the night, and I’m sure you’re all dying to get home, so without further ado…”

Gentle guitar chords echoed through the air.  A few who recognized them had already begun jumping excitedly.

“I hope you enjoy the songs.”

Six counts later, Simon began the opening song from his sophomore album, a relatively safe choice considering the audience and the cause behind this entire concert.  He and Kat agreed beforehand that his newest, shameless numbers about one night stands and sexual politics were not the right look, nor were the heartwrenching, embarrassingly vulnerable ballads of his first album.

He’d just barely made it to the eighteenth count before he fucked up.

Bad.

Simon had a terrible habit when doing vocal runs.  Rather than the typical shutting your eyes and pressing your finger to your ear, Simon’s instinct was to tilt his head back just slightly.  Just enough—he realized far too late—to catch a perfect view of the glass panes lining the VIP box.  He made out a dozen or so dark, blurry figures, each blending perfectly into the one beside it.  With the blinding stage lights crowding his vision, it would be futile to try and tell them apart.

That was what killed him.

Wilhelm was up there.  Simon knew he was up there.  He knew without a flicker of doubt that he was staring directly at him, that he was one of the vague, person-shaped blobs up in that goddamn box.  He was so close, closer than he’d been in years, and still just out of Simon's sight.

Frankly, it felt like torture.

But, like the actor he was, Simon was still singing.  He was on pitch, on beat.  The loose, admittedly lazy choreography he had pulled out of his ass a few days had been long forgotten and Simon couldn’t bring himself to care.  He was still transfixed on that box, unsuccessfully examining the relative heights of each figure, looking for the tallest.

He didn’t find it.

Scolding self awareness finally searing into his brain, Simon made a ridiculous effort to continue trailing his eyes upward.  Maybe no one noticed.

The roof was clear, spotless glass from wall to wall.

Wilhelm’s up there.

It was a cloudless night.

This verse is difficult, control your breath.

Wilhelm’s watching you.

Simon couldn’t see each individual star through the haze of the studio lights, but he felt them blazing stark against a blackened sky.  Watching him.

Wilhelm’s watching you.

The song ended.  The applause started.  Simon tried and failed to take in another cleansing breath before the beat of another song began over the waning cheers.

Three more songs.

Three.  What a small number.  What a tiny hill to climb.

Simon still felt like he was drowning.

He didn’t raise his eyes for the rest of the set.  Not when he sang the final closing note.  Not when he gave the audience, organizers, and crew one last statement of gratitude.  Not a single second when he was striding off stage did he allow one more greedy look up to that box.

Concert complete.  Mission accomplished.

Except, not really.

Simon had been standing in place for the better part of an hour.  His calf was starting to cramp up.  He felt an aching discomfort crawling further through his veins minute by minute.

An obvious solution would be to walk around.  To mingle.  It was a “party” after all.

If there was one thing Simon didn’t miss about Hillerska, something that trumps the entitled students and classist teachers, it was this.  These unnecessarily formalized social events in which the descendants of Sweden's wealthiest family pile into a room and describe exactly how much money they were given for being born.

They were glorified dick measuring contests, and Simon was an idiot for thinking he’d never have to withstand one ever again.

He should have anticipated this.  He was almost certain Kat had mentioned it to him on one of their many phone calls in the past week.  After all, what is a benefit concert without the rich donors getting tipsy and talking about the one thing they all have in common: being rich.

Six years ago he was scoffing at them, but his ever-growing bank account was enough incentive for Simon to keep his mouth shut tonight.

He kept a vice grip on his champagne glass despite having taken three sips out of it.  Sara was on her second glass, all the way against the opposite wall, chatting happily with her friends who she’d clearly kept in touch with.  It was no secret Sara was far more involved with their fellow alumni compared to Simon’s six years of radio silence.  But she never mentioned it to him, never spoke about what Felice was up to these days or who Fredricka had married this year.

And she never mentioned Wilhelm.

Simon always thought it was because she never spoke to him, never even thought of him.  That was the most comforting reason, one that he’d been rethinking ever since Wilhelm approached Sara, since he pulled her into a friendly side hug and offered her another flute of sparkling champagne.

Simon knew he was staring.  He knew he’d been tracking Wilhelm’s every move as he had worked his way around the room, pausing every few seconds to engage someone in conversation, then swiftly moving on.  Very quickly, and definitely against his will, a very young and deeply pathetic portion of his brain took a vested interest in Wilhelm's newfound sociability.  He watched him charm the donors with an unfamiliar charisma Simon would have never thought was genuine back at Hillerska, back when the only Wilhelm he knew was the shy son of the Queen of Sweden who asked permission to sit down with him at the dining table.

A soft hand on his elbow brought him back down to earth.  “Mí amor,” His mother said quietly, knowingly.  She always knew.  Granted, Simon wasn’t trying very hard to be subtle.

He looked down at her.  She looked nice tonight, her dark hair swept into a bun that was no doubt Sara’s work.  She was wearing the dress Simon had bought for her, as was Sara.  He had hoped to feel a bit more pride in the fact that he could treat his family to such luxuries, but any joy he’d gotten from seeing Sara brazenly displaying her new bracelets was stripped away the second he laid eyes on his mother.  She stood tall, confident, and held her ground whenever a skeptical patron subtly interrogated her on her finances, but appearances only take you so far.  Simon’s mother was glancing around the room, nervous, aimless, much like Simon when he was first thrown into their world.

She was the strongest person Simon had ever met, but she didn’t fit in that room, and Simon wanted to gauge his own eyes out once he realized that he did.

He’d been approached a lot .  Classmate after classmate that he would’ve embarrassed himself trying to name had sauntered right up, patted him on the back, tried to joke with him as if there was anything connecting them beyond the brick and clay of Hillerska Boarding School.

Simon tried to take it in stride, tried to maintain that he simply wasn’t one of them and never would be.  Then every once in a while, in between lifesucking small talk and keeping tabs on Wilhelm’s presence, Simon would look down at himself.  The rings he wore so carelessly on his fingers would have been fawned over, treated delicately like precious pieces of treasure by his younger self.

He couldn’t bear the thought.

He had considered more than once slipping the rings off his fingers one by one and hiding them in his pocket, just to rid his mind of the inexplicable guilt he felt from the mere sight of them.

He didn’t take them off.  His mother would have noticed.  The only thing that had kept him in place that long was the feeble act he’s been keeping between him and his mother.  That this is a natural occurrence, that they both belong there, that nothing has changed.

She was still gazing up at him, a hand on his elbow, a silent question in her eyes.

Simon pretended not to see it.  What else could he do?

In a room like this, where a faint delusion was the only thing keeping him afloat, deniability was his greatest ally.

Simon smirked, and glanced around the room, pointedly avoiding the wall he knew the crown prince was leaning against.

“I bet you five acres of fertile farmland that you won’t down that whole glass.”

Simon put on his best aristocratic voice, an ongoing joke between him and his family that always elicited the same reaction.

As expected, Simon’s mom pinched his arm lightly, a quiet, scolding hiss of “Simme” escaped her mouth, unmistakably accompanied by concealed amusement.

“Throw in the fattest pig in the village and you’ve got a deal.”

Simon saw a tight smile forming on his mothers face.  Beautiful.  Familiar.  Exactly what he had been after.

He was about to give it another go, maybe toss in something about ‘the fairest maiden in the land’ when he heard his name called not three feet behind him.  It was so quiet he’d barely caught it. He even thought he might have heard it wrong before turning to peek over his shoulder, just in case.

And there he was.

Simon had always wondered when they’d meet again, always imagined this moment with a bitter taste in his mouth, heart heavy with resentment he had thought he’d gotten over years ago.

Simon felt it in his heart now, the forgotten contempt twisting and churning, begging for reprieve.

But you can’t do that.

Simon’s mind doesn’t supply him with a reason.

You just can’t.

Simon squares his shoulders, any existing bit of ease draining from his face.  They were adults now—at least Simon was—and he could damn well act like it.

“August.”

He greets him the same way he had everyone else, everyone he remembered, anyway.

August looked…Well he looked exactly the same.  He had the same obnoxious haircut, the same meticulously maintained fitness (The satisfying idea of August growing up to be fat and bald had crossed his mind once or twice), he was even wearing a turtleneck, for fuck’s sake.

The only thing different was in the way he held himself.  It was like he was trying to make himself shorter, slouched inward as if he wanted to hide behind his champagne.  His eyes barely met Simon’s for a moment before they were cast downwards again.  He look so—

“Look, I won’t keep y—”

Simon snorted out a laugh before he could stop it.  It didn’t help that August’s eyes widened comically.  Simon just couldn’t help it.  August looked timid .  He was scared , standing here in front of Simon like he’d done countless times before.  August who had tormented him, belittled him, single-handedly recorded and released Simon’s nonconcensual sextape, was now all grown up and looked like he was afraid of his own shadow.  Of all the scenarios Simon had envisioned, this took the cake.

He allowed himself a single glorious moment to bask in satisfaction, to feel like he won, and that August had lost.  Lost at what?  He didn’t know.  But it felt damn great.

It felt great until it felt horrible.  Simon stopped his thoughts right in their tracks.  He was better than that.  He must be.  Laughing at someone clearly on the brink of a nervous breakdown?  That was an August move if he’d ever heard one.

Simon steeled himself, carefully wiping his expression of any kind of spite, any trace of ridicule.  He had a personality to maintain in this room.

It couldn’t have been more than a split second since his accidental laugh.  Simon tried to disguise it with a cough.  Perhaps he wasn’t as great an actor as he thought.

August barely looked deterred, much to Simon’s surprise, but the skittish stuttering and shifting from foot to foot was a bit of a tell.

What he said next came out in one breath, so quick and crushed together that Simon had to take a few extra seconds to decipher it.

“Look I won’t keep you long.  I just wanted to tell you that I think it’s impressive how well you’ve done for yourself and I have a lot of respect for you for doing this show on such short notice.”

Simon blinked.  His brain was whirring like a shitty computer from 2009 as he struggled to understand just what the hell to do with that.  The result was a long, deeply uncomfortable stretch of silence as Simon could only imagine the look on his face to resemble his late goldfish, Felle.

“That probably doesn’t mean much coming from me…” August said slowly like he was entering uncharted, likely unscripted territory.

Simon still didn’t know what to say.  So he said nothing.

“I just,” August seemed to be building up to something, only to deflate a moment later, “I just thought I’d tell you.”

He didn’t sound like he was expecting an answer, but still he waited a moment to turn away.  That couldn’t be it.  Years of living every day plagued by the actions of this selfish, entitled, jealous piece of shit only to hear a rushed, practically unintelligible word of congratulations?  Then what?  He’ll walk away?  Live his life as if a few kind words spoken in a room full of praise has cleansed him of his sins?  August didn’t deserve that courtesy.

Simon drew in a breath, opened his mouth to say…what would he say?  He wasn’t sure he knew.  He wasn’t sure he cared.  And he would have found out if he didn’t overhear the conversation behind him, the sugary sweet voice that made his spine go rigid coupled with his mother’s response.  He could hear her smile.

“Linda!  It’s so great to see you again.  How have you been?”

August was backing away, his eyes wide, eyebrows drawn together as he fixed his anxious gaze behind Simon’s left shoulder.

“I’ve been great, dear.  Oh, before I forget, I have to thank you for your Christmas card last season.  It was so sweet.  Gorgeous stationery, too!”

Simon hadn’t even realized he had turned around until he saw him, adorned in a deep navy suit, towering over the other guest, shaking his mother’s hand, smiling at her so warmly it reminded Simon of—

Wilhelm looked at him.

For a second.  For less than a second.

His eyes raised just slightly above his mother’s hair, looking to the left of Simon’s head, then closer.  Then for one brief, fleeting moment, Wilhelm looked at him for the first time in years.

Then his gaze flicked back to Linda, still going on about…paper?  A card?

“Yes, hand-written and everything,” She must have asked him a question, because Wilhelm answered with a small nod and another smile, one that made his eyes crinkle the edges.

Simon lost his breath.  He knew it was pathetic.  He knew he looked ridiculous.  He also knew Wilhelm was giving his mother’s hand a kiss before turning away.  Turning towards him.

Here we go…

Simon silenced the harping voice in his head.

“Simon.”

He said it fast.  Like it was nothing.

He reached down to take hold of Simon’s hand.

“Great job out there.”

He gave his hand three firm shakes.

“And thank you for making the journey out here so soon.”

Wilhelm turned away again.  He moved on to an older man, most likely a parent.  Maybe a politician Simon didn’t recognize.  He didn’t really care.  Simon kept his feet planted stiff in their place, rubbing his hand, the hand Wilhelm touched , along the fabric of his pants.  His mind was calm, but also very much not.  It was stalled.  It was sending the proper signals for a freakout, a meltdown perhaps, but Simon stayed where he was, playing over the last few seconds like trying to hold on to the details of a dream.

The next thing he saw were his mom’s eyes as she came to stand in front of him, filled to the brim with pure pity.  Sara’s weren’t much better, no doubt a mix of pity and second-hand embarrassment had consumed her face in the time it took her to weave through the crowd to stand at his side.

Simon spared one more glance behind him.  Wilhelm was still talking with the man with smudged glasses and a poorly kept beard.  Wilhelm looked perfect.  His hair was shorter than Simon remembered, but still long enough to sweep behind his ears, leaving behind wisps of fine strands just barely out of place.  Simon wished he could raise his fingers and brush them back into place.  He wished Wilhelm had looked at him a bit longer.

“Simon?”

He whipped his head.  He was done for, no doubt about it.  God knows how long he’d stared at the prince, how long he’d stood sputtering alone after Wilhelm moved on.  Felice must have known it too.  Why else would she have been looking at him like that?

Simon took a gulp like he’s never spoken to a person before, “Hi, Felice.”

He tried to smile.  It felt like a grimace.  Felice’s smile looked much better, but it was still forced, still pitiful.

She made a move towards him, raising her arms to shuffle him into an uncomfortably formal hug before pulling back.  She smiled sweetly.  He wanted to return it, have a nice, ordinary conversation with a high school friend the way Wilhelm had been all night.  Unfortunately, Simon felt every line of communication between his mind and his body fracture with every word out of the prince’s mouth.

He didn’t dare turn around.  He didn’t need to.  Wilhelm was still behind him.  He was talking.  He was smiling.  He was wearing navy blue.  Simon knew all of this.  He didn’t need to look at him again.

“Long time no see.”

Simon jerked his head into a nod as a noise, not quite a word, fell from his mouth that he tried to make sound friendly.  Simon sounded like he was having a heart attack.  He wouldn’t be surprised if he were.

Felice might as well have been performing charity work from the way she was looking at Simon.  He could practically see her searching every inch of her mind for a way to diffuse the tension swelling in his chest.

Her solution wasn’t fantastic.

“You know, I’m having a little party at my place after this, just for the people in our class.  You should come.”

Simon knew before she had even finished speaking that their conversation would end in a polite decline, leading easily into another six years of comfortable silence before exchanging basic pleasantries once again under the ruse of “catching up”.

Simon didn’t want to know what she’d been up to.  Lord knows everyone in that room knew where he’d been.  Pointless.

At his stinted silence, Felice’s eyes dimmed just slightly.

Nice one, Simon.  You’re really batting a thousand tonight.

“I’ve sort of caught on by now that those aren’t really your thing,” Felice chuckles and— damn , her fake laugh is even better than his, “But, you know, it’s not like we’re in school anymore, most of the guys have, um…”

Stopped standing on their unearned wealth like a pedestal?

“...Calmed down since you last saw them,” she chose her words carefully, ever the diplomat, “Just in case you were worried about being a standout.”

No , Simon thought, I’m not worried about being a standout, I’m worried about fitting right in .  His silver rings were burning through the skin of his fingers.

“Besides…” A shadow of hesitation tinged her eyes for a moment, but she pressed on.  Say what you will about Felice, but you can’t call her a quitter, “People have been asking about you.”

Simon stared at her.  What people?  What people?

“What people?” Shit.

It could have been an innocent question, simply wondering about who in his old class was thinking about him.  Unfortunately, and embarrassingly, Simon realized too late.  Had he stopped to consider his words and calculate his expression, he could have altered his tone to not sound like the desperate groveling of fruitless hope that had just flown from his mouth.

Felice noticed.  His mother noticed.  Sara, of course, noticed.  Simon wouldn’t be surprised if Wilhelm’s ears were ringing from across the room.

(Going by Simon’s current attempt at using echolocation to determine Wilhelm’s position in the room by the angle at which his voice was bouncing off the walls and into Simon’s ears, he would have guessed that the prince was now near the sprawling window panes on the far wall of the room. This was also Simon’s first time attempting echolocation, so he may be a little off.)

Felice was still looking at him, eyeing him so knowingly that Simon wanted to crawl out of his skin to escape it.  He supposed eyes really were the window to the soul because the more he looked, the worse it got.  Hidden behind polite compassion and carefully-masked pity, Simon could have sworn he caught a glimpse of amusement.  Felice wanted to laugh at him.  Simon didn’t blame her.  He was still gaining his bearings from a five-second—(two second?)—interaction with his teenage fling.

Fling.  Love.  Whatever.  It was ridiculous either way, of course she’d find it funny.  Hell, Simon wished he could bring himself to laugh.

By this point, his cheeks were painted an unmistakable hue of red that even he, the self-proclaimed Master of Deflection, couldn’t blame on the champagne in his hand, nearly full and going stiller by the second.

Felice’s warm brown eyes take Simon by surprise right then, suddenly filling to the brim with confidence, insistence.

“I think you should come.”

She knocks their glasses together with a soft click and practically floats back into the crowd with all the grace of a mythical being.

Simon’s not going.

He’d made up his mind.

He’d decided the second he got the offer.

He nearly ripped his earlobe in half as he yanked out his earrings, throwing them onto his dressing table where they knocked loudly together in the silence of his dressing room.

Even the quiet relief of his third costume change of the night was barely a comfort to him.  (Despite his newfound flare for extravagance, Simon still preferred the ‘dressing down to a t-shirt and jeans’ portion of his evening over any pre-show makeover Maddie would put him through.  Sue him.)

Simon went over every option carefully as he had been prematurely exiting the bustling party to escape to his dressing room.  It was a bit of a walk to get halfway across the building to his temporary private space, but it gave him time to think.

Say he went.  Wilhelm might be there.  If he was, the best case scenario would have been Simon fumbling around Felice’s unfamiliar house, walking on eggshells to avoid being within ten feet of him.  He’d also have to pray that Wilhelm didn’t spot him.  In conclusion, Scenario #1: not great, too many impossible tasks to ask his fatigued brain to keep up.

Alternatively, Wilhelm may not be there.  Simon would go, catch up with the handful of people he would have called friends back then, hopefully drink just enough to quiet the nervous buzzing in his ears that had been lingering ever since he spoke to… Did he speak to Wilhelm tonight?  His brain hurt recalling the details, Wilhelm looking at him (he remembered that), Wilhelm shaking his hand, congratulating him, thanking him, and leaving.  Simon wanted to slap himself.  He didn’t speak, didn’t say a word, Wilhelm might as well have been talking to air and shaking a severed hand—

He dug his nails into the glossy wood under his fingers, half expecting it to splinter.

Back on track.

Scenario #2: Wilhelm isn’t there.  Simon potentially enjoys himself, fogs his mind just enough to pretend like he hasn’t grown to be everything he despised, falls asleep in his own bed once more and wards off any sort of identity crisis until the next morning when, hopefully, he’ll be more level-headed.

So far so good.

There was just one downside of Scenario #2, but it was a big one.  The very essence of the hypothetical night relied solely on knowing that Wilhelm wasn’t there before he arrived.  Simon simply refused to show up only to scurry away at the first sign of royalty.

How would he know?

Simple.  He would ask.  Not Wilhelm, definitely not Sara.  He thought about texting Maddie when she arrived, having her perform a very thorough, very subtle evaluation of every room in the house before giving him the all clear.  Then, after a faux-FBI sweep of the building with the only person he knew would go along with it, Simon would arrive.  He would arrive to see Maddie, the girl to whom he had sworn that Wilhelm had no hold over him any longer, would eye him all night with blatant smugness that he knew wouldn’t dissolve for weeks.

He would consider texting Felice, if he had bothered to ask for her current phone number somewhere between his intelligible stammers.

He couldn’t ask Sara or Maddie for her number without being suspicious.  They knew him too painfully well to know that he cherished the distance he’d kept between himself and anything pertaining to that school, unfortunately including one of the kindest girls he’d ever met.

Scenario #2 was a no-go.  He wouldn’t go to the party.  That was that.

Simon wished the decision made him feel more certain of his plans.  Anyhow, the choice had been made and Simon robotically spurred himself into the familiar actions.  He slipped into his far-from-designer jeans, in fact they’d grown frayed at the edges from how long he’d owned them.  Then he pulled his arms through a gray cotton hoodie without bothering to slide the hood of his head.

He was ready to go.

His makeup was washed off, his cosmetics carefully packed in his bag next, next to his neatly folded clothes (his outfit tonight came straight from his own wardrobe, clothes that he wouldn’t trust any assistant to transport for him).  He triple checked that all of his bracelets, necklaces and rings were safely stowed in the front pocket of his bag.  He was ready to go.

And yet, he stared at the door.  The dark, nearly black paint they’d covered it in contrasted with the stark, creamy white of the walls.  There was nothing special about this dressing room, nothing particularly interesting, but his feet stayed glued.  His eyes burned holes into the door as the suffocating tunnel vision set in for the second time that night.  It didn’t make sense.  It was a door, a plain, dark, wooden door leading—

Leading where?

Simon blinked, sudden awareness of his surroundings taking him by surprise as if he’d just woken up from a dream.

That door led to the hallway.  Obviously.  The hallway of the venue he had just performed at.

Simon blinked again, finally— finally —dragging his eyes away from that door to haul his bag over his shoulder.

Simon left, strode right out the door, down the hallway, and maneuvered through the backstage area to the exit.  Although a few stray crewmembers were still milling about their jobs, they all looked far too exhausted to fuss over Simon the way they had not two days ago.  Simon took it as a small gift from God in response to his shitty night.  Though, it occured to Simon when he caught a glimpse of dirty blond hair swept carelessly away from hazel-toned eyes, that attention may be just what he was craving.

At this point Simon was dead on his feet.  He could feel his brain giving up on more and more functions by the second.  All this to say, Simon only took partial responsibility for striding clumsily over to Lars, the lighting technician currently struggling with the zipper of a large, bulky bag filled with…some lights, most likely.  Simon didn’t really care about the bag’s contents as much as he cared about seeing Lars’ eyes widen endearingly once he noticed him.

He stuttered out a nervous hello, a fact that Simon found comical considering he towered over him at 6’3” at least.

“Hi there.”

Simon didn’t know he had gotten the strength to look away from the VIP box when he sang, or how he’d managed his way out of that room, how he kept himself from trying to approach the prince again.  But if there was one thing on God’s Green Earth that Simon knew with all his heart, it was how to flirt.

He said all the right things, made all the right moves.  He took notable pride in making Lars blush when he combed his fingers briefly through his hair, swiping it away from his forehead while claiming that he had just noticed the warm red undertones in his locks.

It took all of two minutes, maybe three before Simon went in for the kill.

“I’m starving,” He said, chuckling with false unsurety, “Do you have any idea how long that burger place stays open?  The one you told me about?”

Maybe “kill” wasn’t the right word as this might take the cake for Simon’s least risqué proposition to date, but it was enough for tonight.

Simon didn’t miss the glee in Lars’ smile, “We’ve got a couple hours, I’m pretty sure,” Before Simon could get a word of affirmation in, Lars backtracked, “I-uh, I mean you’ve got a couple hours.  Um, before it—you know, before they close.”

Call him sick, but Simon found brief amusement in watching him flounder.  He may have been a little sick for that, but he wasn’t cruel.

“Let’s take your car,” Simon said, reveling in the relief that washed over Lars’ face, “And I hope for your sake that this place doesn’t oversalt their fries.  I’m on a strict tour diet.”

Lars, having won his battle with the chunky zipper minutes ago, held the heavy metal door open for Simon.  Gentleman , Simon notes.

“I see,” Lars noted, saddling up to Simon’s left to walk an inch closer than was strictly necessary, “Your special popstar diet allows for burgers and fries,” Gently, just barely hesitant, he poked the tip of his finger into Simon’s side, “But God forbid an extra morsel of sodium sneaks in there.”

Simon knows his next move off the top of his head and the very next second, he’s swiftly snatching the hand prodding at his stomach and lazily pushing it away, taking extra care to drag the pad of his thumb over a few knuckles before breaking contact.  Not giving too much, as Simon had learned, just enough to keep them on the line a bit longer.

Though he didn’t think he needed to worry about keeping Lars to entertain him tonight.  From the hasty attempt at tidying up the front seats of his car to the clearly ecstatic undertones in his voice whenever Simon threw a flirty comment his way.  Small wins, that was what Simon was after tonight, simple pleasures, easy distractions, each one eased the tightness in his shoulders just a little more.

Simon had been right about the sky earlier.  Gazing through the window now, he could make out more and more specks of light dotting the sky the longer he looked.  Simon was a night owl, no doubt about it.  He had talked his fair share about the warmth of the stage lights, but they’re incomparable to the calming ambience of moonlight.  It had been bringing him comfort for years.

Simon couldn’t place the memory now, but a single, still memory arose to the front of his mind.  He was laying on his back, Sara asleep under his arm.  They must have been having a sleepover in one of their rooms which more often than not were accidental.  They would be doing homework, watching a movie, talking about boys, when one of them, normally Sara, would nod off and they never had the heart to kick each other out of their rooms.

As the details grew more vivid, Simon realized it must have been her bedroom.  There was no yellow light of a fish tank tainting the perfect glow of moonlight peaking through the blinds in thin strips of white.  He couldn’t remember how long he watched the moon that night.  If his memory was serving him, it was probably hours, until the very last sliver of the moon had disappeared over the window.

“Here we are.”

They rolled into the parking lot of a one story building, warm light shining out from the windows and a red neon sign spelling out “ Tito’s ” in thin cursive letters glowed red above the door.  It would have looked inviting enough, like one of the few places Simon wouldn’t expect to have a phone pointed at him from under a table, had it not been for the parking lot so jam packed they had to drive around the building to find an open spot.  Three years ago Simon would’ve been skittish bringing a date to such a populated place, practically inviting the paparazzi to invade his privacy yet again, but it barely phased him now.

Lars held the door open for him, and Simon almost told him that it was pointless, that he was already on board for anything less innocent than grabbing a burger.  He’d done a lot more for a lot less.

Still, Lars insisted on treating him.  He offered bites of his own meal, chatted with Simon about some of the few things they must have had in common, it was nice.  Just nice.

Simon didn’t date anymore.  He had given it a go right after leaving Hillerska, pre-fame, intent on changing any and every aspect of his life that he could touch.  Nothing lasted long, six months at the most before Simon found himself avoiding the guy’s calls and making up excuses to stay in.

A few of the guys were nice, adorning the same friendliness as Lars was now.  Most of them were scum.  In fact, it was one particularly harrowing ordeal of a guy mimicking the very movements of the prince that were so publicly exposed that made Simon give up.

He supposed one could call this a date, sitting across from each other in a little burger joint like normal people.  Hell, Simon could practically see the hope for a second one grow on Lars’ face by the second.  Unfortunately, he was sorely mistaken.  Simon was, admittedly, a bit of an asshole, but he wasn’t cruel, not so much as to give a nice guy false hope.  Neither would look back on this as a date tomorrow morning, Simon would guarantee it.

Simon sucked him off in his car.

The gearshift dug into his stomach as he sat in the passenger's seat, bent over the center console, working his mouth the way he had a hundred times before.  It took all of five minutes.

They had stayed until closing, ensuring the back parking lot was deserted before Simon had made his first move, running his finger up the seam of Lars’ jeans, taking the poor guy by surprise.  He was still wiping his mouth as Lars started up the car, a glaze spread over his eyes that sat there as he pulled out of the now deserted parking lot.  Simon stared out the windshield, watching the red, yellow, and green lights glare against the darkened sky.

“So…” Lars’ voice, still hoarse, sliced through the silence, “Where do you want dropped off?”

Simon pondered it.  Bjärstad was a while away, too far to ask even considering the impromptu blowjob.

Lars took his silence to mean something different, “Unless you want to go back to mine?”

It was painfully hopeful, so much that Simon had to slip into his heartless facade to make it starly clear that this wouldn’t be going any further.

“Just drop me back at the stadium, I’ll text my chauffeur.”

Lars didn’t say anything further.  Simon felt bad.

They sat in silence for eight minutes.  Simon knew it was eight minutes because he was restlessly counting down before he felt a buzz from his pocket, a desperately welcome distraction.  He wordlessly slid it out from his pocket, the shuffling movement breaking the tense silence and startling Lars.  Simon took no mind.

Maddie : for the love of god swallow ur pride and get ur ass down here

Simon knew what she meant even before the next message popped up, an address.  Maybe Simon would have thought it through if his head were clear, clear enough to remember his very meticulously chosen decision.

But the itch was still there.  He had hoped to scratch it by spending time with Lars.  When that didn’t work, he sucked him off in a parking lot.  Now, here he sat, out of options, out of energy.  He posed the question before he could think better of it.

“Actually, do you think you can take me to a friend’s place?  It’s, um,” He tapped on the location, sixteen minutes away.  Perfect, “It’s like fifteen minutes from here.”

Lars was silent for a moment before shrugging half-heartedly, “Sure.”

Simon gave the proper directions, leading them into a clean and polished neighborhood of three story houses bordering on McMansions.  Lars blew out a low whistle when they stopped at Felice’s, coincidentally the largest they’ve seen complete with an expansive front lawn with impeccable landscaping and a line of million dollar cars parked from the driveway down the side of the street.

“Thanks.” Simon climbed out, sparing one more small, fleeting smile towards Lars who didn’t bother giving him his number.

He didn’t look back while he walked up the cobblestone steps to the door, wood carved and chiseled in some ancient pattern complete with a rusted brass doorknock.  Simon considered using it, just to be a little extra, then decided against it.  He rapped three times on the door and waited.

The music spilling out from under the door increased tenfold when it swung open carelessly on its hinges.  It wasn’t Felice, but a stranger, tall and stumbling as he leaned against the doorframe.  Simon assumed they must have gone to school together, but he couldn’t place his face if his life depended on it.

This guy didn’t seem to have the same problem.  His eyes lit up and he clumsily pulled the door open further, ushering Simon inside.

“Hey man, ‘s so cool that you’re here!” He slurred his words and Simon considered bailing right then and there, maybe Lars hadn’t gone too far.  Maybe he’d drive him back home in exchange for another blowjob.

It was a fleeting thought though, because Simon was quickly swept into yet another crowd of former classmates, this time drunker.  Throughout the lavish entryway stretching to the living room were dozens upon dozens of people, some he could vaguely remember as a passing face in a crowd, some he vividly knew had tormented him for three years for being a non-boarder, a socialist, a victim of of a nonconsensual sextape, what have you.

Walking through the house was like navigating a jungle, weaving through the herds in search of a single friendly face amidst the dozens of practically strangers.  The living room was even worse.  Champagne flutes now gone from their hands, replaced with beer bottles and glasses of red wine that surely wouldn’t mix well with the pristine white upholstery.

All of this was made even more unbearable when Simon remembered who might be here, the last face he needed to see tonight that he had been stupid to not ask about before arriving.  Call Simon dramatic, but it was almost like a horror movie.  A helpless boy wandering through an unfamiliar house where the object of his deepest anxiety could be lurking around any corner.

Suddenly, this party felt less like a jungle and more like a minefield.

His eyes darted around as if acting on their own because everything in Simon’s body was telling him to look down, to eliminate the very possibility of seeing who he didn’t want to see.  He didn’t.  Instead he kept searching the room until landing on a pair of spotless glass doors to an outdoor patio.  Outside.  Air.  Space.  Good.

Those four words were the extent of Simon’s thought process as he made his way swiftly through the room and out the doors, not stopping once despite the scattered calls of his name by people he wouldn’t remember.

He felt better almost instantly, the cool air of early April filling his lungs and warding off the sweat that had just barely formed on the palms of his hands.  He looked around at the expanse of the backyard.  He had been wrong to think of it as a patio.  The polished wooden deck he was standing on transitioned into cobblestones that stretched into grass adorned with small flowers and a few trees.  There was a pool built into the stones, an abstract blob of a shape shining cool blue light against the warm glow of string lights overhead.  It felt impossibly personal for such an obviously expensive place.  The property felt lived in.  It felt like it was somebody’s home.  Simon could do nothing to stave off the sting of jealousy, but he could distract himself.

He took another wide-eyed look around, it really was a cozy place despite the size.  Maybe he should ask Felice about her exterior designer.  Speaking of, he examined the smaller, more subdued crowd outside, his eyes landing on Maddie, an exaggerated smile on her face as she spoke with Felice at her side.  She caught his eye, made a ridiculous gesture with her hand for him to get over there.  The very sight made Simon feel better, so he moved his feet.

He felt better.  Then, with the flip of a switch, he wanted to drown himself in Felice’s gorgeous pool.

The pair were talking to someone else, an old classmate no doubt, someone unimportant, insignificant, or so Simon assumed.  But no.

He knew it was Wilhelm after he had taken three steps, stumbling in his own path as the drawn up posture and sweeping hair clicked in his brain far too late.  He paused, standing frozen for a second, maybe ten, while he watched in slow motion, and to his own distinct horror, Wilhelm turn his head and trained his eyes on him.

Call it miraculous willpower, divine intervention, or Simon just remembering how to function properly, but he kept walking.  What else could he have done?  Turn and bolt in the other direction?  Awkwardly swerve into another group as if he’d meant to go to them instead?  The only good option…well, the least embarrassing option was to just continue on.  After that, who knew?  Simon would wing it.

Goddamn, how did he get to the three so fast?  Maddie was speaking, speaking to him it seemed.  She was rambling the way she did when she was trying to distract someone, to angle their attention in the most clever, specific ways.

“—beginning to think you got kidnapped, dude,” She said incredulously.  Simon wasn’t concentrating.  Wilhelm was standing three feet to his right, “Where did you even go?”

Respond.

“Got food.”

Respond like an eight year old.  That works too.

“Without me?” Maddie feigned offense.

“That sucks,” Felice spoke up.

Wilhelm was still standing to his right.  How far away now?  Three feet?  Two?  What was Felice saying about pizza?  Boxes of it in the kitchen?

“—I even put out ketchup just for you because Sara told me how weird and gross you are.”

Maddie laughed.  Wilhelm laughed.  Simon couldn’t think straight.

“Because you’re gay.”

Wilhelm’s teenage voice teased in his mind.

“Yeah, well…” Simon decided that staring down at his shoes with a grimacing smile on his face was a better choice than finishing his sentence.

He was being painfully obvious.  Maddie must have known it too.  Felice was always intuitive, so no way was she missing the sheer discomfort engulfing Simon’s body.  Wilhelm saw it, Simon was certain of that.  He could still feel his presence burning into the right side of Simon’s body like an instinct, like it was trying to alert him that the prince was near, as if his brain wasn’t doing a bang up job of that already.

“Oh! Simon,” Maddie grabbed his arm.  He was thankful for the distraction, “Felice has got that Picasso painting I was telling you about.  You know, the one you were interested in?”

No, he didn’t know.  They’d never once spoken about Pablo Picasso.

She was trying to fill the silence because Simon made a mistake by coming here that she now felt she had to fix.  He’d put her through this much, he could at least play along.

“Yeah?” He asked, a slight tilt in his voice just to make it sound less calculated.

“Yeah, I’ll show you.  I’ve got a whole hallway with classics like that,” Felice smiled at him, then looked to his right, “And Wille, I’ve gotten a couple new ones since you were last here.  Why don’t you come with us?”

Oh, good.  Great.  Simon was so thrilled he could shoot himself in the stomach.

He looked at Wilhelm.  He’d have to eventually, better to rip the bandaid off and leave the wound open and gushing blood.  Wilhelm was already looking at him, hazel eyes shining gold in the light.  He had changed out of his suit, now donning a deep gray sweater and jeans.  He no longer looked like a prince.  That was what killed Simon.  He couldn’t rely on the impossibly expensive atmosphere from earlier to act as a barrier between them.  The hazy figure from his past was now standing in front of him looking so normal, so accessible, and staring straight at him.  It really was killing him.

“ Shit .”

Simon didn’t startle, didn’t turn towards Maddie like he usually would have when she blurted profanities.  He couldn’t tear his eyes away.  He knew how he looked, gobsmacked, wide-eyed.  Somewhere on the drive over here he stopped caring.  And for the record, Wilhelm didn’t look away either.

“Felice, Stella texted me.”

Wilhelm smiled at him, a small, private quirk of his lips.

“Fredricka threw up in the kitchen.”

“Of course she did.”

Simon only noticed he was staring at his lips when he noticed the smile slip away.  He shot his eyes back up.  Wilhelm wasn’t looking at him anymore.  The trance was lifted.

“Wille, you remember where the gallery is?” Felice had moved into Simon’s field of vision, closer to Wilhelm.

He nodded at her.

Simon barely comprehended the exchange before Felice was walking away, dragging Maddie behind her with a closing, “Wille, you go show Simon around, I’ll find you later.”

And they were gone.

And Simon was left to drown in his regret.

“Come on then,” Wilhelm spoke.  His voice was deeper.  How did he not notice that before?  Probably because he spoke two sentences to him and left, “That Picasso piece looks like a three-year-old got high and picked up a paintbrush.  You’re gonna love it.”

Simon watched his profile until it was fully turned away, the price’s figure retreating up the wooden steps.  He stalled.  This would usually be the point where Simon weighed his options, used logic and reason to decide between following close behind or making a run towards the front door.  Unfortunately for him, Simon wasn’t thinking very logically tonight.

He spurred himself into action, jogging awkwardly to catch up to Wilhelm who was disappearing through the sliding glass door.  He kept a few feet’s distance between them as the prince weaved comfortably through the crowd, never stopping for more than a wave or quick word of greeting.  Simon followed blindly, like a puppy yipping at his heels.  He couldn’t even bring himself to be embarrassed.

He must look ridiculous, an internationally known popstar with stray flakes of mascara and glitter clinging to his eyelids, obediently copying the prince’s every move as they navigated through the less populated hallways.  Wilhelm knew where he was going, taking so many twists and turns that Simon was certain he wouldn’t find his way back on his own.

The hallways became thinner, darker.  The hanging lights turned to dim sconces lining the walls.  Simon may have been a little dramatic, but it again felt like a horror movie.

There were paintings, drawings, and photographs hung in odd patterns along the walls, growing greater in size the further Wilhelm led them.  Simon stared the whole way down, taking in every fine detail of the back of Wilhelm’s head and analyzing them with an embarrassing amount of scrutiny.  A day ago, an hour ago, he would’ve stopped himself, slipped easily behind his poker face and found a quick excuse to leave, or even just turn and abandon Wilhelm while his back was turned.

But now, nearing midnight, the bitter taste of cum lingering in his mouth and the overdue exhaustion settling into his muscles, Simon was out of moves.

It had never happened before.  As long as he could remember, he’d never been quite so jaded as to forget any sense of self-preservation and march willing into what might as well be his own execution.  Simon followed in a trance, paying no mind to the artwork in his peripherals, the high ceilings, the narrow walls, anything that wasn’t the back of Wilhelm’s head.  He stared at him until Wilhelm started staring back.

Apparently “out of moves” meant blushing like a teenager, because that’s precisely what he did.

Wilhelm was looking at him again, it almost felt surreal.  It was better than before, at least.  He didn’t look at Simon like a stranger, or an old classmate.  He stared at him like Simon was exactly who he was, a forgotten staple of his teenage years, a first love, a person you don’t easily forget.

Maybe “better” wasn’t the right word.

Different.

This was different from before.

Not to mention he was looking at him a hell of a lot longer now.  The soul-crushing glance he’d gotten after his performance had become a long, lingering gaze that buried itself under Simon’s skin and bore into his bones.  It was intense, that was the best way he could describe it.

“Lo and behold.”

Wilhelm made a vague arm gesture to his left.  Simon’s eyes caught it fleetingly.  It wasn’t because he was terribly interested in what it meant, but any indication that Wilhelm might be about to touch him was something to be alert of.

Oh.

Wilhelm was staring at him another way now, his third expression today that Simon has had to decipher.  He looked confused, maybe a little concerned.

What did he say?

“What?”

Very smart, Simon.  Very articulate.  Those years of media training have really paid off, haven’t they?

Wilhelm smiled, not polite, not rehearsed, but a microscopic quirk of one corner of his lips.  Simon got the sudden wild thought that his knees would buckle.  They didn’t.  Thank God.

“The early Picasso .  Felice’s most prized possession,” He waved his hand again.  Gesturing , it occurred to Simon, he’s gesturing, obviously , “In all its glory.”

Simon finally tore his eyes away only to have his eyes greeted by a cacophony of bright green, yellow, and purple cobbled together to form a convoluted mass of jagged shapes.

“It kinda sucks.”

Wilhelm laughed.  A short, unrestrained holler bursted from his mouth so suddenly that it startled Simon.

The sound alone made Simon’s cheeks flush, a considerable feat considering he had someone’s dick in his mouth not one hour ago.

“Thank God, everyone I’ve spoken to thinks it’s a masterpiece.  I don’t understand it.” Wilhelm’s voice was close to his ear.  Simon didn’t dare look back.

He settled on trying to make him laugh again.

Taking a longer look at the painting, he supposed it was meant to be a person, thick black lines forming the basic, kindergarten-level features.  Two misplaced almond shapes, a triangle with exaggerated nostrils, a zig-zagged line resembling lips from a very incorrect angle.  Further down was a splattering of atrocious lime green that looked like it had been fingerpainted, shaped as a solid sort of shirt with…

Were those boobs?

“Are those boobs?”

Wilhelm laughs again, this time for longer, shutting his eyes tight and bringing a hand to his mouth to stifle the sound.  This was conveniently the moment that Simon realized he’d looked back at him, unknowing and against his will.  He was playing a dangerous game.

“That’s what I thought when I saw it,” Wilhelm opened his eyes again, peering closer to the canvas, to the green painted set of tits, “I had to try so hard not to laugh because Felice was going on and on about the ‘vision’ and the ‘muse’.  It was torture.”

“Why is one bigger than the other?” Simon couldn’t stop.  He was getting sloppy.

Wilhelm shrugged, turning his eyes back over to Simon, which was his queue to look back at the atrocity.

“Picasso was a freak,” Wilhelm said.

Simon stared at the mismatched colors, “Clearly.”

Silence.

And just like that, the moment was gone.  Simon felt the easiness slipping through his fingers and dissolving into a tension he hadn’t felt in years.

I hope you have a nice Christmas.

“It’s really nice to see you again.”

Wilhelm said it quietly into the air.  The sentiment lingered between them as if they were standing miles apart.  In truth, they were right next to each other, almost shoulder to shoulder, almost close enough to feel each other’s warmth.

“Really?” Simon let the question slip from his mouth before he could think better of it, or even level his voice to sound less childish, more sure.

“Of course,” Wilhelm sounded sure.  He sounded confident and assuring.  Either he had developed enviable acting skills, or being this close to Simon for the first time since their teenage years just wasn’t doing as much of a number on his psyche.  Simon didn’t know which scenario he preferred.

Maybe it was that thought, the desperate need for understanding and transparency that spurred him into being honest.  Unthinkable.  He knows.

“It just didn’t seem like it before,” Simon didn’t let his voice waver, a small victory that was squashed the second he saw Wilhelm’s head whip towards him.  He couldn’t see his face, his eyes were still trained on the horrendous smearings of paint.

Wilhelm was still looking at him.  He knew that much.

He felt his eyes just burning away at the side of his face.

“When?  At the benefit?”

Simon fucked up for the second…third? Tenth time that night?  He lost track.  He fucked up once again and looked up at Wilhelm, being met with confused, slightly troubled eyes.

“When else?” He was sarcastic.  What else could he do?

Don’t be rude to the prince, Simon.

Wilhelm’s face dropped.  His eyebrows drew close together, “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to talk in front of all the reporters.”

Simon stared ahead.

Oh, how the tables have turned.  He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

He laughed.  Short and breathless while looking into Wilhelm’s eyes, which only grew more troubled.

“I guess you're right.”

Wilhelm grew quiet again, turning back to painting.  Simon kept looking at him.

“I’m glad you came over here, though,” Wilhelm said after a few seconds.  His tone had grown shy, his eyes never meeting Simon’s, “I was starting to think you wouldn’t.”

“I almost didn’t,” Simon’s brain-to-mouth filter was gravely broken for this conversation.

Unfortunately for him, this was when Wilhelm decided to flick his eyes back to Simon.  He still wasn’t used to seeing him longer than a quick glance at a magazine.  He wasn’t used to having him at arm’s length again.

“Why not?”

I was on a date.

I was sucking someone off.

I didn’t want to see you.

“I was tired.”

Simon gave himself a mental high five.  The filter was back.

Wilhelm nodded, “Makes sense.  You really were great tonight.”

Simon blushed.  The most passive praise he’s gotten in a long time made his ears go pink and his heart quicken.  Wilhelm saw it all.

He was looking at Simon, finally.  He wasn’t looking through him like an expendable donor like he had earlier.  He stared at Simon with all the attention and admiration Simon knew he didn’t deserve.  Almost like how he’d looked at his mother, shaking her hand and speaking to her as if they weren’t in the richest room in all of Sweden.  Speaking to her about…

What had they talked about?

A gift?  A card?

“Handwritten and everything.”

Simon faltered.

“Did you send my mother a Christmas card?”

It was Wilhelm’s turn to blush.  He grinned bashfully, glancing away for a second before doubling down his gaze on Simon.

“I send season’s greetings to everyone who was in our year at Hillerska.”

“My mom wasn’t in our year.”

Wilhelm laughed, “Well I wasn’t sure where you were living now, so I chose the next best thing.”

“You could have asked Maddie.”

“That would have been creepy.”

Simon pondered it, “Yeah, that would have been creepy.”

They shared a short laugh together, quiet and muffled by the deep winding halls they’d found themselves in.  Speaking of which—

“I hope you’ve got a map or something of how to get out of here, because I wasn’t paying attention.”

Wilhelm huffed exaggeratedly, “Of course you weren’t.”

Then he stepped closer.  Simon lost his breath.  Wilhelm moved into his space, just barely close enough to bump his shoulder against Simon’s before continuing on back down the hallway.

“Follow me,” He sneaks a single glance behind him at Simon, the dim light from the sconces painting his blond hair golden, “Wouldn’t want you getting lost.”

Simon followed him.  What else could he do?

He walked beside him this time, not speaking, but not sitting in stiff silence like it was a prison cell.

Somewhere between the framed photographs and the clay figurines, right when they’d begun to hear the rattling of a house party again, Simon decided to speak up.

“I’m living in New York now.  Right outside the city,” Wilhelm looked at him, his eyes unreadable.  Simon decided to elaborate, “I wouldn’t mind a Christmas card.”

Wilhelm’s eyes crinkled at the ends, a subtle grin slowly forming on his face.  It was beautiful.  A beautiful, quiet moment between them in the darkened halls, right on the cusp of a rowdy crowd of twenty-somethings of which Simon and Wilhelm were undoubtedly the most famous.  Simon allowed himself a single, consoling moment with Wilhelm who was looking into his eyes like he could see straight through to his mind.  Simon let himself take shelter in the delicate silence, just for a moment.

Wilhelm licked his lips.  They glistened better than Simon’s most expensive lip gloss.

Wilhelm wanted to kiss him.  He wasn’t shocked.  Simon wanted to kiss him too.

Isn’t that how these things go?  A teenage flame, a first love that never really burns out, just glowing quietly in the lining of your heart, sending gentle smoke through your body before flaring bright and demanding once again during the infamous reunion.  That was how the movies went at least.

(Yes, Simon watched The Notebook , once, at four in the morning, when he was nineteen.  The details were fuzzy, but he remembered two things vividly.  The idealistic perspective of young lovers coming back together, and Ryan Gosling shirtless in a barn, chest painted with honey-toned lighting.)

Maybe a younger Simon would have kissed him then, romanticized the night as “stars aligning” or found a metaphor in the wide assortment of art on either side of them.  A younger Simon would have kissed him, went home, and written a song about it.

Thank God for growing up, huh?

“I bet people are looking for you,” Simon said, shattering the silence.

“Aren’t they always?”

Simon remembered a hazy, tingling ghost of a palm over his mouth, stifled giggles, slumped down behind rotting wood, hollers of “Wille” ringing out.

“I suppose I’m just the life of the party,” Wilhelm joked, masking the obvious truth that he was remembering too.

Simon turned away, continuing down the hallway, confident that he was going the right direction as the chatter clashing with music grew louder.

He felt Wilhelm following close behind, not too close though.  Not close enough.

His catch-up with Wilhelm was done, this was all Simon planned to do, have a brief, amicable chat with a practical stranger in the shape of his first love and then move on with his business.  Despite breaking nearly every rule he’d set for himself tonight, he kept true to this one.

He gave one parting remark before rejoining the scattered mob of former classmates.

“ Party Prince .”

As he walked away, he heard Wilhelm huff out a short laugh.

Simon fucking hated himself.  But he fucking loved parties.

He found himself in a drunken middle ground as he downed yet another solo cup of apple flavored beer, standing proud on a table above a sea of familiar faces chanting encouragements that would have been berating jibes six years ago.  It hardly bothered Simon anymore, much to his horror.  He downed drink after drink, keeping his crowd roused and wild like the popstar he was.

Among the blurring faces was Wilhelm, always quiet, always just out of reach.  Simon hadn’t spoken to him after escaping the prison cell that was Felice’s “museum”.  But he was always just in the corner of his eye.  Simon would be tripping his way through a conversation or experimenting with different crafts and chardonnays when he’d catch a glimpse of hazel eyes watching him under blond swept hair.  He hated to admit that the more he saw it, the more beer he drank, he began to love it.

Maybe Maddie had been onto something.

Maybe Simon was an attention whore.

He found himself sometime between midnight and 2:00 a.m. breaking out of the mob of sweat and booze to escape to the deserted kitchen.  By this point of the night, all the alcohol had been efficiently spread away from the cabinets and through the halls like branches on a winding tree, leaving behind a quiet corner of the party for Simon to catch his breath.  He estimated about four minutes before someone would come looking for him, whether it be another bloodsucking trustfund baby trying to get a selfie or Sara coming to drag him home.

His eyes roamed the room, taking in the high arc of the ceiling along with the dark wood along the walls transitioning into white counters infused with black marble streaks running like snakes across the pristine surfaces.  Sitting on one of these surfaces was a less-than-pristine glass of deep caramel liquid.  Simon got closer, close enough to see the greasy fingerprints adorning the glass and to smell the biting burn in his nostrils.

Yep.  It was alcohol alright.  Forgotten alcohol, at that.  Finding an untouched drink on a night like this was a novelty.

Simon stared down into the pool of liquor.

Waste not, want not.

He added his fingerprints to the probably dozens of sets already smudged on the glass and brought it to his lips, downing it in one go.  It slid distastefully down his throat and Simon was glad nobody was around to see the grimace on his face.  He should have expected that.  He hasn’t had whiskey in God knows how long.

The VMAs?

Longer?

Nothing stronger than wine.

Simon gawked at his own hands, staring into the empty glass while wondering how he could have forgotten such a simple, such an important rule.  What had he done differently tonight?  What change in his routine had caused such a shameful lapse in judgment?  He’d talked to Wilhelm.  He’d talked to Wilhelm after sucking off a stranger.  He’d—

He didn’t bring his list.

Simon chuckled, then fully, heartedly laughed.  He’d forgotten to pack the crumbling scrap of notebook paper detailing his three most important mantras when going to parties.  It was a mistake.  A one time, run-of-the-mill mistake.

Simon pressed his hands against the stone countertop, the biting chill of it tethering him back to earth.  He took a deep breath.  His lungs swelled in his chest, filling to the brim with as much air as his body could take before letting it out in a loud gust, slicing through the quiet.

Cleansing breaths .  Maddie’s voice sounded like an alarm in his head.

Simon didn’t feel cleansed.

He hadn't realized he’d closed his eyes until he cracked them open again, wincing at the harsh light of the kitchen compared to the dimmed ambiance of the party.  He could still hear the dull bass vibrating through the walls, across the floor, under his fingertips.  He could still faintly smell the sour stench of sweat soaked into the fabric of his clothes.

Simon would have been appalled to realize that he was too drunk to care.

He stared at his hands, tanned and brown against white marble.

Tap tap.

He gave his left hand a nudge with his right thumb and imagined it was Wilhelm.

Tap tap.

“Simon.”

Simon turned around.  Maddie stood in the doorway, her immaculately manicured nails resting against the mahogany door frame.

White walls.  Dark wooden door.

Simon smiled at her, “I was just thinking about you.”

Maddie looked him up and down, uninterested, “That’s nice, dear.”

She advanced, striding across the room, her heels click-clacking in a way that would have had Simon giggling had he not been scared shitless by the look on her face.  Maddie’s eyes were narrow, snake-like, and she framed her shoulders in the way that universally meant “you’re going to do exactly what I say now” .

“What did you and Wille talk about?”

“Felice’s shitty art.”

Maddie glared at him.  She was drunk, Simon knew that much.  She was always at the height of her meddling when she was drunk.

“Simon—”

“You seen that thing?” Simon heard the way his words slurred together, “Fucking ugly, paint smatterings.  Looks like a five year old—”

“When was your last drink?”

Simon blinked, faltering at the sudden shift in Maddie’s demeanor.

He dragged his eyes up to the clock above the door, finding the numbers to be nothing but blurry, watery messes.  It was an upsetting sight.

“Uh—” Simon did his damndest in his drunken stupor to make his voice sound level, “Like a…like an hour ago.”

An hour was a convincing enough lie.  Right?  Yes.  Of course it was.

Maddie didn’t look convinced.

“Did you remember your rules?”

Simon giggled, “Fuck you.”

Maddie stared at him, her eyes prodding at him in a different way now.  She didn’t look deterred, she looked resigned.

“Okay,” She advanced towards him, her heels clicking against the tile floor.  Simon laughed at the sound, “Let me get you a cab.”

She took his hand and pulled him away from the counter with no resistance at all.  Simon hadn’t quite calculated her words yet, the gears in his head were still turning at a snail’s pace, but the weight of a hand in his palm and the soothing rubs on his back accentuated by crystal rings and acrylic nails offered enough comfort to follow Maddie wherever she took him, which ended up being the biting chill of Felice’s front porch.

Simon instinctively wrapped his arms tight around himself.  He closed his eyes and sniffled, listening to Maddie making a phone call next to him.  Her arm was warm around his waist.  If Simon shut his eyes tight enough, he could trick his drunken mind into thinking it was Wilhelm.  Wilhelm standing tall and keeping him warm against his side, draping one side of his jacket around Simon, running his fingers through his curls and holding Simon’s head against his steady heartbeat.

But when Simon cracked his eyes open, it was just Maddie.

“Ugh…‘s just you.”

Maddie didn’t spare him a glance, but she did press her lips into a sarcastic line and give him a single, slightly violent, pat on the back.

Simon’s brain was clouded by white static.  His vision lost dimension.

Hidden in the empty recess of his fading consciousness, one thought poked at him continuously throughout the cab ride home.

I didn’t tell Wilhelm goodbye.

The sunlight pricked at Simon’s eyelids, the bright, unforgiving reminder of last night.  His eyes cracked open like Dracula’s coffin only to shut close a second later.  You’d think after all these years that Simon would get better at closing his blinds.  But no, in his apparently drunken stupor the night before, one which he was wracking his brain to remember, Simon must have stumbled to his room with tunnel vision for his bed.  Any other details of his way home were lost on him.

God, Simon wished his mother hadn’t been home.

Simon entertained a few possibilities.  Maybe she was out with her book club.  Maybe she had to run to the grocery store.  Maybe any possible inconvenience of the face of the earth occurred so that she didn’t have to see her child tripping over himself in search of a bed like the familiar vision of a lonely alcoholic.

Simon groaned low and tired, a frustrated noise he had inherited straight from his father.  He hated when it slipped out.

He felt like an earthworm crawling out of his bed, slowly, gripping his bedside table for support, so much so that he knocked a few things off though he couldn’t tell what.  He was still dead set on pasting his eyes shut.  He stepped over what had fallen and made his way to the door—curtain.

Simon looked around the laundry room at the pieces of wrinkled clothing.  A hamper sideways on the tiles, spilling dirty clothes from its mouth.  A navy blouse huddled against the dryer with a noticeable footprint pressed into the fabric.  A pair of Simon’s jeans knocked out of a basket with the legs lewdly spread apart.

Simon struggled to keep the image from forming of himself stumbling around, clumsily wreaking havoc on their laundry room.

He crept out into the hallway and snaked his way into the living room where his mother was perched in her seat at the table doing yesterday’s crossword from the New York Times .  She looked up at Simon through her reading glasses and smiled warmly.  Simon suppressed the clench of his undeserving heart.

“Morning mí amor.”

Her honey-toned voice gave his aching head the smallest bit of relief.

“Morning.”

Simon sauntered into the kitchen, watching his steps closely so as to appear like he wasn’t sweating off a night of drinking.

“I bought us some muffins yesterday,” She called from the table, “Blueberry, your favorite.”

Simon’s heart clenched again, even more bitter than before.

“Thanks Mama.”

He fixed himself a plate and poured coffee into an unfamiliar blue mug before joining his mother at the table, golden light gliding through the windows.

“Did Sara come home last night?” He asked, shoveling a bite of muffin into his mouth.

“She didn’t come with you?”

“No,” Simon looked up.  Intense relief and slight confusion surged through his veins in a matter of seconds, “Were you out last night too?”

Linda went back to her crossword and nodded, “There was a mistake with the paperwork.  They needed someone to come into the office last night to fix it up before the shippings today.”

“Did you make the mistake?”

She shook her head, “Morgan, that new intern.  Although she is technically under my watch.”

“Then why wasn’t Morgan called in last night?”

“Simon—”

“How long did they keep you there?” His tired voice was growing irritated and he began unknowingly pressing the prongs of his fork into the porcelain plate.

“Just a few hours, Simon, it’s alright.  It comes with the territory.”

“Driving an hour round trip on a Friday night to spend hours fixing someone else’s mistake comes with the territory ?”

Linda sighed and set her pen on top of the paper.  She removed her glasses and looked up at her son, “You act like it was slave labor, mijo.  The overtime is getting included in my paycheck next month.”

“Why do you even need overtime money?” Simon thought back to his younger years, to the consecutive days and nights his mother would spend at her low-wage job to keep the lights on in their, at the time, new house.  It made his blood boil just a little bit more, “This is the exact kind of stuff you don’t need to do anymore!”

His mother didn’t respond.  She raised her mug to her lips and gazed back down at her crossword puzzle with disinterest and another emotion that Simon was too angry to decipher.

He glanced down at her hands, ever so slightly clenching the corner of the newspaper, calloused from years of overworking herself for the sake of two whining kids and a practically immobile husband.

Simon reassessed himself, sitting here first thing in the morning after a stressful night for both of them, interrogating her over the breakfast table.  He should be better than this.

He wasn’t, unfortunately.

Nonetheless, Simon did his best to soften the biting edges of his voice and take a gentler approach.

“Mama, if your having trouble with bills again, you know I can—”

She let out a poorly disguised scoff, stopping Simon dead in his tracks.

“ Simon. ”

“What?” SImon was at a loss.  He tried to telekinetically urge her eyes up to meet his own again.  He was unsuccessful, obviously, “I’m just saying if you need help I have no problem just—”

“I’ve still got the receipt from that shop you took us to,” She cut his off once more, this time nonchalantly picking the pen and paper back up and going back to work on the daily puzzle, “I’m not sure how long it will take me, but I’ll send you the money for that dress,” She put her glasses back on her nose, “You’ll probably be on tour so you may not get it until you get back to New York.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

That drew her attention.

“Simme—”

“ No , Mama, that was a gift.”

“You’ve given enough, Simon,” She shoves the paper back down, this time sending a quiet whack through the tense air.  She stared Simon down.  It was the familiar, scowling glare that told anyone on the receiving end that they were standing on fracturing ice.  Simon sunk against his chair, his eyes turning young, childishly desperate for forgiveness.

Forgiveness for what?  Being successful?  Buying his mother a dress?  Simon didn’t know.  He just knew that he had fucked up.

“Sorry,” His own voice sounded foreign in his ears, nearly making him wince.  He sounded like a child, an insecure, spineless, directionless child in a way he hadn’t sounded in years.

Linda sighed, a bitter mix of frustration and exhaustion.  She closed her eyes for a second, maybe less, before locking her gaze onto Simon’s again.

The conversation was over, Simon could tell.  The anger had fizzled out of the room, replaced with a heavy, suffocating silence.

He stared down at his plate, a mess of stray crumbs and squashed blueberries staining the porcelain.  Simon felt a pool of bile rise in his stomach, climbing through his body against the dire wishes of his brain.  His mother might have said something, made a comment with a tinge of concern in her voice, but Simon didn't listen.  He was too busy scrambling from his chair, the legs screeching and scraping against the floor.  He stumbled to the kitchen just in time for a mixture of various alcohols infused with stomach acid to spill from his mouth and into the metal sink.

Chapter Text

It turned out that Sara had spent the night at Felice’s, as did many of their fellow alumni whether it be by passing out on cold bathroom tiles or occupying one of the various guest rooms without permission.

Simon found all this out by texting Sara later that morning—10:43 to be exact.  He laid in his bed turned towards the wall, the rumbling of the dryer filling the silence, the minty traces of toothpaste overpowering the vomit he’d just washed down the sink.

After getting confirmation that Sara was in fact alive, albeit equally hungover, Simon gratefully switched off the blinding light of his phone screen and stared sideways at his barren wall.  He was sentenced to bed rest today after feeding some excuse of food poisoning to his mother after emptying his guts in the kitchen sink.

Simon chose to believe that she bought it.  Anything else would send him spiraling.

His mother, as always giving Simon more compassion than he’d earned, cracked open a cold ginger ale and sent him to bed with some medicine and saltine crackers on a plate (he wouldn’t eat them, but he appreciated the gesture).  And call Simon terrible, but he was glad to be ridded of her presence.  He couldn’t wrap his mind around the ridiculous price she thought she owed him.

Simon wanted to scream at her.  He had enough money, more than enough, so much that he’d run out of things to spend it on so he resorted to spoiling others.  That’s what you’re supposed to do when you're rich, right?  Why couldn’t his mother understand that?

Simon huffed and turned onto his back.  He threw an arm over his eye and basked in the welcomed darkness, playing over the events of yesterday like the plot of a movie.

He recalled performing, a distant, civil hand greeting his shoulder.  The bitter taste of cum, the sour taste of a cranberry-lime sangria.  Bright clashing colors forming a vague set of tits.  Soft, dim yellows coloring Wilhelm’s face.  He recalled Wilhelm.  Wilhelm, with a stronger jaw roughed with stubble, laughing at his jokes and standing beside him shoulder to shoulder.

Simon’s lips quirked into a sleepy, awkward smile remembering the familiar yet fewer spots of acne still dotting his cheeks.

He stopped smiling a second later, clenching his eyes shut at the memory of harsh kitchen lights, tan and trembling hands against white marble, and the seductive call of a smudgy, neglected glass of whiskey.

The threat of nonexistent bile teased at Simon’s throat again, so much so that he gagged into his pillow, his mouth wrenching open, waiting for something to pour from his empty stomach.  Nothing did, obviously.  Simon hadn’t dared to take another bite after his order with the kitchen sink, much to his mother’s chagrin.

He sank back against his sheets, rubbing his cheek along his softened pillowcase.  His eyebrows loosened back to a calmer position and his eyes relaxed, turning the oppressing black behind his lids into a euphoric darkness.  He breathed once, twice.  Cleansing breaths .

Then his phone buzzed.

Why wouldn’t it?

Simon groaned, less like his grumpy father and more like a petulant child.  He flung his arm down to the carpet, reaching around blindly for the plastic of his phone case.  Once he found it, Simon brought it up to his face in a vice grip and took agitating notice of the long, staggering crack running jagged down the middle of the screen.  Because why the hell wouldn’t it be cracked?

Two obnoxiously bright boxes lit up from behind the shattered pixels.

Sara : Tell Mama I stayed over at Felice’s pls

Maddie : wille asked me for your phone number?)!))! wtf did u talk about??

Maddie : bro he wouldnt tell me anything like what even happened last night?

Simon didn’t waste a second before swiping away Sara’s message.  There were more pressing matters at hand.

Simon : did you give him my number?

He waited in bitter silence for one second, two seconds.

Maddie : did u give him a blowjob?

Simon : jfc

Maddie : did you??

Simon : no??

Maddie : so he was just all bright and glowy this morning for no reason?

Simon : seems like it

Simon stared at the divots in his ceiling, chalking up the bloodrush in his cheeks to any remaining alcohol in his system.  Against his will, he imagined Wilhelm.  Bright and glowy .  He tried to imagine the way he must have smiled this morning to drag those adjectives out of Maddie’s brain.

He tried to conjure the image.

He tried to recall a golden-lit morning, Wilhelm’s face held between his fingers, smiling all squished and crooked before leaning down for another kiss.

He couldn’t remember.

The outline was there, the light, their positions, the heat curling and festering under the blanket.  But the details of Wilhelm’s eyes, the curve of his smile from where he hovered above him, had apparently been lost to time, hiding in the cobweb-ridden attic of Simon’s memory, right where he’d pushed it all those years back.

Simon felt the bizarre sensation of tears pricking his eyes.  He laughed and pressed his finger into his tear ducts to rid them away.

Head more clear—more numb—Simon tightened his grip on his phone and brought it back to his face.

Simon : does wilhelm have my phone number?

Maddie: eager?

Maddie : ;)

Simon : maddie

Maddie : its possible that he may possess

Maddie : a certain seven digits

Maddie : that could ~hypothetically~ be used to contact your cellular device

Simon : great. thank u.

Simon : now go drink water and eat bread.

Simon : flush that shit outta your system.

Maddie : was about to tell u the same thing

Maddie : 😜

Simon stared at the face on his screen for far too long.

Try as she might, Maddie couldn’t disguise her concern.  It was one of the few vivid memories Simon had of the past twenty-four hours, Maddie staring at him from the doorway.

White walls.  Dark door.

Simon forgot his rules.  It had never happened before.  Not since he made them.  It shouldn’t be as big a deal, it was one slip up and he still landed in his bed at the end of the night.  But that doesn’t stop him from digging the stubs of his nails into his palms, denting purple crescents into the flesh.

So Wilhelm had his phone number.  The thought pushed and shoved its way to the cockpit of his brain, doubling as a nagging concern and a welcome distraction.  He found himself wishing now that the crack in his phone had taken the whole system out so that he wouldn’t be hopelessly clutching the notion of a text that may never come.

He looked down at his phone screen.

No new notifications.

He turned it back off and looked up at his ceiling again.  Simon had never quite believed the theory of fame stunting people’s growth.  But with every passing second, the itch to check his phone took him right back to sixteen.

So maybe it had some truth to it after all.

Simon did the absolute most to keep his mind gagged and silent, stifling any endulgent thoughts from forming.  Thoughts like exactly what a text from Wilhelm would look like.  Would it be formal?  Friendly?  A Harvard-worthy essay explaining his lingering love for Simon still burning bright after six years apart?

He didn’t think it was possible, but Simon stared at his ceiling even harder.

He was definitely still a bit drunk.

Two days passed.  Two quiet, slow, torturous days of side-stepping furthur invitations from Felice and walking on eggshells around his mother as if the second he engages her in conversation she’ll open her wallet and try to throw money at him.

Simon beared the less than comfortable air in their home.  He beared the frankly harassing messages from Maddie urging him to stay in Sweden with her a few extra days under the guise of “reconnecting” with their “friends”.  Simon dodged her each and every time, the very thought of being in Wilhelm’s confident, kind, painfully familiar presence nearly making him sick to his stomach, not unlike what he felt while staring down the drain of his mother’s kitchen sink.  It wasn’t a feeling he was dying to regain.

He’d spared his family the drive to the airport, opting to say his goodbyes on the porch while his various bags were being loaded into the trunk of a sleek black SUV.  He felt the resignation in his mother’s shoulders as he hugged her, the knowledge that this was the last they would see of him in months hanging heavy between them.  Sara wrapped him up in a tight hug, not quite warm, more threatening than anything.

“Let her know you got back safe,” She muttered in his ear before pulling away, her eyes deathly serious, baring into him in the way he’d only seen them do once.  When she’d done her hair and put on a borrowed dress and accused him of making himself too vulnerable, wearing too many emotions on his sleeve and feeling the deep, cutting consequences.

Simon shook the memory and smiled.

Then, he left.

He looked through the tinted window the entire drive, nothing in his mind except the blurred, quickly-passing details of his hometown.

He didn’t usually have to wait in airports.  Any flights he’s had for the past couple years have been planned months in advance and thus there was always a private gate and/or jet waiting for him upon arrival.  All this to say, he’d been sitting stiff on a gray plastic bench for the better part of an hour, texting his manager about the response to the concert.

To this day, the happiest Simon had ever seen Kat was when he was trending on Twitter.  And he was at her wedding.

She’d been showering him with praise all day, raving on about the articles detailing what a stand-up patriot Simon is.  Simon hated to admit it, but it was exactly what he needed.  In the last forty-eight hours, Simon had disappointed his mother, his sister, his best friend, and himself.  Some of it was due to alcohol, a lot of it was just him.  In short, Simon sucked.

But he was good at one thing.  Thank God.

Kat was already telling him about the dozens of promotional offers she’d received for him since his performance was broadcasted (internationally, thank you very much).  Obviously, none were possible considering the sheer amount of concerts, interviews, and his own promotional appearances all crammed like sardines into his calendar for the next five months.  It was exhausting, sure, but it's what he was good at.

Simon looked up from his cracked screen at the shifting crowds in the airport.  He had no doubt that there were probably dozens of new photos—if not more—of him in his tattered purple hoodie and thousand-dollar sneakers lugging his bags through the terminals.  He was just waiting for them to reach social media.

Ever since his “shift in brand”—Kat’s words—the public seems to be inexplicably interested in a dressed down, “human” looking Simon to contrast the depraved starchild he masquerades as on stage.  It made him laugh at one point, watching dramatized edits of his buttoned-up self just entering his twenties only to cut to photoshoots in which he’d ruffled his hair a little and thrown on some eyeliner all to the tune of some non-copyright bassdrop.  He couldn’t laugh at those anymore.

He’d tried, only to be met with a deep rooted sting in his chest that made him yearn to crawl out of his skin.

His phone buzzed.

He expected Kat with another article screenshotted.  Maybe Maddie with one last attempt to get him to stay.  Or worst case scenario, his mother telling him he’d forgotten to pack a bottle of lube and left it dripping on the carpet.

What he saw was much worse.

Unknown # : Is it weird I’m still seeing mirages of Picasso’s boob painting when I close my eyes?

Unknown # : This is Wilhelm by the way

Simon just about dropped his phone.

He probably would’ve had he been alone.  He was dramatic like that.

He stared at it for five seconds, maybe fifty, before jamming his finger into the off button, wiping the screen black.  Simon looked behind his shoulder.  He was sitting against a wall.

That knowledge did nothing to quell the prickling at the back of his neck, the scrutinizing, sickly, familiar feeling that he was being watched, that this would become another private moment thrown under a lamp and examined by the public like a cadaver in a med school.

The noises around him grew louder.  Every rolling suitcase against linoleum, every exasperated voice chanting directions, every robotic announcement over the speakers scraped further and further under his skin, pricking like a needle into his ears, tearing at his brain, leaving behind a tense, bleeding, famous carcass in an airport terminal.

Simon stared at the carpet.  Gray with small, symmetrical dots of slightly lighter gray.

Once again, he was dramatic.

Nevertheless, he stared daggers into the carpet until he felt the biting tension ease in his shoulders.

It grounded him, staring at the ground.

Simon laughed.  Out loud.  Still with his eyes fixed on the floor.

If there weren’t rumors of drug addiction before, there certainly would be now.

Wilhelm had texted him.

Simon didn’t reply for ten hours.

He stewed in silence for another thirty minutes at the airport before boarding his plane where he had the perfect excuse for not texting back.  God forbid a full plane be brought down by a single, overdue text brimming with unresolved angst from the childhood of a certain popstar who doesn’t know how to manage his emotions.

He didn’t sleep.  Not the best case scenario for someone still sweating off a hangover.  Instead, he stared out over the clouds, running his fingers along his complementary blanket, drafting a thousand different responses in his head.  He almost asked the stewardess for a pen.  Seven hours in the sky with nothing to keep you busy but the nagging text sitting just beyond your reach.  Waiting.  An assured nervous breakdown just waiting for him when he touches the ground.

And on top of that, Simon was pretty sure the guy across the aisle was taking pictures of him.  So, a very fun flight all around.  Ten out of ten.

Simon strategized at least eight different ways to eject himself from the plane.

He didn’t.

What ended up happening was seven consecutive hours of blank staring through the tiny airplane window, accompanied by an underwhelming pile of sludge that the airline passed off as a meal.

What followed was even more blank staring, this time out the window of a taxi. (Taxi meaning a polished charcoal Mercedes-Benz.)

His house looked the same, still quiet, still gaping, still standing all on its lonesome in the middle of a goddamn forest.

He stayed up despite not sleeping a wink on the plane.  He stayed up until he could spot a million nameless constellations through his skylight.

It wasn’t until the glowing moon felt like it was burning through his eyes that he turned to the duller, more confrontational light of his phone.  He had about eighteen different messages about brand deals, appearances, all things that can wait a few more hours.

Simon stared at his texts, at the string of numbers standing in for a prince.

Simon : I’ve been seeing visions of shitty overpriced finger-paintings all day.  Maybe I’m just tired.

Simon shut his phone off, tossed it under his bed, then promptly buried himself under a casket of blankets, not to awaken hopefully for days.

Unfortunately, he slept just short of three hours before startling awake from nightmares of soft skin and golden sunlight.

He stared at his darkened ceiling for all of three seconds before making a move towards his nightstand.  He dragged his hand drowsily across the empty surface before remembering his melodramatic actions from earlier and went searching under his bed.  He awkwardly contorted himself to lay with his chest over the edge of the mattress and felt around the hardwood floors until reaching the fine lines of cracked glass on his screen.

He brought his phone two inches from his face, the screen stinging his eyes and lighting up his face.

No new notifications.

Simon laid there on his stomach, middle of the night, feet thrown up towards the ceiling and crossed at the ankle, staring at his barren messages like a teenager.  He’d had a lot of bad nights in his lifetime, but this had to be the deepest ravine he’d fallen into in the wide canyon of embarrassment.

Against his best judgment, Simon opened his texts with Wilhelm.  All three of them.

Thirty-six words.  Two hundred and five characters.

Yes.  Simon counted.

Who knows how long he stared at his screen for.  All Simon knew was how many times he had to tap it when it began shutting off.  Eighteen.

He fell asleep with his head and arms hanging over the mattress and his phone dropped to the ground once again.

“But that’s not the point , Kat!  He was in peril, one wrong breath away from getting booted off this mortal plane! What else could he have done?”

“He could have not grabbed your tit.”

Kat was stirring hazelnut cream into her espresso with ridiculous precision, her calmness contrasting Maddie’s passionate argument coming from her almond croissant-filled mouth.  She spat a few crumbs onto the white linen tablecloth.  Kat took no notice.

“He was having a heart attack.” Maddie countered, met with only the quietest, sternest look Simon had ever seen on Kat’s face.

All he’d asked was how their Saturday night had been.

It was three days later.  Simon hadn’t spared one glance at his phone since that night, basking in the plausible deniability.  Maybe Wilhelm has texted him.  Maybe he hasn’t.  Simon didn’t want to know.  Neither sounded like particularly comforting options.

It was only by the grace of God and Simon’s acute memory that he remembered the time and place for his first—hopefully only— Gal Brunch.  Once every Sunday Kat and Maddie sit down at their reserved balcony table in one of Manhattan’s finest dining establishments and talk the nastiest, nosiest, most controversial shit you’ve ever heard and call it “brand consulting” as if Simon doesn’t have a well-paid team doing that for him already.

What would have been a welcomed distraction from the torment of his silenced phone was simply background noise.  Simon took tentative sips from his tea and stared into the white porcelain plate.  His thoughts of Wilhelm had been nothing specific for the past few days.  Just silent visions of wispy blond hair and a pressed navy suit.  Sometimes it was a charcoal gray sweater under Felice’s patio lights.  Sometimes it was nothing but the lingering sound of his voice in Simon’s left ear, casually bashing one of the world's most renowned painters.

“You can’t pull that shit when you’re on tour,” Kat chides Maddie for something SImon hadn’t bothered to hear.

“But it would be so funny .  And it’s not like it’d be totally off-brand either.”

“I know people will expect some kind of scandal from you both but there is a line.”

Maddie rolled her eyes and looked to Simon, silently begging for backup.

Simon stared at her blankly.

“Simon,” Maddie levels her voice into a persuasive, professional drawl, “Please tell your manager that getting a beefcake to leave a club with us and tricking the media into thinking we’re having a threesome will do little to no harm to your image and possibly reinforce you as a sexually confident and unapologetic role model.”

Simon nibbled at a strawberry, “Sounds funny.”

Maddie sat back in her chair, looking triumphantly at Kat.

Kat narrowed her eyes at Simon.  Shit .  She stabbed her fork in his direction, “You’ve got two weeks to change your mind.  Or I’m dropping you before you can kick off your tour.”

The two weeks went by.  Wilhelm didn’t text.

Simon only knew this because the days leading up to your trans-continental tour is not the ideal time to go screen-free.  Though he certainly tried earning dozens of angry knocks on his front door first thing in the morning, courtesy of his manager.

Now he sat sunken in his makeup chair while Maddie practically stabbed him with an eye pencil.

Simon winced, “Is that really necessary?”

Maddie didn’t let up, pulling the skin around his eye in about eight different directions, something that Simon was almost sure didn’t need to be happening, “Depends, are you going to wash all the unrequited love off your face or is it my job to cover it up?”

“There’s no—”

“Hush, babe.  The love sweats are ruining your concealer.”

“What the fuck are love sweats.”

Maddie sighed, exasperated as she leaned back, “Love sweats are when your childhood boyfriend leaves you on delivered for two weeks so you start sulking in corners and gazing longingly down at your phone despite having thousands of adoring fans waiting in line literally just to watch you exist for a couple hours from like a billion feet away and the absolute peril of it all comes leaking out of your pores and ruins your gorgeous, professionally-done makeup.”

Simon looked at his reflection.  Maddie had picked out his shirt tonight.  She must, on some level, be sympathetic to his situation since she chose one of his tamer options.  A thin, black, silky button-down hung down from his shoulders.  The only trace of a popstar personality on the shirt was the fact that the material was just barely see-through, exposing a bit more of his nipples than he should have been comfortable with.  Simon thought it summed up his mood pretty well.

He didn’t know how else to describe it.  He was feeling dull.  He was feeling simple, like a pressed black shirt hanging on a rack full of brightly colored pieces of designer clothing.  Still slutty.  But simple.

Simon considered for a brief moment changing his Twitter handle to @simplyslutty , but he’d get suspended real quick.

“ On in five! ” a shout rang through the entire backstage area.

Simon raised his eyebrows at Maddie, eager to cut the conversation short.

“That’s my queue.”

The show went off without a hitch.

The problem came two thirds of the way through.

Simon felt the floor rattling, an intoxicating mixture of heavy bass and a stadium’s worth of cheering echoing beneath his feet and for one glorious hour, Simon felt grounded.  He felt like he wasn’t one clumsy step away from losing himself to a bottomless chasm of red wine and self pity.  He barely even thought about Wilhelm.

It was a personal record, actually, and also— conveniently —his downfall.  Literally.

One way the fans like to show their love: they throw things.  It’s usually fine, stuffed animals, bras, the odd phone or two.  But water gets a bit tricky.  Simon had always mentally prided himself on being pretty agile.

But alas, entering the home stretch of the night, prepping to go down into a slut drop in four counts’ time, Simon’s foot slipped out from under him and he went down.

It’s all about the recovery though.  That’s what they say.

And Simon…he tried.

He hastily got back to his feet within a second and went on.  He is a professional after all.  What didn’t recover quickly was his poor, bruised ego.

“Honestly, it wasn’t even that noticeable.”

“No really, I bet no one even got a video.”

“There’s worse things that could happen to your career than falling on your ass in front of 30,000 people.”

Maddie had been failing for the better part of an hour to console Simon in the blue LED light of tonight’s club crawl.  Reassurance was usually her forte, but tonight was not her best material, so Simon opted to down his second glass of pinot noir.

He pointedly ignored Maddie’s eyes as he ordered another.  He knew what he’d find there.

Another Ari song came remixed through the speakers, the fourth one since they’d gotten there.

“You know, you don’t need to console me all night.  Go dance.  Drink!  It’s on me tonight.”

“It’s on you every night, babes.”

Simon rolled his eyes.  In the process he spotted a piercing pair of eyes fixed in their direction.  Someone was leaning on a table across the room, their close-cropped platinum hair only just visible through the sea of dancing bodies.  Simon’s first, conceited thought was that they were looking at him.  Two seconds later he knew better.

Maddie pulled her arms up to fix her hair tied up high in a complex pattern of dutch braids that gave Simon a headache just looking at them.

Simon was gay, but he wasn’t an idiot.  Not really.

He knew Maddie was hot and so did she.

So he wasn’t shocked in the slightest to see the figure across the room visibly squirm at the sight of Maddie’s velvet shirt riding up from where it clung to her ribs.

“And besides,” Simon took a smug drink and turned back to Maddie, “I think someone’s trying to get your attention,” He motions across the room.

Maddie turned, just for a moment, before pivoting in her seat and focusing back on her drink.

Simon knit his eyebrows together, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“ What? ”

Maddie just stared at him, puzzled.

Simon looked back.  The person had migrated closer, now clutching onto their drink while weaving through the crowd with impossible ease.

“Well, it doesn’t really matter because they’re coming over.”

Maddie just sipped her drink.  Her perpetual confidence was getting a bit annoying.

“Um, excuse me?”

Simon turned to the bartender, a thirty-something woman practically hiding behind the bar.

“The uh—the gentleman over there wanted me to tell you that the next drink is on him.”

Simon put aside Maddie’s new admirer (who was mere feet away now) to look across the bar to where the woman was gesturing.

Simon laughed.  Loudly.

Without a word of goodbye he slid off his seat and circled around the bar, sidling himself up next to the “gentleman”.

“Elias,” Simon grinned around his name.

“Simon.” He grinned right back, “Funny seeing you here.”

Simon squinted, “Funny?  You mean to tell me you didn’t know I’d be here?”

“Well,” Elias played with his tumbler, “I may have heard that you started your tour tonight.”

Simon raised his eyebrow.

“And I may have remembered that this is your favorite post-show ritual when you tour.”

“Mhm.”

Elias trailed his eyes down, just for a second.  That was one thing about him Simon always liked.  He was just suggestive enough to know he’s interested without coming off as a slimy creep.

“And I was hoping to find you here,” His lips quirked into an unreadable smirk, “And I thought you could use some decompressing tonight.”

There it was.

Simon sipped at his glass.  He really needed to take this one slower than he had the last two, they’d only been there an hour or so.

“...You know, after that fall—”

“ Fuck you. ”

Elias laughed.  Three years later, Simon was still a sucker for that laugh.  Some things never change.

Some things never change.

“Hey, I just figured you might like a distraction so,” He gestured towards himself, “Here I am.”

Simon sipped his wine, “My hero.”

Elias flashed his wolfish grin, “So, are we drinking together tonight?”

Simon knew what he was asking.

Are we drinking together?

Are we drinking at the same pace?

Are we going to have a night that requires us both to be under the same level of influence?

Simon appreciated the consideration.  Elias was one of the few guys he’d met that bothered to ask.

Simon looked back where he’d left Maddie, finding both their stools empty.  Maybe a few years ago this would have sent Simon into a panic, but experience had proved time and time again that Maddie was a grown woman.  She was smart.  She could handle herself better than Simon ever could.  Even if that meant twirling in crooked circles in the middle of the dance floor like she was doing right now.

“Give me another few minutes on this glass then I’ll order us some champagne.” Simon clinked his glass against Elias’.

Maddie was gone.  At some point, Simon had used the excuse of a makeup touchup to sweep the place in search of her, but she was nowhere to be found.  He wasn’t surprised.  It was nearing 2:00 a.m. and despite her claims, Maddie wasn’t quite a night owl.

Elias was keeping his word.  Drinking as slowly and steadily as Simon was, waiting a good fifteen minutes after each drink to bring up the prospect of another.

It was sweet, Simon supposed, but he was getting bored.  The lights were getting too bright, the music too loud, and he’d been secretly photographed a few too many times to want to stick around.

“You remember where the Waldorf is?” Simon asked once their conversation hit a lull.  He wasn’t drunk, not really.  Not so much that he didn’t know what he was doing.

“Of course,” The smirk was back.  Elias saddled up to him even more.  They’d moved to a booth about an hour ago and had been sitting closer and closer by the minute, “I remember that place real well.”

Simon shocked them both when he blushed.  They’d made a few memories in that suite.  Simon practically had the place on retainer.

“Well, I’ve got the usual room for tonight, didn’t feel like commuting.  What do you say we bring this party back there?”

And that was all it took.  

Simon didn’t think twice before taking his hand.  Of course his picture was being taken.  Of course at least eighteen gossip articles would be posted within hours.  Who cares?

Simon dragged him through the streets of New York like a trophy wife all the way to the top floor of the Waldorf Astoria.

“You know,” Elias looks around the familiar polished baseboards and marble counters, “I never genuinely considered becoming a gold digger before you came along.”

Simon huffed a laugh, sparing a glance out the wall-to-wall window, up towards a sky of elusive stars.  A particular light, bright and blazing against a sheet of black caught his attention.  Simon stepped up to the window, one fingertip inching out to press against the stainless glass.

It wasn’t fun anymore.

Simon was suffocating.  His chest was heavy, aching like his heart had finally had enough of its cage.  He shivered.  The star continued to blaze.  It was mocking him.

The shaking in Simon’s shoulders seized when two strong hands took them hostage.

He felt Elias’ breath on the back of his neck sliding down his spine like a growing vine of thorned roses.

“Tired?”

Simon stared at the star, he stared at it until it flew behind the tip of a skyscraper.

Elias moved his hands down his sides, grasping his hips.  The plane emerged from behind the skyscraper.

“No.”

Simon turned around quick, so quick that Elias’ looked like he was getting sneak-attacked when Simon pushed him back, right onto the white leather sofa.  Poor guy.

Simon wasn’t in the mood to waste time.  He climbed into his lap, not even bothering for a kiss, before ripping open the button’s of Elias’ shirt.  One of them hit Simon in the forehead.  Elias laughed.  Of course he did.  He didn’t notice the cloud of dread darkening Simon’s head.  How could he?  How could anyone?

Wilhelm would have noticed.

Simon knew it.  And he didn’t care.

Elias was having a hard time keeping his hands to himself.  His hands drifted from Simon’s ass up his torso.  He brushed his thumb right across Simon’s nipple, pressing harder after the predictable gasp it earned.

This was okay.  This was easy for Simon.  Nothing felt easy anymore.

But when Elias gripped his waist and tossed him onto the couch, when the firm feather cushions made contact with his back, when his shirt was pushed up to his chest, when firm kisses were pressed to his stomach and rough stubble scratched against his thighs, Simon escaped his mind.

He stared at the ceiling, focusing on the feeling of growing static rattling his bones.  Focusing on the leather underneath his back and the air conditioning whirring and the careful, steady intake of breath every four seconds.  He eventually sped it up to three seconds, just to give a little warning, then back down to four.

Simon didn’t let his focus slip from his breathing until he was watching the early signs of dawn bleeding into the sky.

Simon woke up in a nest of duvet and silk sheets.  He hadn’t focused on it too much last night, but he could appreciate the engulfing warmth now, burrowing his head into the pillows to shield from the morning sun.

The euphoria lasted all of three minutes.  He had to piss.

Simon dragged himself up to sit, regretting it the second he did.

He couldn’t mask the sharp intake of breath.  It was loud enough to catch the attention of Elias laying next to him, his full body on display since Simon has taken the liberty of hogging all the blankets.

Elias tried and failed to mask his smirk.  Smug bastard.

“Was I too rough?” His voice was gritty with sleep.

Simon sighed and rubbed his eyes, “You wish.”

He reached his hand over the bed grabbing his phone from where he knew he left it, strewn between his jeans and a ripped condom pack.

He didn’t think before bringing it up to his face, focusing more on the soreness in his ass than the new message on his screen

2:16 a.m.

Wilhelm : How’s your ass?

Simon made a noise, very shocked, very involuntary.

Any questions, fears , running through his head were squashed when he saw the message above it.

A gif of Simon last night, slipping on water and landing on his ass.

“... Ah .”

Simon whipped his head to Elias, currently craning his neck towards Simon’s screen.  He pulled it to his chest like he’d just been caught with porn.

“It’s not—”

Simon started to explain, then promptly stopped once he realized he had no idea what he was explaining.  Or why.

Elias raised his eyebrow, a teasing grin playing on his lips

Simon stared at him, then back at his phone.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

June 18th, 4:08 p.m.

Wilhelm : Reminded me of you

Wilhelm : [Attached: photo of Simon from Alvin and the Chipmunks shredding on an electric guitar]

June 18th, 5:17 p.m.

Simon : reminded me of u <3

Simon : [Attached: The Boss Baby poster]

Wilhelm : 🖕

Simon : ;)

June 23rd, 11:19 p.m.

Simon : [Attached: Paparazzi photo of Prince Wilhelm in the streets of Stockholm, dressed in a navy bomber jacket wire earbuds coming out of the pocket]

Simon : smh

Wilhelm : What?

Simon : siiiiiiigh

Wilhelm : WHAT??

Simon : the wires

Simon : the wire earbuds

Simon : treason

Wilhelm : Hear me out

Simon : not very princely of u

Wilhelm : I lost my Airpods I don’t know where they are

Wilhelm : Pls forgive me

Simon : no ❤️

Wilhelm : Would you forgive me if I said I was listening to your song?

June 24th, 1:01 a.m

Simon : which one?

[read 1:02 a.m.]

June 24th, 1:16 a.m

Wilhelm : Icarus

[read 1:16 a.m.]

June 28th, 4:14 p.m.

Simon : [Attached: A shot from Simon’s latest photoshoot—Simon lounging on a backlit throne with a crown sitting crooked on his head]

Simon : better step ur pussy up your highness

Wilhelm : I can’t compete with that

Wilhelm : Nor would I want to

Simon : what does that mean

[read 4:25 p.m.]

June 28th, 4:43

Wilhelm : You know

Simon : i don't actually. explain. please.

Wilhelm : You look good in that issue.

Simon : is this when u tell me u have a collection of my magazines stuffed under ur bed

Wilhelm : I saw it in a store window, you dick.

Simon : mhm

Wilhelm : Fuck you

Simon : mmmmhm

Wilhelm : 🖕

Simon : ö

Simon : your highness

Simon : your royal highness i am scandalized

Wilhelm : Your fault

Simon : is this ur strategy when dealing with foreign affairs?

Wilhelm : No. Just when dealing with bratty singers.

Simon : …

Simon : ………

Simon : kinky

Wilhelm : Stop.

Wilhelm: Go to sleep

Simon : its 5 pm

Wilhelm : Not in Sweden

Simon : then why don't u go to sleep

Wilhelm : I am

Wilhelm : Goodnight

Simon: night

Chapter Text

Simon spent the better part of June glued to his phone.  Not three hours went by without him checking up on the cracked screen, searching for a message from Wilhelm.

Simon knew it was a mistake waiting to happen.

He decided not to think about it.

He held himself back now, sitting quietly in the bustling back stage of The Late Show , waiting for his queue, keeping his eyes carefully off his cell phone laying face down on the dressing table.

Simon was embarrassed, really.  He was embarrassed how easily he fell back into their routine.  The teasing.  The shyness.  The compliments that always lingered longer than they should.  It was all so blanketly, painfully easy that Simon had to take a look at himself in the mirror, catch a glimpse of his lip gloss and stud earrings to remember that they’ve done this dance before.  That he’s not sixteen with wide eyes and weak knees.

The lull would come—he was sure.

If they were meant to be treating each other like old classmates, maybe even old friends, the day would come when the contact died out, when they’d forget each other’s name or eyes or the twist of each other’s smiles.

It would happen.  Some day.  So Simon decided to enjoy the banter and let fate take its course.  It didn’t have to be a big deal.

It wouldn’t be a big deal.

Sometimes talk shows were fun.  Sometimes they were the torment straight from the devil himself with out-of-touch straight men going on fifty forcing him to explain his borderline slutty lyrics that he had tried to add some nuance to.

Nuance was no match for Stephen Colbert.

“— we don’t have a ride yet, so let’s get one, ” He read out.

Simon held back a grimace.  That one really wasn’t his most subtle moment.

Oh well.

“Care to explain that one?”

July 1st, 7:28 p.m.

Simon : how do you explain to a forty year old straight man that your song is about riding a guy’s cock into oblivion??

Wilhelm : I believe you just did

Simon : not the same thing

Wilhelm : Why is that?

Simon : ur neither forty nor straight

Wilhelm : Shit

Wilhelm : What gave me away

Simon : i meannnn………

Simon : u give off a ~vibe~

Wilhelm : And what vibe is that?

Simon : u know

Wilhelm : I really don’t, please explain.

8:02 p.m.

Simon : ._.

Wilhelm : That’s not an answer

Simon : I disagree

Simon : ._______.

Wilhelm : Okay then.

July 15th, 12:06 p.m.

Simon : [attached: selfie of Simon, a thin-lipped smile and dead eyes, standing under a “Welcome to Indiana” road sign]

Wilhelm : Thrilling.

Wilhelm : Just wait.  Sweden will welcome you with a little more fanfare

Simon : you’d better

Simon was coming down from his eighth midwest show, watching Nightmare Before Christmas in a Chicago hotel when he got the notification.

This was another post-show ritual he wasn’t too proud of.  Since his first tour, after any particularly exhausting show, he’d bypass the whoring around and dive straight into his temporary bedsheets with the gooiest lava cake room service had to offer and Disney+ already queued up on his laptop.

There were fans outside.  He could hear them from the second story.  He could see the occasional flash of someone trying to get a blurry glimpse through his window.

He knew they couldn’t see him.  He knew it and he tried to ignore it.

Jack Skellington was rising out of a fountain of green acid like it was a pedestal when Simon got up, ventured over the cold hardwood floor, and yanked the curtains closed in one swift motion.  The volume of chatter increased.

His phone buzzed later that night.  After the noise had died down and the lava cake was reduced to a porcelain bowl dusted with chocolate crumbs sitting on his nightstand.

New Venmo Payment From Linda: $280

The dollar sign glared at him through the long, jagged crack in the glass.

He sent the money right back.

Then he texted Wilhelm.

July 20th, 11:34 p.m.

Simon : do people ever get weird when u buy them things?

And he waited.

He watched Sally pull a needle from behind her ear and stitch her arm back on.

He watched a trio of grotesque musicians scraping their way through a mangled rendition of “Jingle Bells”.

He watched the moonlight seeping from the curtains pale in comparison to the blinding, bright yellow of its animated counterpart.

Simon fell asleep with hybrid thoughts of macabre claymation stitched together with the soft angle of Wilhelm’s jaw, the knuckles on his fingers, the pinched corner of his lips.

His eyes were shut, his brain cloudy, hopelessly absorbed by the bitter truth.  Simon knew it while he was sucking off a lighting tech in an abandoned parking lot.  He knew it when he was counting his breath, pressed against Elias, getting rhythmically pressed into a white plush couch.  He knew it the second Wilhelm shook his hand for three fleeting, impersonal seconds in a stuffy ballroom, that Simon had fallen right back in love.

“Goodbye, Jack.  My dearest Jack.”

Simon fell asleep seconds before the first tear slid out, falling sideways down his face and pooling between the corner of his eye and the ridge of his nose.

bzzzzz

bzzzzz

bzz…bzz…bzz

bzz…bzz…bzz

bzz…bzz…bz—

“Jesus Christ, Kat, what? ”

“...Simon?”

Simon sat up, sweaty sheets peeling off his skin.

“Wille?”

“I—Sorry, I know it’s, like, stupid late…and I probably just woke you up but I just saw your text…and, uh…actually—I’m sorry I’ll hang up.  Forget this happened—”

“Wait, Wille—”

“No, you're literally on tour, you’re probably not sleeping enough anyway and I just decided to wake you up.  Fuck , it must be like 3:00 a.m. there—”

“Oh my fucking God Wilhelm.  What? ”

“I…saw your message.”

“My mes—” Simon stared down at his hands (well, he thought he did.  The reserved moonlight was not doing much for his vision.)

“Shit.”

“...Are you alright?”

Simon didn’t answer.  He didn’t know how to.

“I mean, it doesn’t really happen.  Not to me at least.”

“...Why.  Do you just not buy gifts?”

“No, no, I do.  But, you know, I get gifts in return.  Sometimes they’re even more expensive, you know?  It’s, like, a give and take.  It’s always equal.”  Simon didn’t say anything, so Wilhelm continued, “In my experience at least.  I think—I feel like our situations might be a little different, so…”

Simon thought about his mom, sitting in the same house for twenty years, never asking for anything, giving Simon and Sara anything they could ever need.  Wilhelm was right, he supposed.  It wasn’t fair.  It wasn’t an equal give and take.

“My mom won’t let me help her.  She’s been helping for my entire fucking life and she won’t let me do the same.” Simon felt his heart race, he felt his fingers curl into the bedsheets.  He watched his own blood boil like it wasn’t even his, like he was floating above his body, looking straight through, watching the inhibitions crumble and the coils of anger form.

“I don’t think she expected a reward for raising you.  I don’t think that’s how parenting is supposed to work.”

“...I mean, yeah, but still.”

“Well, does it feel like you're buying her gifts or paying off a debt?”

Simon’s eyes stung.  It was inexplicable.  Something about tonight made him want to cry.

“Have you considered that maybe the reason she’s getting ‘weird’ about you buying her things is because she just…”

Simon glared daggers into the darkness, “She just what?”

“Maybe she just…wants to keep treating you like she always has.  Even if you’ve changed.  Even if you don’t need her help anymore.”

Simon cried for the second time that night.  He could help it, and he couldn’t fathom why.

“I haven’t changed.”

His voice came out quiet, mousy, so pathetic he made himself wince.

“That’s not—”

“I haven’t changed , Wilhelm,” He spat the name out like a curse, “Just because I’m successful?”

“No—”

“Because I got my life together on my own? I did that on my fucking own!  Okay?  I’m not different , Wilhelm!  I’m not spoiled— ”

“Sim—”

“ I’m not like you! ”

Simon stewed in the silence.  The silence filled his 14th floor suite to the brim, filtering through the 1500 thread count sheets, across the heated floors, seeping through the cracks in Simon’s moisturized skin.  He wanted to laugh.

I’m not like you.

Who am I kidding?

“It’s different, Wilhelm.”

Simon heard steady breathing on the other end, nothing else.

“If you say so.”

Wilhelm didn’t say anything else for a long time, probably a few minutes, it felt like hours.  Simon didn’t even want to try.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them hung up either.  That was the only thing calming Simon’s heart rate.

If he tried hard enough, he could imagine that Wilhelm’s breath was closer, puffing against the pillow next to him and not half the world away, getting delivered into his ear via two metal boxes.

Simon wanted Wilhelm there.

He gripped the second pillow against his body.

“You know,” Simon just about whispered to himself.  Nonetheless, he heard a soft hum from the other end, “I saw something funny today?”

“What?” Wilhelm’s voice sounded deep, gravelly, like he was fending off sleep too.

“Are you aware that you’re a contender for Sexiest Man Alive this year?”

Wilhelm chuckled, “I thought that was a given.”

“Don’t get cocky, I believe I’m also your competition.”

“Again, Simon, I feel like we’re stating the obvious.”

Simon bit back a grin.

“Can I tell you a secret?” His voice drifted through the air as a minuscule gust of wind.

“Yeah?”

“I’m tired.”

“Go to sleep, Simon.”

“...I don’t like this place.”

“Chicago?”

“This hotel room.  I don’t like it.  It feels empty.”

Wilhelm didn’t say anything for a moment.  Simon would have been embarrassed if the exhaustion wasn’t setting heavy in his bones.

“How about…” Wilhelm’s voice scratched out, Simon shut his eyes and pressed his nose into the pillow as if he could catch a whiff of the monarchy, “How about I stay on the phone until, you know…until you fall back asleep?”

Simon didn’t need to be asked twice.

“Okay.”  He let himself sink further into the linen, his phone wedged awkwardly between the pillow and his cheek.  “Thank you.”

Simon closed his eyes and fell back into his head, Wilhelm’s steady breathing guiding the way.

“Did you fall asleep on your phone or something?”

Maddie desperately caked concealer onto the red, angry marks on Simon’s left cheek.

“Yes.”

Maddie looked at him, her hand pausing its borderline assault on his face.

“Let me guess,” She began to smirk, “Wilhelm?”

Simon flushed red, redder than his cheek already was.

Maddie shook her head and resumed her job, more gentle than before.

“What are you gonna do, man?”

Simon stared at himself in the mirror, “I don’t know.”

He was lying.  Of course he was.

Chapter Text

“And the Brit Award goes to…”

The downward spiral that would become of tonight could be traced back to those words, sitting thick and heavy in the air, filling every crevice of the concert hall, seeping through Simon’s pores and nesting themselves in his veins.

Yes , he would think the next morning, sitting in a marble tub, that was where the trouble began .

“Simon Eriksson!”

Simon wasn’t surprised, per say, these things tended to get around long before they’ve been spoken into a microphone.  He already had his moves down.

Simon stood up, buttoning his crimson double-breasted blazer as he did, gave a calculated hug to Kat sitting right beside him, kissed Maddie hard on the cheek, then was strutting down the aisle, just cocky enough to think he owned it.

That night, Simon shook all the right hands and said all the right words to land himself in the largest, sleekest, most underground Sex-in-the-City sort of club London had to offer.

He swore he saw Rita Ora doing a body shot off Jack Whitehall.

He was a couple drinks in at this point, but the fact remains.

Simon probably looked insane, drawing his eyes through the room, searching every corner, a silver statue poking haphazardly out of his bag.

He didn’t care.  He was on the prowl.

Maybe a year ago, a month ago, he would be doing this.  Hot off the heels of a televised victory looking for nothing more than a guy at least six feet tall with features just unfamiliar enough to be comfortable, impersonal.  That’s how this night would end, passed out, aching, intertwined with a stranger.  It was practically out of Simon’s control.

Ordering himself another neon pink cocktail—

Ha.  Cocktail .

—Simon took a demure sip, processing the burn of tequila and a sharp, stubbled jaw line at the exact same time.

Bingo.

Simon wasn’t drunk enough to find out that this guy’s name was Dacre .

And he certainly wasn’t drunk enough to have this conversation with him.

“But, like,” Dacre says in a thick Brummie accent, “It was you…right? In the…?”

He’d begun whispering conspiratorially.  Simon wondered how much of a scene it would be if he threw up on the guy’s shoes.

“...You know, in the video ?”

He was eyeing Simon up and down with what had to be a mix of morbid, invasive curiosity and twisted lust.  The two most repulsive reactions Simon could imagine, all wrapped up in one 6’4” package.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Simon looked down to his hand.  He’d shed his rings hours ago, they could be coursing through the London sewers for all he knew.  He took another sip.

Dacre stared at him, one corner of his mouth quirking up suddenly like they were sharing an inside joke.

“ Right ,” He drew the word out and something about the way it curled on his tongue made Simon want to cry.  Maybe he drank too much.  No, not too much. Not nearly enough.

He looked back down to his drink, a half-gone flute of champagne this time, flat and warm, sloshing around the bottom of the glass like the world’s most timid tsunami.

“Well maybe,” His voice was right in Simon’s ear, the musk from his chest invading Simon’s senses.  He felt thick fingers tease at the buttons of his shirt, “Maybe you just need a little reminder.”

Simon bit back a sob.

Then he tilted his chin up and took what he needed to.

Dacre was on him after a second of shock, crowing him up against the bar, the marble edge digging into Simon’s back.  He didn’t ask permission before tearing Simon’s shirt out from under his waistband and shoving his cold hands across Simon’s skin.  If the people in here weren’t as famous, Simon wouldn’t have put it past Dacre to turn him around right there.

It was a long cab ride, or maybe it just felt like that.

Simon had two rough hands dragging themselves down his thighs, his back, his neck the entire drive.  He was surprised the driver didn’t kick them both out onto the curb.

The elevator wasn’t a pleasant experience either.

(None of it really was.  But pleasantness wasn’t the point.)

Simon was wedged into a corner before the doors had even closed and long after they opened.  Dacre was an aggressive one.  Not quite a bad thing.  But not a good one either.

Simon led him to his suite, let himself get shoved through the door, let himself get thrown against the door and let the buttons on his shirt get ripped from their threads.

Simon was trying.  He was really fucking trying tonight.  He’d tried to distract himself in the taxi, trying to shove the sensation of stubble scraping his skin to the back of his brain in favor of the gentle raindrops under golden streetlamps.  He tried now to stare behind Dacre at the hotel room, trying to make sense of the shapeless darkness.  But all Simon could feel was his lungs shrinking in.

Dacre mouthed at his neck, sucking hard at the tendon.  Trying to claim it.  Maybe even succeeding.

Simon’s arms were limp at his sides for eight, nine seconds before he brought them up, robotically digging them into chestnut waves of hair.

He heard a growl in his ear, and a thick hand closed itself just barely around Simon’s throat, tilting his head to the right as Dacre kept on his war path.

One hand around Simon’s throat, another sliding down the back of his pants.

“Gonna let me fuck you, baby?”

Simon stared through blurry eyes at the drawn curtains.

“Hm?”

Simon didn’t blink.  If he did, the tears would fall.  He kept them wide open, stinging.

He nodded.

Then his face was pressed against the door.  He didn’t know when Dacre unzipped his pants, but they were being shoved to his knees.  His shirt was peeled from his arms, then his boxers, and Simon was left bare.

Bare.

“ Fuck .” It was a deep grunt in his ear.

A cold slick digit circled his hole.  Dacre had a packet of lube in his pocket because why wouldn’t he?

He moved his other hand up to yank at Simon’s curls, almost definitely pulling some out.  Why wouldn’t he?

Simon felt the sting.  It was too much too fast.  He knew it, and he didn’t care.

Well.

He cared, but he wasn’t supposed to.

Simon whimpered as another finger shoved in.

“ Like that? ”

no.

no

“ I knew you would, babe ,” Another finger, “ knew you’d be a little slut for it. ”

slut

“Some things dont change, huh?”

He laughed, husky, predatory.

slutslutslutslutslutslutslut–––

Simon woke up in a heap of sweat and wrinkled clothes.  His cheek was pressing against hardwood, thin traces of cool blue sunlight skittering across the floor.

He was confused for one second, the one second it took to see the empty lube packet on the ground, to feel the growing bruises on his neck and the tingling roots of his hair where it had been pulled.

No noise beyond his labored breath, no presence to be felt at all.  Not even his own.

Simon was alone.

Simon had collapsed in on himself, in a doorway that wasn’t his, and laid there alone until morning.  Like he was dead.

Simon shuddered as he dragged his hands down the bare skin of his thighs, reaching for clothes, for warmth.  He gave up after a few seconds, then tried again.

Simon had managed a bath.

All by himself.

How about that, huh?

He had dragged his suitcase into the bathroom and sought out a pair of gray sweatpants while the tub filled up.  His limbs ached, he puked twice into the toilet, but he was in a bubble bath now, utilizing the cherry blossom soap courtesy of the hotel.

Kat called him earlier.  So did Maddie.  It didn’t matter too much.

Simon decided in between bouts of vomit and bile that today, he was allowed to be dead.  Dead to the world.  Just today.

It didn’t feel good.

It didn’t feel like much of anything.

Simon filled his lungs up with air—as much as he could fit—and sank back under the surface.

Dead to the world.  It really felt like it.  No sound in his ears but the steady, gentle heartbeat that water seems to have, twisting around his brain and sinking into his ears, filling every possible space inside him.

Simon let every last bit of air bubble out through his nose.

No more empty space.

No more air.

Simon shot out of the water.

The nurturing heartbeat of the warm water was replaced by ringing.  Shrill, tormenting ringing.

He looked over at his phone, peeking out from the pocket of his discarded trousers.

He saw a W, and that was all it took.

Dead to the world.  Dead to everyone except Wilhelm.

Simon snatched up the phone with his dripping hand and grimaced, but accepted the call nonetheless.

“Hi!”

Simon cringed.

“Oh-...hi?”

He screwed his eyes shut, “Sorry, you just—you startled me.  Hi.”

“Oh…” Wilhelm paused, and that was not at all what Simon wanted, “Fuck, sorry.  Were you asleep?”

“No,” Simon cleared his throat, “Just, you know, in the bath.”

Wilhelm didn’t say anything for about three long seconds.

“Oh.”

“...Wanna say anything else other than oh ?”

“ Oh, uh, fuck.  Yeah sorry I just wanted to call you today, ‘cuz, you know, yesterday…”

Yesterday.

Simon’s stomach dropped.

“I mean obviously you were a shoe-in but still, a win’s a win, right?”

Oh.

Simon stared ahead at the door.  Dark, polished wood against pearly white walls.

Dear God, whatever forgotten childhood trauma about wooden doors he had buried in the depths of his mind really needed to make a resurgence.  This was getting ridiculous.

“Good practice for the Grammys, right?”

Wilhelm laughed, and—

Simon nearly cried.  Why? He couldn’t tell you.  Maybe it was just one of those days.

“Yeah,” Simon’s voice sounded strangled, “Yeah, I guess.”

Neither of them said anything for a while after that, and Simon was more than happy to let the silence stretch on.

“...Simon? ” Wilhelm asked, tentative as ever, “ You okay? ”

“Yes.”

More silence.

“Are you sure—”

“Do you want to come over?”

He blurted it out before the fact that they are in different countries could even cross his mind.

“...what?”

Simon stared at the door, “In—In Stockholm.  When I’m back home there.  I get a three week break after the UK shows…”

None of this was making sense.  Simon knew it.  Christ, how he knew it.

“Would you want to uh…come over?  Hang out, you know, while I can?”

The silence wrapped itself around Simon’s neck.

“If you don’t have, like, royal busin—”

“I’d love to.” Simon might be crazy ( might be , ha!) but he’d swear on his life that he could hear a smile through the phone.

“Of course, Simon, I’d love to.”

Chapter Text

The stages thrummed under Simon’s feet as he belts out the final notes of the final song of the final UK show.

The audience was roaring and, as ashamed as he was to admit it, Simon didn’t care.

The wrap of this concert meant one thing to him: the end.  A ticket out of the infernal hell of touring.  The beginning of a three week vacation he got to stay in none other than the good old homeland.

Simon was going to Sweden.  Again.  Finally.

“I wanna thank you all one last time,” His voice booms through the speakers, through the arena, probably out into the cool night air.

The way it should be.

“It breaks my heart to end tonight's show—”

It didn’t.

A small round of groans rippled through the crowd, quickly followed by electric anticipation.  They knew what was coming.

“—But before I do, I think we’ve got time for one more song.”

This had been a tradition since Simon’s first tour, a measly jaunt down the east coast.  He didn’t mean for it to stick around this long, Lord knows he regrets it, but once something becomes “your image” it stays with you like an incurable plague.

Every show since then, every show , ends with the same song.

The record says it's his best selling single to this day.  A slow, quiet ballad that left his heart bleeding out under stage lights for twenty thousand people to see.

He kept his eyes shut while he sang.  He always did.  He knew that if he opened them for even one single second, he’d see an arena dotted with stars, people waving their phones in the air, crying Simon’s tears for him.

So, he closed his eyes, and he didn’t open them until giving his closing remarks and stumbling his way off stage straight onto a plane home.

Home.

Simon laughed.  He stood on Swedish soil, two chauffeurs taking on the task of unloading his bags from the poor, overflowing trunk.

Simon stared up at pillars of bleached stone and mahogany wood molding into a rich, menacing front door.  He stared at closed, polished shutters and drawn curtains and laughed.

Simon supposed he could call this home.

Simon wasn’t much of a chef beyond microwave noodles and chardonnay.  This much was clear to him as he stared at his kitchen, counters ridden with takeout boxes and stale crackers from the last time he was there, which must have been… Simon wasn’t sure.  Long enough for a spider web to have been spun in the corner.

He told himself he’d call his mom as soon as he landed, that he would let the question of money, “debt” as Wilhelm called it, put a blockade between their already limited communication.  Three hours and counting he’d been in Stockholm, he hadn't so much as dug his phone out of his carry-on.

No one knows where I am.

Simon thought to himself as he made his way to the den, a wide expanse of leather upholstery and dusty, hardwood floors.  He didn’t bother turning any lights on, leaving that job up to the dull sunlight sneaking out from behind the blinds.

Nobody can find me.

He knew, logistically, that it was untrue.  That Kat could snag his location with the click of a button.  Or an overly-nosy fan that just got lucky catching a glimpse of him unlocking the door.

Simon knew he wasn’t alone, he wasn’t in hiding, he hadn’t fallen off the face of the earth quite yet.

But holy shit , Simon thought as he sunk into the cushions, isn’t that such a fascinating thought.  Dead to the world.  Dead to yourself.

The doorbell rang.

Simon must’ve still been pretty jetlagged.  He laughed again, unprompted, just like he had on the sidewalk.

He wasn’t dead to the world.  He wasn’t dead at all.  Maybe to himself.  But what did that matter?

The doorbell rang again.  And again.  Again, again, again, again—

“Dear fucking Jesus, Maddie.  What?”

Maddie at least had the decency to look apologetic, standing on his doorstep in fingerless gloves and a red knit scarf, in her hands two steaming coffee cups.

“Already gearing up for Sad Girl Autumn, are we?”

“Never too early to start, babe,” She cooed as she welcomed herself past the threshold, tinseled hair flowing loose behind her for once.

“Oh my God.”

Simon sighed.  This was probably inevitable.

He begrudgingly shut the door and made his way to the scene of the crime.  The kitchen.

Maddie was standing gobsmacked in the center of the room, pinching an empty Chick-Fil-A bag between two coffin acrylics like it was a murder weapon.

“I know—”

“Traitor.”

“Maddie.”

“Your license to gay has been revoked,” She jabbed a finger at him before he could get in a retort, “If you have any qualms, you can take it up with the boss.”

“Oh,” Simon mused as Maddie stuffed the bag into the trash, “Are you not the boss?”

Maddie rolled her eyes, “Of course not.”

“Then who is?” Simon moved across the room to plant his elbows on the island.

“Now lets see,” She tutted, “Who can we think of who is powerful, in high authority, and just a wee bit fruity?”

Simon leveled her with a glare, “Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“I’m too tired for this.”

“Too tired for the karaoke room I reserved for us?”

Simon squinted, “You didn’t.”

Maddie smirked, “No.  I didn’t.  But let's file that away for later.  I bet if Felice and I ganged up on him then we could convince Wille to join.”

You have to give Simon credit.  He really, really tried to school his features.  But if there was ever a person who could read him half as well as Sara, it would be Maddie.  No contest.

He wasn’t sure if he had just frowned a little deeper or maybe if his eyebrow twitched at the mention of Wilhelm, but Maddie grew deathly serious in the blink of an eye.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Maddie tilted her chin up, “Nothing?”

Simon didn’t respond, guilty eyes darting here and there, anywhere but Maddie.

She raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and said, “Okay.”

Simon’s eyes shot to her, watching her every move as she floated around his kitchen, humming as she tidied up like Mary Poppins.

She was giving him an out, and Simon could’ve taken it.  But—

Dear God, he felt like his brain couldn’t possibly stretch anymore.  Residual thoughts, worries, fears, every possible feeling in the book left over from the night of the Brits all shoving and pushing and threatening to burst free.  If there were ever a place to let them, it would be here.

“Actually…”

Maddie perked up.

“Um, actually I think I might…be seeing Wilhelm, you know, while I’m here…”

Maddie squinted at him, poorly concealing a grin, “Seeing him?”

“Yeah—you know, just—” Simon stammered, “I asked him if he wanted to, I don’t know, grab dinner or something.  Just while I’m here.”

Maddie gazed at him, silent, teasing.

“It might not even happen,” Simon continued, “I mean, it probably won’t, he was probably just trying to make me feel better, I think.  And you know how busy we both are.  It would be, like, impossible.”

“Oh, I know ,” Maddie rolled her eyes, “You have no idea what a pain it was to get us a reservation for tomorrow night.”

Simon paused.

“Us…” He tread carefully, “Us, as in—”

“You, me, Felice,” Maddie counted on her fingers.  Simon waited for the punch, “And Wilhelm.”

Simon pursed his lips, planted his hands on the counter and let his head drop.

“Tomorrow?”

“Eight o’clock at the Orient.”

Simon glared at her through his lashes.  Maddie simply smiled.

“Hope you packed some going-out clothes.”

The vibe was off.

Maybe it was being home.  Well, being in a different home.

Simon fastened a gold chain around his neck.

Maybe it was the jetlag.

Maybe it was where he was going.

Maybe it was who he was dressing up for.

Lord knows Simon wasn’t fastening his leather flares and stabbing his eye with a pencil tip for himself.

Wilhelm was going to see him tonight.  Up close and personal.  Simon was going to look the best he had ever looked.

But only when he got this fucking liner right.

On what must have been his eighth try, painstakingly sharpening the tip of the wing, his phone started buzzing on his vanity.

Maddie, no doubt, calling to ask just what the fuck is taking so long?

Simon accepted the facetime call without looking.  Big mistake.

“Bitch, I know I’m late but I think I’ve lost all of my makeup skills in the span of one hour.  Seriously, where’s my makeup artist when I need you?”

“Bitch, your makeup artist just ordered tequila shots as an appetizer and I’m sure your makeup looks fine.  Let me see.”

Simon jerked his head down, effectively smudging his eyeliner once again.  “Wilhelm.”

“Simon.”

Wilhelm didn’t attempt to hide his amusement, giggling at Simon’s shocked, aesthetically ruined face.

He looked— God , Simon hoped the concealer covered the blush creeping up his cheeks.  Wilhelm’s haircut suited him.  It did a little more than suit him.  Sweeping upwards in one calculated, gelled wave.

It was probably for the best that all Simon could see of his body was the dusty gray collar of his dress shirt.

“Is everyone…?”

“Oh, yeah,” Wilhelm twirled the camera around to a private, romantically lit room where Felice and Maddie looked like they were in the after-stage of taking a shot, “We all got here like twenty minutes ago.”

“Shit,” Simon looked back up at the mirror, at the smudge of black he’d just made.  “Fuck.”

“Simon?”

Simon was too busy frantically rubbing the skin off his face with his finger.  God, he wished Wilhelm weren’t witnessing this.

“Simon.”

It was said so assertively, yet so calm.  So kind yet sure that it gave Simon pause.  He’d never heard his name said in such a way.  Screamed from across the street, moaned into his ear, muttered disappointedly across the breakfast table, sure.  But never the way Wilhelm said it.  Like he knew exactly what he was saying, exactly who he was talking to, like he understood his name better than Simon himself ever would.

It never quite made sense in Simon’s head, so he chose to ignore it.

Tried.  He tried to ignore it.

He turned his eyes back down toward his phone, grimacing at the camera angle and scrambling to correct it.

“Simon,” There it was again, “You look beautiful.  Get down here.”

Who was Simon to argue with the Crown Prince’s judgment?

“Do I need to be…discrete?”

“You’re good.  I already snuck in the back.”

Simon left without another glance at the mirror.

The Orient was a favorite of his and Maddie’s ever since they started earning enough to eat there.

It had decent food, amazing wines, and staff discretion worthy of Sweden’s finest, two of which were seated in their most elegant, private room.  The Crown Jewel Dining Room, as the golden plaque on the door would indicate.  Figure that.

Simon stood before it, staring at his fuzzy, golden reflection.  He could hear boisterous laughter through the heavy wood doors.

Dark wood against eggshell paint.

He placed his hand on the knob.  Anger and fear twisting themselves into a tornado, consuming him, deciding his every move as Simon was left to be dragged along at its mercy.  He acted as puppet on his strings as his hand jolted the doorknob, punching against the heft of the wood with all its might.

He was met with three confused faces, and an even more confused brain.

“...Hey Simon,” Felice smiled, slight worry showing itself in her eyebrows.

“...Hi,” He squeaked.

Simon looked at her, glanced at Maddie, then stared at Wilhelm.

Sixteen or not, Simon was human.  Well, human enough to understand that Crown Prince Wilhelm is extremely, unfairly hot.

It was really a little embarrassing for him.

Wilhelm sat at the head of the table, his charcoal suit jacket hung neatly over the back of his chair.

The only lighting in the room came from an array of faux-candles blazing at the ends of a golden chandelier, and knowing the establishment, it may just be real.  But Simon couldn’t care less about how many carats hanging overhead.  Not when the amber glow was racing across Wilhelm’s cheekbones, the bow of his lips, casting deep shadows below his jawline.

“You’re late,” Maddie giggled.

Simon barely heard her because Wilhelm was looking at him.  Hazel eyes squinting and pink lips curling into a smile.  For Simon.  Because of Simon.

He felt a blush grow across his cheeks.

Lord give him strength.

Simon smiled back.

He watched as Wilhelm gestured to the seat directly to his right, pulling it out and just a little closer to his own, “Sit down.”

Simon heard the heavy door thud closed behind him .

Wilhelm smirked at him.

He was so fucked.

“So.  How long have you got?”

Existing this close to Wilhelm must cause Simon some type of brain damage.  He’d felt the signs of it back at Felice’s party, his train of thought tumbling off its tracks every time he heard his voice.

Needless to say that now, sitting close enough for Wilhelm to “accidentally” knock their knees together, for their sleeves to brush against each other whenever Simon reached for his glass, his conversational equated to those of a fifth grader.  He had been embarrassed at first, ashamed of how much of a blow his allure had taken tonight, but that was before he remembered that he wasn’t following his script tonight.  Simon wasn’t supposed to be alluring or attractive or sexy.  Wilhelm wasn’t one of his disposables.  Simon wasn’t finding the quickest route to getting pegged in the bathroom.

Simon felt heat flare in his gut before he could help it.

Tonight was not about that.

Tonight was a nice, easy dinner between four friends.

All Simon had to do was remember how to behave at those.

How do you act like you want to make amicable conversation with the guy next to you instead of dropping to his knees and —

“Simon?”

Simon’s head snapped up.  Wilhelm’s eyebrows knitted together, a playful smile still on his face.

“How long do you have left?” He asked, leaning forward on his elbows (just a little bit close to Simon), “Until you start touring again?”

“O-oh,” Simon stammered, praying to the gods above that his shittily done makeup covered up yet another flush of red, “Three weeks.”

Wilhelm nodded.

Maybe say more than two words dumbass.

“Actually, I uh, planned for it to be shorter, like just a few days?” Simon let his mouth run unchecked, drawing Maddie’s attention from across the table, “But Kat—my manager, she kind of forced me into some more downtime.” Simon attempted a chuckle.  He sounded like he was being strangled.

He felt Maddie’s gaze.  He ignored it in favor of pouring another glass of wine.  In hindsight, it wasn’t the best move as it drew troubled glances between Felice and Wilhelm.

Right , Simon thought.

They remembered him as a young, jaded, straight-edge child of an addict.

Felice was looking at him like he'd just pulled out a switchblade or a dildo or something.  He didn’t even want to look at Wilhelm.

A heavy, suffocating silence had fallen over the table.  Simon stared down at the wine, crimson, like blood, like the fingernail marks he’d found on his neck after the Brits.  By now they’d faded into a pretty pink.  Fully in Wilhelm’s view.  He wondered if he’d noticed them.  He wondered if he would ask.

Simon wondered if the three at the table had looked at him like this at Felice’s party.  Was he too drunk to notice?  Felice was never out of sight, floating around the chaos, tending to her guests like the patron saint of hostesses.  Wilhelm was right next to him through the silent hallways and back.  Surely Simon would’ve felt the same worried eyes he felt now?

And Maddie.  Maddie hadn’t bothered to hide it.  They knew each other too well.  Simon knew he disappointed her.  And he knew exactly what would be waiting for him if he looked up at her.

And so, he didn’t look up, instead opting to down the merlot in one gulp before placing it back, rather loudly, on the table.  A shrill clang from the crystal glass rang out through the room.  Simon shuddered the way he did when he belted off-key.

He brushed it off.

(He tried to.)

“So,” He said, finding Wilhelm’s strained eyes, “Who’s up for dessert?”

It was a question for the table, but Simon’s gaze was practically nailing Wilhelm to the wall.

“O-oh, um…” Wilhelm stuttered and began sifting through the dessert menu, brows furrowing, a slight blush creeping onto those gorgeous cheekbones.

Simon smirked.  He leaned across the table, closing the distance, and planted his hand on Wilhelm’s bare forearm (he’d pushed his sleeves up to his elbows before their entrees had even been brought out.  Simon didn’t think his heart rate had quite recovered).

“I wasn’t talking about food, Wille.”

Nope.  Wrong.

Abort.  Abort.

“Oh?”

Simon turned to Felice, Wilhelm’s arm still burning hot under his hand, “I trust you know your way around Stockholm’s clubs?”

Felice looked puzzled for a moment, maybe even troubled, before her eyes took on a mischievous glint, glancing towards Maddie in some secret language.

Then, Simon made a mistake.  Another mistake.

He looked at Maddie.

Maddie who…wasn’t impressed by the display, disapproving eyes darting between Simon's face and his hand still on Wilhelm’s arm.

Is this not what she wanted?

Simon squinted at her unchanging scowl.

Maddie turned her eyes down, hard features softening into her token pity-face.

Simon spared her one more second, then turned his attention back to Wilhelm.  Where it belonged.

If that’s how Maddie wanted to be.  Well.  She can eat her damn heart out because Simon is going to have fun tonight, rules be damned.

“Good,” Simon said, chipper, “Now how the fuck do we get a check sent back here?”

Felice’s taste in clubs was…different.  Different from Simon’s own at least.

Simon can’t say that he’d done a lot of partying in Stockholm, but he more or less expected the usual.  Sticky bar surfaces, bass vibrating through the floors, sweat and vomit sitting heavy and thick in the air.

Simon felt like an imposter here, on a sleek leather couch, roped off from the blue-lit dance floor where he had yet to see a single couple grind against each other.

The second the bouncer—this place had a bouncer in a fucking tie — had laid eyes on Felice, they were immediately escorted through dim, winding hallways before a black velvet rope was unhooked just for them.  Felice had been clear about this place.  It was highly private.  No photography of any sort was tolerated.  Simon had even been forced to sign an NDA on his way in.  If he thought about it, some of the A-list parties he attends should really consider similar methods.

All this to say, Simon was now sitting stiff against soft cushions, declining a drink from their waiter who seemed to come back every five minutes.  Something about drinking in a place like this—

Simon shuddered.

Here, with his best friend on one side and the crown prince on the other, where he wouldn’t have the privilege of getting seen or filmed or photographed being his party-boy self, call him crazy but he just couldn’t see the point.  Who needed tequila shots when Wilhelm’s knee was pressing against his, when he was asking Simon all these fucking questions .

“So, what’s living in New York like?  I’ve only been a couple times?”
“You know, we now share the mutual experience of getting bras thrown at our heads.  That’s pretty cool right?”

“Has Maddie told you how extremely visible your nipples are through that shirt?”

“Yes, I have!  This whore won’t listen!  He think he looks so hot and so sexy—”

Maddie was a little bit drunk.

Wilhelm wasn’t though.  He’d been nursing an old-fashioned for over an hour, never taking his eyes off Simon for more than ten seconds, staring so intently with such fascination that it made Simon want to shrink into his seat.  Wilhelm is the only person who’s ever managed to make him feel that way.  Just something to note.

“So,” Wilhelm takes another sip, never taking his eyes off Simon’s, gazing with wide eyes as if he doesn’t know how fucking attractive that is, “Are you commuting to Bjarstad?  Bit of a drive, don’t you think?”

Simon gulped, licked his lips subconsciously, not for one second missing how Wilhelm’s eyes followed the movement.

He really was going to hell.

“No, um, I’ve got a place here.  In Stockholm,” Simon said, watching as Wilhelm brings a hand up to undo his top button.  He didn’t blame him.  It was getting hot in there, “I’m staying there during my break.”

Wilhelm drew his eyebrows together, “You’re not staying with your mom?”

There was a knowing pity in his eyes and—no, that’s not what Simon wanted.  He’d been ping-ponging the idea that confiding in Wilhelm about his mother wasn’t the greatest choice, that he would have been better off keeping to himself.  He felt that debate firing up again.

“N-no, I’m…” Simon cut himself off, took a deep breath, steadied his voice, “She’s just been…really busy with work lately.  But I am gonna drive down to visit one of these days.  I just don’t want to be in her hair, you know?”

Wilhelm looked unconvinced, just a little sorrowful, and nodded.

“Yeah, I know.”

Simon allowed himself five seconds of leeway.  Five seconds to gaze unguarded into Wilhelm’s eyes, to study every speck of gold flaking deep brown.  Five seconds turned into seven.  Eight, Nine—

“Wanna see my house?”

Simon cringed at himself.

Wanna see my house?

He sounded like an eight year old.

Wanna see my legos?

Wanna see my Barbie collection?

Wanna see what I can do?

Simon held back a laugh, because he’s almost certain that last one had been used on him before for less child-friendly purposes.

Anyway, it was too late now.  The damage had been done.

Simon watched quick confusion grow on Wilhelm’s face, followed by childish delight as a wide grin spread across his lips.

Simon, in spite of himself, grinned too.

He spared a glance back to Maddie and Felice trying to wave some guy at the bar over to their private booth.

“I think they’ll be fine,” Wilhelm said, the smile evident in his tone.  Simon felt a gentle, timid, warm hand place itself on his wrist, “Let’s go, I’ll call my driver.”

As they were making their way through subdued crowd, out the doors and through the darkened hallways, Simon fought back a sense of deja vu.

He couldn’t tell if their occasional brushing of hands was entirely an accident.

“You’d better have a pool.” Wilhelm muttered, holding open the backseat door.

Simon scoffed and climbed in, recognizing a familiar tight, blond braid in the driver’s seat.  Not a strand out of place.

“It’s September in Sweden, Wille.”

“And?”

Chapter Text

Simon scurried quickly across his hardwood floors, butterflies swarming his belly, grinning like a kid.

Malin had let him out at his front door, forcing Wilhelm around to the gated, fenced, camera-rigged backyard (which just happened to include a pool).  After twenty minutes of begging, pleading, and negotiating, she’d agreed to spend her shift parked down the street, keeping eyes on Simon’s front door and giving the two their privacy.

Privacy.

He and Wilhelm were going to have privacy, alone, together.

Yes, Simon.  That’s what privacy means.

He reached the back door, a wide, stainless glass slider.  He stared out at his patio, ceramic tiling glowing blue under the moon.  He stared at the perimeter of wood fencing and through the black bars of his gate where Wilhelm’s slender figure appeared.

Simon just looked, for a moment, at Wille.  He tried to decipher the fuzzy, moonlit details, the shine of his hair, whether his eyes were strained or relaxed, if any sign of anticipation was showing through the way Simon’s was.  He looked until he saw Wilhelm tilt his head to the side in a silent question.

Simon kicked back into action, jabbing the unlock button on the panel by door.  The gate clicked and Simon slid open the door, shivering.  It was probably the weather.  You know, the 58º wind chill.  That must have been it.

“Hey there,” Wilhelm grinned, allowing himself to slip past Simon into the house.  His shoulder pressed against Wilhelm’s chest for a couple seconds.  It didn’t really matter.  It didn’t matter that the firm angles, brushing by him had Simon wondering what Wilhelm looked like shirtless nowadays.  Something he really wished he wasn’t wondering as Wilhelm dropped his jacket off his shoulder and draped it over one of Simon’s chairs.

He’s confident.

“Confident, are we?” Simon teased before he could help it.

Wilhelm raised an eyebrow and smirked.

He’s hot.

“Would you rather I hang it up?” Wilhelm said it like it was a joke.  Like he was on the verge of laughter.

Simon looked around at his home, thick layers of dust living on the coffee table, the mantle, the TV, pillows and blankets strewn across the couch he’d slept on last night (he couldn’t bring himself to even walk to his bedroom).  Then he looked back at Wilhelm.

They laughed, practically in sync, sharp and muffled like mischievous little kids.

Then the laughter died, slowly at first, until Simon was left staring across the room at Wilhelm, mind short circuiting at Wilhelm’s chest, his cheekbones, his knuckles.  Any and every little detail that always, always mattered just…

Just standing in his living room.  Raising an eyebrow at Simon, silently asking what comes next as if Simon had any fucking clue.  The entire night was becoming a fever dream and he hadn’t even turned the fucking lights on.

“So…”

Simon cleared his throat, “So.  The pool?”

Wilhelm scoffed, pressing a hand to his chest, looking positively scandalized, “But it’s September !”

Simon giggled.

Yeah.  He giggled.

And he negated the fact that Wilhelm’s grin grew warmer a split second later.

“I don’t have, um…I don’t really have any, like, swimsuits here…”

Wilhelm looked at him, calculating, then behind him at the wide glass door.  As embarrassed as Simon was to admit it, he was nervous.  The telltale dread was twisting in his gut, the fear that Wilhelm might just walk out right now, or worse, not want to go skinny dipping—

“Do we need them?”

Simon stared for a second, two seconds, waiting for his brain to catch up with Wilhelm’s question.  And when it did…

Jesus.

Anything coherent had seemingly thrown itself out the windows of his brain as Simon tried to find a dignified, normal response in the midst of simultaneous screaming and squealing coming from the voices in his head.

“...No?”

Is that a question?

Are you asking the Prince of Sweden if it’s acceptable to strip down to your underwear and hop into a pool with him?

Wilhelm grinned, oblivious.  (Or maybe he was grinning because he could see the gears in Simon’s head cease to work).

“Come on then,” He said, brushing past Simon while undoing the buttons on his shirt.

Simon stood gobsmacked for a moment before scurrying along behind him.

Any chill Simon might have felt stripping down in the autumn air was canceled out by the blush seemingly spreading through any inch of skin it possibly could.  His cheeks, down his chest, his stomach, his shoulders as he slipped off his shirt, already a step behind Wilhelm who’d gone to work on his zipper.

And Simon was fine.

Simon, shirtless, gawking at the muscles in Wilhelm’s back glowing turquoise next to the pool, was fine.

He had to take a few cleansing breaths before sliding his pants down, but he was fine.

Simon stared at the ground for a second.  Because where else would he look ?

He felt a breeze brush across his back, sending a shiver through his bones, lighting every cell in him on fire as if they weren’t already on guard.

“You alright?”

Simon snapped his head up, coming eye to eye with Wilhelm’s worried gaze.  Naked saved for navy boxers (which Simon was not looking at), staring at Simon (similarly naked) with such earnest, ridiculous intent.

“Yes?” Simon let a giggle slip out, because he realized that by some incredible miracle, some spell cast by the rustling leaves and glittering blue hue reaching every crevice of his sight, he was a little bit okay.

It made him laugh again.

Wilhelm grinned, “Okay?”

“Okay.”

Simon was grinning from ear to ear without a notion as to why.

He allowed himself a few short seconds to look into Wilhelm’s eyes, glittering green under the moonlight, dusted with specks of gold.  Too angelic to be looking at Simon.

Simon.  Of all people who could have spent tonight under the thoughtful gaze of Crown Prince Wilhelm , he was here, half naked in Stockholm winds, grinning at Simon like they had never grown up.

Maybe they hadn’t.

Simon didn’t quite care at the moment, he didn’t care because Wilhelm was taking a step forward.  Another, and another until their chests were inches apart, hearts beating in rapid unison, until Simon could only focus on the fine details of Wilhelm’s face, the pores dotting his nose, traces of acne mapping his cheeks, the gentle part between his lips where his tongue darted out.

Simon couldn’t help it.  He looked, glanced at Wilhelm’s lips, curved and sharp and glistening.  And apparently that was all it took.

Simon was going to kiss him.

He was going to trail his hand up the back of Wilhelm’s neck, tug at his hair, touch as much of his as he could before having to let go.

Simon would have done it if Wilhelm hadn’t pressed a firm palm against his chest and pushed .

Simon tumbled back into the pool, legs flailing behind him, ear numbing to the sound of the water’s heartbeat.

The beat was shattered a second later by Wilhelm cannon-balling into the water beside him.  Their eyes met again, blue and blurry under the water.  Everything quiet, everything slow.  Wilhelm’s hair danced around in the water like it had a life of its own.

Simon shot up, filling his lungs to the brim, shaking out his hair like a dog.

He looked over to where Wilhelm was emerging.  His hair stuck flat to his forehead, dripping over his eyes.  The thought never even crossed Simon’s mind to smooth out the strands, it simply a bodily reaction.

Involuntary really.

He waded through the water and brought up his hand, pushing the dripping hair away from Wilhelm’s eyes.  He didn’t realize what he’d done until he heard Wilhelm’s breath hitch, until he met hazel eyes nearly consumed by black.  Simon pulled his hand away like he’d been burned.

Suddenly, the only noise was their heavy breaths and the soft waves splashing against their stomachs.

Wilhelm looked at him, scanning his face, darting from Simon’s nose, his cheeks, chin, lips, up to his forehead.

“You know,” Wilhelm’s voice seeped into the air, singing along with the waves and the wind and Simon’s own breath, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen your hair wet.”

Simon furrowed his eyebrows, “The locker room…?”

“Well—” Wilhelm’s cheeks reddened beautifully, “Yeah but, not like…”

He waved his hand nonsensically.  Simon raised a questioning eyebrow.

Wilhelm gave up on gesturing, placing his palm on the wild, sopping wet curls matted to the top of Simon’s head.  He curled his fingers into knots by his temple.  Simon felt every twitch of Wilhelm’s fingers shoot through every nerve in his body.

He looked down at his own hands floating idle under the water, distorted and pale in the cool blue.

“Like what?” He mused, pointedly ignoring his wavering voice, chalking up the goose bumps crawling up his spine to the fact that he just dived into a pool in the dead of autumn, “A wet dog?”

Simon forced a laugh through chattering teeth.

Wilhelm didn’t laugh.  He just stared.  As he always fucking is.  And this was one of the stares that Simon just couldn’t read.  Wilhelm was just looking at him for the hell of it, it seemed.

The seconds ticked by and the silence stretched on.  And on, and on and on until Simon couldn’t take it anymore.

“What—”

Wilhelm shoved his hand through the waves, splashing water into Simon’s face.

Then it was Simon’s turn to stare.  Straight at the smug, gleeful grin Wilhelm was sporting.

For one horrible second, he looked like August.

Simon didn’t dwell on it.

He splashed back, a laugh escaping his lungs as Wilhelm recoiled back, his arms flailing to tread water.  Simon advanced, wading forward, pressing down on Wilhelm’s shoulders, all but pouncing on him with a howl of laughter.

He laughed until Wilhelm seized his legs, gripping his thighs with palms that nearly covered them (when Wilhelm’s hands got so strong, Simon didn’t know), and tossed him down under the water.

For a brief moment, Simon panicked.

For a moment, he couldn’t breath.

He was back in London, face pressed against a door, calloused hands bruising his throat.

But only for a second.

Because Wilhelm was sinking down with him, eyes crinkling with glee.

Simon felt his arm sneak under his knees, another curling around his back.  Before he could even think about getting his bearings, Simon was being lifted out of the water, into the biting chill which was beginning to feel more and more like a playful embrace.  Without an ounce of debate, he lassoed his arms around Wilhelm’s neck and drew his body against him.

Their eyes met, both brimming with an unspoken joke.

“M’lady.”

Simon squinted.

“You know, you could be a great Disney prince if you stop shoving people into pools.”

Wilhelm tilted his head, feigning confusion.

And then Simon was falling again.

Just for a second before Wilhelm’s muscles flexed, saving him just before his head was submerged.

Unfortunately, Simon’s shriek had already escaped into the night.

“Fuck you!”

Wilhelm nearly doubled over with laughter.

Simon splashed some more water into his stupid smiling face.

From that point on, Simon’s backyard was a breeding ground for teenage-level chaos.

Wilhelm shook the water out of Simon’s curls and Simon tackled him down into the water.  Simon raced ungracefully to the other side of the pool and Wilhelm stroked after him like an olympic swimmer.  Simon pushed himself to sit on the ledge of the pool, kicking waves into Wilhelm’s face and he got two strong hands pinning his thighs down in return.  Wilhelm’s hands pressed harder, a welcomed pressure as he lifted himself to Simon’s eyeline, leveling him with a smirk that Simon could actually understand.

I won.

And win he did.

In one swift movement, Wilhelm reached behind Simon, gripping a hastily folded towel and tossing it over his head.  Simon giggled as he felt Wilhelm’s hands ruffling the top of his head and shaking out the damp curls, almost certainly tangling them more.

“Stop!”

Don’t stop.

“You said it yourself, Simme,” Wilhelm persisted, keeping Simon’s eyes covered by white linen, “Wet dog is no look for an aspiring superstar.”

“Bitch,” Simon flailed his arms until they latched on to Wilhelm’s wrists, yanking the towel off his head, “I am a superstar.”

He was met with Wilhelm’s wild grin and soft eyes.  Simon couldn’t help it.  He grinned back.

Wilhelm brought the towel back up, gently swiping away a water droplet about to slide off Simon’s nose.

The water brushed softly against Simon’s legs.  The wind was picking up.  The changing leaves rustled on their branches, fluttered to the ground.  One bright red maple leaf flew behind Wille, dancing and turning in the breeze before touching down onto the surface of the water.

Simon was out of things to say.

He thought Wilhelm was too.

This was the lull he was afraid of.  The beat of silence that stretched too far, climbing into Simon’s brain until all his inhibitions were melted into a puddle.  There was no difference between this moment, sitting on the edge of his pool, and hunched in the bushes with a hand on his mouth and glowsticks in his hair, pressed into a twin bed in the early dawn light, staring at a glowing orange fish talk as soft kisses were tattooed into his neck.

These were the dangerous moments.  The sort that kickstarted the eight year long yearning now freshly renewed in Simon’s backyard.

“Cold?”

And just like that, it was broken.

“...What?”

Wilhelm trailed his eyes down Simon’s body, nothing but slight concern showing on his face, “You’re shivering.”

Simon looked at himself, shoulders twitching, the tips of his fingers shaking against the white concrete.  The telltale chattering sang out from his teeth.

“Oh.”

Wilhelm wouldn’t meet his eyes now, darting from the glittering blue to his hand on Simon’s knee, pale against tan.

“Should we…”

Simon was in no headspace to finish Wilhelm’s thought.  He remained dutifully silent, lips drawn shut, gaze fixed on Wilhelm’s darting eyes.

“Should we go inside?”

Simon pursed his lips, another shiver stretching up his spine.  Wilhelm wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“...Ok.”

Simon drew his legs up and out of the water, forcing Wilhelm’s hands off him.  A tragedy, really.

He turned away before he could watch Wilhelm effortlessly raise himself from the water, opting to grab a fresh towel, not looking behind him before tossing it in Wilhelm’s general direction.

If the muffled snort was anything to go by, Simon nailed a perfect headshot.

He allowed himself a smirk as we padded back into his house, leaving the discarded clothing out on the pavement.  He’d deal with it tomorrow.

Simon felt around through his empty house before hearing the glass door slide closed behind him, effectively trapping them both.

“I, um…” Simon stuttered and tripped over his ottoman at the same time.  Wilhelm snorted, “I’ve got some sweats somewhere…um, and some boxers if you don’t wanna hang out in a suit, you know…”

Simon turned around to see Wilhelm's silhouette in front of the glass, holding a bundle of clothes in front of his stomach, body still shamelessly on display.  Simon looked away because he was almost certain his blush was visible in the dark.

“Oh?” Wilhelm mused, smug as ever.  Simon heard a thud, Wilhelm had tossed his clothes away onto a leather arm chair, “Are we hanging ?”

Simon looked over again in spite of himself, careful to hold his gaze strictly above the belt.

“Unless you’re just using me for my pool,” Simon smirked.

See?  Simon can joke too!  Simon can be silly with his ex half naked in his empty home in the dead of night.  Tonight could be fun.  Simon was going to be easygoing tonight if it fucking killed him.

“Well I was trying to be subtle about it…”

Simon turned away, flipping on an overhead light (one of the titty lights, you know the ones), “You weren’t succeeding.”

Wilhelm chuckled, “So…” He glanced down at both of their bodies, “You mentioned some clothes?”

“Right,” Simon snapped into action, leading the way towards the stairs, “Come on.”

Leading Wilhelm through his house was, to be quite honest, a little embarrassing.  He pretended not to notice the stark, barren walls void of any photos, not even a stupid hotel painting.  Simon was fairly certain that even the royal palace was decorated more excitingly than his house.

But Wilhelm didn’t comment.  Just followed dutifully behind Simon, so close that his chest collided with Simon’s back when he stopped in his bedroom doorway.

(Simon was fine )

He flicked on the light, exposing a plain white and beige bedroom.  There really was nothing more to say about it.  It was white, with beige bedding and some wood furniture.  It had a huge mirror leaning against the wall.

So.  That was pretty cool.

Simon took in a breath and strode to his dresser.

“These might be too small…” He said as he sifted through drawers of forgotten clothes, “I don’t even know if they’ll fit me, to be honest.”

Simon tried to choke out a laugh as he turned to see Wilhelm standing in the center of his bedroom eyes darting from the white walls to the white curtains to the white carpet, no discernable emotion in his eyes.  Something was happening behind his gaze, Simon just had no idea what.

“Wille?”

That got his attention.

Wilhelm snapped his head back to Simon like a deer in headlights.

“What?” Wilhelm asked, eyes scanning Simon’s face.

Simon didn’t try to decipher it this time.  He tossed him a t-shirt, sweatpants, and a pair of plaid boxers that probably haven’t seen the light of day in years, then turned back to find himself something.

Somewhere between a Fleetwood Mac tee and a 1989 hoodie, Simon spoke, “There’s a bathroom back there if you wanna—”

He stopped at the sound of rustling fabric.

Simon almost turned around.  Almost .  He stopped the second he remembered that the only article of clothing Wilhelm has on were his boxer, once he realized that if he turned around he would get an eyeful of Wilhelm’s—

“Fleetwood or Taylor?”

The rustling slowed.

“What?”

Simon attempted to steady his breath.  He failed, of course, “Fleetwood Mac or Taylor Swift?”

Wilhelm was silent for two long, long seconds before SImon heard the rustling fabric resume, “...Taylor?”

Simon nodded, “Correct.”

Simon pulled the hoodie over his head, praying to the gods above that Wilhelm’s dick was concealed as he finally turned around.

It was.

…Yay.

Simon held some fresh clothes awkwardly in his hands, looking expectantly at Wilhelm, pleading silently that he wouldn’t make him ask for privacy.

Simon was a hairsbreadth away from just doing it.  After all, what dignity did he have left?  He thrusted his hips at least three times any time he set foot on a stage, he’d had his first time spread online for the better part of a decade, he laid naked and unconscious on a hotel room floor for hours.  He can change his fucking clothes in front of Wilhelm.

Simon braced himself for it, taking a deep, shaking breath before hooking a thumb in his waistband and—

“Oops—sorry.”

Wilhelm turned his back, fidgeting with his hands, his (Simon’s) pockets, his hair, giving him as much privacy as possible.

“I can, you know, go somewhere if you want…”

Simon had his waistband stretched below his hip bone, staring blankly ahead at Wilhelm’s back in his shirt.

“No.”

The response snapped out of SImon before he could think of the connotation.

He thought about explaining.  Telling Wilhelm he didn’t mind, that it wasn’t a problem, maybe even sending him downstairs.  He didn’t say anything.

Simon slid his briefs down in one swift movement, quickly replacing them and grabbing a pair of shorts.

He watched the tensing of Wilhelm’s shoulders, the blush crawl up his spine.

Simon hated to say it, but his chest flared with triumph at the sight.  He smirked to himself before making his way around Wilhelm to the door, making sure to brush their shoulders together in the process.

“Coming?” He called, already halfway down the hallway.

The frantic patter of footsteps behind him was enough to make Simon grin as he descended the stairs.

“Action?”

“No.”

“Romance?”

“ No .”

Simon sighed and slumped back against the sofa.  He threw the remote in Wilhelm’s general direction.

“Fine.  You pick.  What do you want to watch then?”

Wilhelm was quiet for a moment, scrolling through Simon’s Netflix account like a man on a mission.

“...Horror?”

Simon glared at Wilhelm, cuddled up in a fluffy blanket not two feet away, “Fuck you.”

“What?!”

“We’re not watching a horror movie.”

“Why?” The wild grin was back on Wilhelm’s face, “Scared?”

Simon deadpanned, “Yes, Wilhelm. I’m so scared that if you put on a horror movie I’ll have no choice but to jump into your arms at the first sign of danger.”

Wilhelm shifted closer, pointedly placing his arm across the back of the sofa, right behind Simon’s head.

Asshole.

“See?  Wasn’t so hard, was it?” He murmured before pressing play on The Conjuring .

Simon huffed, then scooted closer.  Not close enough to touch.  Just close enough to steal a corner of Wilhelm’s blanket and steal a bit of his heat, and Simon wouldn’t apologize for it.  It was his house.  He could do what he wanted.  And if we wanted to draw his knees up and tilt his head just enough to feel Wilhelm’s arm brushing his drying hair, then he was fucking allowed.

It crossed his mind a few times to crack open a bottle, maybe even search the place to find any leftover weed from his last stay.  But the allure of intoxication paled in comparison to Wilhelm’s soft breathing by his ear, the twitch of fingers on Simon’s shoulder every time Simon jumped, Wilhelm’s quiet laughter at the most absurd moments.

Who the fuck laughs at The Conjuring ?

Simon debated his next move all night long, he never stopped thinking about what he would do next, but all that ended up happening was his head on Wille’s arm, eyelashes curtaining his vision, the intense soundtrack and Wilhelm’s breathing lulling him away from reality.

When Simon woke up, everything was gold.

The TV had turned off long ago, the sleek black reflecting orange sunlight, light that bounced off the walls, dipping the furniture, the light fixtures, the coffee table, the blanket in liquid gold.

Simon wasn’t leaning on Wilhelm’s arm.  Instead, his head had sunk to the crook of his neck, lips pressed against sharp collarbones, strong and slender fingers tangled in his hair like it was their rightful place.

Simon could’ve done many things at that moment.  He could’ve gotten up.  He could’ve put on a pot of coffee, waiting and watching as Wilhelm slept.  He could’ve shaken him awake, called Malin to drag the prince out of his house.

There were many options.

And Simon took none of them.

He stayed right where he was, head wedged awkwardly, perfectly under Wilhelm’s, basking in the idle fingers in his hair, letting himself indulge in Wilhelm’s scent.

Simon wasn’t lying to himself.  Not about this, at least.

He was in love.  Infatuated.  Whatever the fuck had torn his brain and his heart apart eight years ago, it was still there.  Still going strong, barbed and twisting, tearing up his stomach, clouding his vision, buckling his knees just a little more every day.

So, in the warm glow of morning, he looked at Wilhelm’s face.  He traced the freckles in his face, the stress lines that weren’t there before, the smile lines that are also brand new.  Simon committed to memory every detail that had escaped him.  Anything he didn’t remember, what classes they had together, every time their hands touched after the video, every word Wilhelm had said the morning after, bathed in the same kind of golden glow he was bathed in now.

Simon replaced every single detail of them that he’d ever forgotten.

Who knows how long he stared until Wilhelm yawned, until he cracked his red eyes open to see Simon.

“Morning…”

Simon wasn’t above admitting it.

Wilhelm sounded hot.

It was an entirely unimportant detail that Simon committed to his memory.

“Morning.”

Wilhelm yawned again, then felt around in his pockets.  Simon’s pockets.

“...Oh.”

Simon perked up, “Oh what?”

Wilhelm threw a glance back towards the door.

“My phone’s still outside…”

Simon didn’t know what the fuck he was on last night to be out here, wet , during nighttime.  Simon was freezing his ass off.

He curled in on himself from his patio as he watched Wilhelm scurry around his backyard, picking up belongings as he went, swearing he’d return the clothes cleaned and polished.  Sparing a quick glance at his phone before sliding out the gate.

Then, Simon was alone.

He was alone and staring at his backyard, wondering what heinous murders he must have committed in a past life to deserve it.

Chapter Text

Simon: MADDIE

Simon: MADDU

Simon: MADISON

Simon: MIRANDA

Simon: MADONNA

Simon: FUTURE MRS KRISTEN STEWART

Maddie: omfg WHAT

Simon: i almost kissed him

Simon: maddie i swear to fuck i almost kissed him like ten fucking times

Simon: and i fucking would have in the morning. like i was all lucid and entirely not thinking clearly and i literally would have kissed him but guess fucking what

Simon: wille fucking left after two seconds??

Simon: like no goodbye or anything??

Simon: i mean he said goodbye but like-

Simon: maddie i think he knew

Simon: wille knows i wanted to

Simon: u know

Maddie: …

Simon: what??

Maddie: ………

Simon: omfg

Maddie: simon

Maddie: simon my man. my best friend

Maddie: u mean to tell me that u and wilhelm DIDNT EVEN KISS

Maddie: YOU LITERALLY LEFT AFTER LIKE TWO SECONDS AT THE CLUB AND DIDNT DO SHIT??

Maddie: WHAT THE FUCK DID U GUYS DO

Simon: we went swimming

Maddie: it’s september

Simon: yeah

Maddie: ok so what are you doing right now

Simon: currently? trying to eat some cereal without puking my guts out from shame

Maddie: how long ago did he leave

Simon: like

Simon: an hour?

Maddie: okay

Simon: what

Maddie: wait two more hours and then call him

Simon: CALL HIM????

Maddie: omfg fine text him

Maddie: jesus

Simon: text him what??

Maddie: simon

Maddie: do i have to fucking spell this out for you?

Simon: …

Maddie: text him

Maddie: and ask him

Maddie: to come over

Maddie: for dinner

Simon: that’s insane

Maddie: invite him for dinner on thursday night

Simon: why thursday

Maddie: trust me

Simon: no

Simon: i won’t

Simon: why thursday

Maddie: TRUST ME

Simon: MADDIE

Simon: BITCH

Simon: SLUT

Simon: RESPONDDDD

[read 9:42 a.m.]

11:42 a.m.

Simon: Hi!

Simon: Heyy Wille, how would you feel about coming over thursday?

Simon: hey

2:34 p.m.

Wilhelm: Hello

Simon: hi

Wilhelm: Greetings

Simon: soooo

Wilhelm: What??

Simon: what are you doing thursday?

Wilhelm: Walking through the seven levels of hell

Simon: oh-

Wilhelm: advisors meeting

Simon: oh

Simon: well

Simon: how would you like to come over after?

Wilhelm: …You wouldn’t like me post-meeting

Simon: im certain i will

Simon: come on

Simon: come on

Simon: come onnnn

Wilhelm: Your funeral

Wilhelm: What time?

11:34 p.m.

Wilhelm: Felice?

Wilhelm: Are you up?

Felice: When am I not babes?

Wilhelm: Ok.  Good.

Wilhelm: I just think I should warn you.

Wilhelm: It seems like the kind thing to do…

Felice: What happened.

Wilhelm: NOTHING

Wilhelm: Yet

Wilhelm: I’m just informing you that you may receive a long string of regretful texts Thursday night.

Felice: What’s happening Thursday night?

Wilhelm: I’m going back to Simon’s.

Felice: Shit.

Chapter Text

Simon was staring at his ceiling.

If he had to guess how long, he’d say about six hours, ever since the sun went down.

He’d been sitting in his bed, scribbling half-baked, half-genuine lyrics into a brown leather notebook, its spine cracked and creased from years of use until he couldn’t see the pages anymore.  It didn’t matter.  Everything he’d written was bullshit.  Simon ignored his yearning, aching, bleeding heart and chose to write about Dacre.

Stupid hums of heavy hands and gentle bruises and scraping stubble.

He tried to scrounge together a title.  Pretty Little Punishments.

Bullshit.  So Simon gave up.

He spent the rest of his night and, eventually, the creeping hours of the morning staring up at a darkened ceiling, imagining the bumps and ridges he knew were there.  He also thought about Wilhelm.  He hadn’t really stopped, ever since he’d gotten a long lost taste of what he looked like first thing in the morning, sunkissed, golden.

Call it tiredness, longing, hopeless hopeless clogged up love, but sometime while the moon was shining through his window, peeking over the trees, Simon held his hand up to it, playing the silhouette of his fingertips along the shadows and craters and curves and points of the crescent.  It made him think of Wilhelm.  Wilhelm clutching his shirt, Wilhelm baring forward, claiming him in the darkest corner of Manor House.

Simon’s hand drifted.  He didn’t mean to.  But one tender graze of his thumb across the waistband of his boxer and the dam was broken.

Simon stared at the moon as he palmed himself, slow, tentative, like he was thirteen again.  Another night he might’ve grabbed his computer, shut his eyes to find an older, more enjoyable memory back before sex became a grueling chore.  But Simon couldn’t tear his eyes off the moon.  Suddenly, it was Wilhelm’s shoulders, the edges of his collarbone, naked body looming over him like a divine intervention.

Simon pressed the heel of his palm into the base of his cock, an involuntary movement drawing a gasp from his throat.  His heart drummed in his chest, faster and faster and faster as Simon shoved his hand into his boxers.  He took his length into his hand and shut his eyes.  It was a mistake, the first thing he saw was Lars.  Of all people.  But instead of gripping his hair while Simon blew him over the center console, he was holding him down in the backseat, face down, hand in between Simon’s shoulder blades.

Simon snapped his eyes open, his next mistake.  Then he saw Elias, pressing and pressing into him.  A familiar body, familiar hotel, familiar routine, only this time, Simon forgot to breathe.  He stared up at a barren ceiling, taking sharp breaths in and out, in and out.  In and out.

Then, the big finalle.  Dacre pushing and biting and bruising.  Simon had forgotten to breathe then.  His vision had clouded, his knees had buckled, he’s laid still on the cold hard floor until morning.  That happened to him, but it didn’t feel like it.  Any touch he’d ever felt, and hands that weren’t Wilhelm’s, it was like none of them counted.  They could push him, grab him, bruise him, it didn’t matter.  They could never hurt Simon where it counted.

No, Simon wasn’t hurt.  He was only numb.  He was numb like a corpse lying in a casket, painted and dressed and brushed to look like a person, only nothing resting beyond the cold white hands and false blushing cheeks.  Simon was, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world.  Dead and buried too deep for anyone to ever touch him.

Anyone except Wilhelm, that was.  He was the exception, as always.

Simon wasn’t sure what that felt like.  For eight years, it hadn’t felt like much of anything.  But then Wilhelm looked at him again.  He smiled at him and pushed him into the pool and let him lay on his shoulder until morning.  Simon didn’t know what it felt like, only that it felt like so, so much.  Only that it was swallowing him whole that night, tinting every corner of his vision with unmistakable traces of Wilhelm.  His dresser where he picked out clothes to permanently lend to Wille, his floor length mirror, his boring white walls, his boring beige bedding, the expanse of his naked body that, once upon a time, Wilhelm had touched and kissed and held for all it’s worth.

He couldn’t escape him.

He hadn’t really tried to, not in a while.

Simon was a dumb son of a bitch, but he knew when something was pointless.  Trying to expel Wilhelm from his mind and his heart was pointless.  Wilhelm had set up camp, lit fire after fire throughout the lining of Simon’s skin and left his tattooed touches down his spine, across his arms, his fingertips, blooming through his chest and wrapping gently around his throat and caressing his cheeks.

Simon turned onto his side and stared back out the window.  He couldn’t see the moon through the clouds anymore, but he could see its glow, bright and tempting and just out of reach.  It didn’t matter.  The simple sight of the sky, the treeline, the quiet wind rustling the leaves was enough to remind Simon that there was a living breathing world outside his four walls.  Even if he wasn’t breathing along with the trees and the wind and the moon, it was enough to calm his heart and carry him off into sleep.

Simon realized at 3:15 Wednesday afternoon that he had no food in his house.  He scoured his cabinets, his fridge, his pantry and came up with nothing but an old box of ramen and a half empty condom box.  He was confused.  Not quite surprised, though.

He debated sending a picture of it to Wilhelm captioned “dinner”.  Needless to say he decided against it.

That was the story behind Simon’s hurried rush to the grocery store, clad in a t-shirt, baggy jeans, and a dark zip up that hung off his body.  He waded back and forth through the isles picking out any brands, titles, labels that were vaguely familiar before pushing the squeaking cart towards self checkout.  He could feel the camera shudders, every little beep from his scanner seeming to ring out louder than any other.  Simon didn’t care.  He was on a mission.

He was stopped by a fan on the way out.  A young boy no older than seventeen, bleached hair and wide eyes nervously asking for a picture.  Simon felt bad.  Simon stood and smiled and hugged the kid and silently begged him to find a better role model before hauling two armfuls of groceries back to his car.

Simon spent the ride home in treacherous Stockholm traffic and deep, deep thought.  He tried to remember being ten, attaching himself to his mother’s hip as she glided around the kitchen, working her magic.  Simon would stick with his mother in the kitchen while Sara sat with their dad, snoozing on the couch while she sat at the coffee table, starting and finishing puzzles in a matter of hours.

Simon stumbled his way through the dough, leaving dustings of flour around the counters that looked frighteningly familiar (in a couple different ways).  He racked his brain to remember proportions, pointedly avoiding Google.  He’d made arepas thousands of times with his mom, he should remember how much fucking barbacoa to put in.

When Simon finally shut the oven door, a plate of attempted teque ñ os sagging drowsily on the island, the doorbell rang.

Simon sprinted to the door, maybe, possibly tripping on his way there and knocking a bland abstract painting crooked.

He paused just before the door, taking a second to catch his breath, to run a tired hand through his mangled curls and look through the peephole.

Wilhelm stood behind the fish-eye glass, staring restlessly at the door, dressed in yet another navy suit (his stylist must have realized how sexy he looked in dark blue).  Wilhelm was tapping his fingers against his thigh, his other hand in his pocket as he fixed his eyes ahead, seemingly staring into Simon’s soul despite the heavy wooden door standing between them.

Wilhelm brought his hand up, going for the doorbell again just before Simon swung the door open fast, a little like a maniac in hindsight, but whatever.

“Hi!” Simon greeted.  If you counted squealing as greeting.

Wilhelm’s anxious exterior cracked just for a moment as he trailed his eyes down, taking in Simon’s character.  And if Simon had to grip the doorframe a little tighter, Wilhelm didn’t need to know about it.

“Hello…” Wilhelm grinned like a wolf, stepping forward just slightly, stopping just before their chests touched, “You look cute.”

Wilhelm brought his hand up, Simon’s breath halting in his lungs as he curled a finger around the strap of Simon’s pink polka dot apron, giving it a little tug before letting it snap back against Simon’s chest.

Simon blushed.  Sue him.

“...I cooked.”

Wilhelm chuckled quietly, but their lack of distance ensured that Simon caught every delicious sound, “Clearly.”

Simon looked down at himself, flour dusted apron and gray sweats and socked feet standing adjacent to Wilhelm’s polished black loafers.

“Come in,” Simon urged, taking a much needed step back and leading Wilhelm through the entryway, “I just put dinner in the oven so it’ll be like…Twenty minutes?  If memory serves.”

He looked behind him to see Wilhelm lagging not two feet behind him and a questioning gaze boring into his face.

“I made arepas with my mom all the time,” Simon explained, “I think I did it right, but no promises, okay?  This is a risk you agreed to the moment you accepted my invitation.”

Wilhelm grinned again, “I really should’ve given you more credit.  When you invited me for dinner I expected Chipotle dumped onto a couple plates.”

Simon’s face fell, quickly adopting a grimace, “You bitch.  I would never.”

“It never even crossed your mind?”

Simon stared.  Wilhelm stared back.

“Want a beer?”

Simon prayed for a laugh, a smile.  He’d even expected a twisted look of pity and concern.

What he got was a deep seated gust of a sigh as Wilhelm’s shoulders dropped from their high strung post.  Wilhelm ran two hands through his hair, parting the styling gel and leaving a messy mop of dirty blond hair.

“ Please .”

Simon nodded and obediently went to the fridge, hoping he turned quick enough to hide his growing blush.  He could feel the waves of stress flowing out of Wilhelm, seeping through the cracks in his voice.  It shouldn’t be hot.  But here Simon was.  Grabbing two beer bottles with shaking hands.

“Rough meeting?” Simon asked, popping the bottle caps off.

Wilhelm drank from the bottle neck like it was the Holy Grail, “There any other kind?”

With a hum, Simon fiddled with his bottle, twisting it on the counter, running his fingertips through beads of condensation.

“Usually my meetings end with my manager and PR head throwing binders at each other’s heads while Maddie tries to talk me into wearing a corset on SNL.”

Wilhelm takes a long gulp (maintaining searing eye contact, but whatever), “You did, though.  Right?”

Simon raised an eyebrow, “You saw it?”

“Oh, yeah!” Wilhelm grinned, sleek and sly as always.  A middle finger to Simon’s hope that he’d get the shy, bashful boy he used to fluster by batting his eyelashes, “Made the front of Dagens Nyheter .  That little satin thing was the talk of the palace until Wednesday.”

“Only Wednesday?” Simon feigned disappointment.

“Yep,” Wilhelm turned his chin up, “Because then it was that t-shirt you wore on 86th street.”

Simon felt his smile drop like a switched flip.  His cheeks flushed hot as his fidgeting increased tenfold.

“What did it say again…?” Wilhelm furrowed his brows, his gaze jumping to Simon’s neck, down his chest, leaving a blooming blush in its wake.

“... Fuck me like you hate me .”

Wilhelm snaps his finger and grinned, triumphant.

“That was it!  Made for a fun conversation over breakfast.”

Simon’s face dropped, his mouth gaping open at the notion of Wilhelm and his parents discussing his slutty clothes over breakfast pastries and bitter coffee.

“ Really ?”

“No.” Wilhelm grinned.

Simon’s lips pinched into a reluctant smile, childish and dorky and embarrassing and infused to the bone with a hazy, romantic glee.

The oven beeped.

Well, it squawked really, shrill metallic tones slicing and marring the air between them.

Simon turned red.  Again.

“Dinner’s ready.”

Wilhelm smirked and quirked his eyebrow.  Obviously .

Simon turned quick, a gust of hot air hitting his cheeks upon opening the oven.  If he arched his back a little more while bending forward, accidentally riding his shirt up from where they met the black washed denim of his jeans…well, so be it.

The arepas could have been better, golden brown for the most part saves for odd blotches of burnt bread.  They were supposed to be fluffier, not quite as thin, but Simon thought it was pretty good for someone who hasn’t cooked a true meal for himself in approximately two years.

“Smells good.”

Simon tore the oven mit off his hand, giving an awkward little smile of thanks.

“You made these with your mom?” Wilhelm absently played with his bottle, eyes burning holes into Simon’s shirt as he traversed the kitchen for a couple plates.

“Uh, yeah when Sara and I were little,” Simon speared a spatula into the pan, serving Wilhelm before himself, “So don’t be shocked when they don’t taste right—”

Simon cut himself off, watching Wilhelm as he shovels a hot, steaming bite straight between his teeth.  He watched the work of his jaw and the swipes of his tongue for all of three seconds before Wilhelm’s eyes snapped back up.  Caught.

“Good?” Simon asked.

Wilhelm took another bite, let out an ungodly sound and mumbled, “Perfect.”

Simon hmm- ed, at a loss for anything more to say because this was just…bizarre.

It was bizarre, not quite romantic, not quite funny, having Wilhelm in his kitchen— a kitchen, void of any personality saved for a lonely Barbados magnet collecting dust on his fridge door—injecting everything within a three foot radius with an unfamiliar yet unmistakable dose of personality.  For a second, the monochrome house bathed in stale sunlight almost looked like someone lived in it.

“Wanna watch a movie?” Simon wished he were more surprised by the mousy timidness gripping his voice.

“What kind of movie?”

“...Horror?”

Wilhelm grinned, his tongue swiping across his teeth.  He startled Simon when he dropped his fork into his plate, setting off into the living room without direction or instruction.  Simon’s chest flared up just a bit.  Maybe Wilhelm retaining his house’s floor plan was a little too much to handle, maybe Simon really was a rotten cook and was experiencing early signs of food poisoning.  He didn’t care.  He followed Wilhelm into the living room, sat just close enough for their knees to brush, for them to grow progressively closer until they were arm to arm.  He sat close enough for them to share a blanket once dinner was finished, when Wilhelm inched his finger across the blanket between them.

Simon had nearly dozed off.  He was sure he would have if it weren’t for the faint, elusive touch on his knee.  Wilhelm circled one finger over the spot, twisting up the yarn of the blanket.  Simon kept his mouth shut, the wrong move or breath or thought could tip this moment straight off a cliff if he wasn’t careful.

He sat obedient and content as Wilhelm seemed to draw shapes, letters, and indistinguishable squiggles on Simon’s knee, venturing upwards once or twice only to return to his post.

Simon felt like a teenager again.  This was no different from then.  This was no different from Simon holding Wilhelm’s pinky in the darkened Manor House.

Simon used to entertain that, had half of the first-years not been there, he would’ve been braver that night.  Maybe he would’ve kissed Wilhelm sooner, maybe he wouldn’t have let him run off.  He realized now that he just wasn’t capable of it.  He let himself get touched and rubbed and bit with the safety that he could always change his mind.  Simon can stop anytime.  Simon could’ve stopped Dacre if he really wanted to.  He could have fought and pushed and screamed if he didn’t want it, and Simon did none of that.

Wilhelm had taken to dragging his nails up and down Simon’s leg.  It felt nice.  Simon stared at the movie, at the man with his leg crushed and splintered in a bear trap, fruitlessly trying to crawl out of a shallow grave.

Wilhelm’s fingers tightened.

Simon’s muscles tensed and stiffened, nerves standing at attention as he registered the clock on the wall.

9:47 p.m.

“I should get to sleep…”

The words hung quietly in the air for a few strained seconds, long enough that Simon wondered if he’d said it at all.

Then Wilhelm looked at him, and not the normal kind of looking .  When someone’s face is five inches from yours, there’s really no such thing as “normal looking”.  It has to be intense.  They were breathing the same air, sharing the same heat, and when Wilhelm’s signature, unreadable stare confronted the side of Simon’s face, he began to feel like a deer in headlights.

“Oh.”

Simon refused to meet Wilhelm’s eyes.  He could be cold if he needed to.

“Yeah…”

Wilhelm made the first move, thank God.  He tore the blanket off his lap, bundling it between them before standing up and stretching his arms behind his head, the muscles working in his back and shoulders.  Simon averted his eyes.

He walked Wilhelm to the door, shuddering at the autumn chill, and watched as he wrapped that same fucking scarf around his neck.  The very same one.  Simon hadn’t even noticed.

“Thanks for uh,” Wilhelm lingered in the doorway, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and avoiding Simon’s eyes.  One minute ago he’d been caressing Simon’s knee, “Inviting me over.  It was fun…”

Simon smiled painfully.

“Probably the only home-cooked meal I’ve ever enjoyed,” Wilhelm continued, tacking a hoarse chuckle onto the end, his breath nearly showing up cloudy in the air.

Simon couldn’t look at his eyes, settling for his lips and his jaw and the line of his shoulders, not thinking twice before throwing both arms around them.  Simon stepped forward as Wilhelm stumbled back.  Clearly neither of them expected the hug, and neither wanted to end it.

The hug lingered.  Simon buried his nose into the collar of Wilhelm’s coat.  Wilhelm’s arms came up to circle his waist.  Everything was too quiet.  The wind, the leaves, the distant Stockholm traffic.  None of it felt quite as close as it should have.  The only sound that mattered was the rustling of Wilhelm’s coat and his soft breath across the top of Simon’s head.

An engine revved.  It sounded like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre as a neon green eyesore sped past Simon’s front door, far too obnoxious for 10:00 p.m. on a Thursday.

But it did the job.

Simon was quicker when jumping away, a shock to them both.  He made the fatal mistake of looking into Wilhelm’s eyes as he cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’ll, uh…I’ll text you?” Wilhelm asked.  As if he had to.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

After the sound of Wilhelm’s voice and footsteps and car engine disappeared into the crisp night air, nothing else felt as real.

Simon closed the dollhouse door, climbed his stairs on autopilot, got into bed, and didn’t sleep.

Chapter Text

“Please welcome into the studio, Simon Eriksson!”

The small crew behind the podcast set applauded.  It was a little sad, sad enough that Simon wanted to die from discomfort as he sank down into the mustard armchair.  He was sitting across from the two hosts, a low wooden coffee table between them.  The microphone boom extended towards him, thin and threatening like a spider’s leg.

Simon would’ve said a brief hello had the two co hosts not already gotten into some miniscule disagreement that needed to be solved right now.  Simon went for his mug, a gift from the studio filled halfway with water.  He took a sip and his eyebrows shot up.  Maddie winked at Simon from behind the camera.

So she’d gotten his text.

Simon went back for a second sip of vodka, a more generous one, and zeroed back in on the host's pimple ridden chin.

“And you’ve just performed for the Prince of Sweden, correct?”

Simon swallowed, he hadn’t officially been asked about Wilhelm for years.  It had always been off limits, enforced by the Queen’s advisors and even stricter by Simon’s management.  But he wasn’t asking about Wilhelm, he was asking about Simon’s performance, and one glance over at Kat silently glaring at him confirmed that Simon was going to answer.

Go time.

“The monarchy put together an incredible event and did so much for the cause, I’m just grateful to have been a small part of it.”

“A small part?!  Don’t be so modest, Simon, you were the event!  I bet His Royal Highness had to do a hell of a lot of convincing to rope you in, huh?”

As the host was rattling on, his microphone at least three inches too close, Simon spared another look at Kat.  Her platinum waves covered the lapels of her blazer and the coffee stain Maddie had left there this morning.  She was sipping her usual camomile tea from a paper cup and urging Simon on.  Kat tilted her chin up.  Her eyes turned vaguely apologetic, just for a second, but she didn’t back down.

She mouthed one word.

Promote.

And isn’t that the be-all end-all of Simon’s existence?

Promote, sell, capitalize, exploit.  Collect your winnings, feel shitty and then do it over again.  The Eriksson way.  Or maybe it was just the Simon way.  Neither seemed preferable.

Promote.

“There was no roping needed,” Simon faked a chuckle.  He was sure someone listening would find it charming, “I’ll take any chance I can get to perform my new music…”

And see your family, you monster.

“And see my family, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But really,” Simon continued.  He took another sip toasted himself privately, here’s to hoping that I saved that one , “I’ve never been prouder of anything in my life than this album—”

“Ah yes!  Your new album, King of Spades ,” He pulled out a copy of Simon’s album on vinyl.  He stared at himself on the glossy cover, the warm mood lighting casting a ray of orange over his eyes as he lay splayed out on a twenty sided die.  They’d gotten a bit experimental.  He and Maddie may or may not have been coming down from a fourteen hour caffeine trip, “Critics are calling it a strong Grammy contender…”

“God willing,” Simon sighed.  Crisis #1 averted.  Crisis #2 was the five other sit-downs just like this he had yet to do today.

“And I hear you’re off to Italy soon?” This time it was a woman sporting a horrendous leopard print dress and holding a comically small microphone.

“Yep! In a couple days I’ll be playing in Venice, then over to Spain, and I’m finishing the tour in Paris.” Simon smiled, he had another mug of vodka.

“Ahh, city of love,” The interviewer prompted.

Simon chuckled, “Let’s hope.”

“Quite a few gorgeous girls down in Italy, pal, let me tell you.”

Simon chuckled, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“We have with us in the studio, international popstar and Mexican cultural icon, Simon Eriksson!”

Simon chuckled, “I’m Venezuelan.”

Simon chuckled, “I don’t remember saying that, but that sounds like me.”

Simon chuckled, “Scary Spice.  No wait.  Posh.”

“My best friend in the whole world…”

Simon chuckled.

“Kate Winslet.”

“Give me a corkscrew so I can shove it through my eye and into my brain.”

Maddie sighed, biting the tip of her pencil as she sank into her plush seat, “Not now, sweetie.  Mama’s doing her crossword.”

Simon squirmed under his seatbelt, digging his nails into the armrests.

“I’m going fucking crazy.”

“Then you shouldn’t have drank two red bulls in three hours.” Maddie tsked, her eyes briefly catching Simon’s in mocking disapproval before going back to work, “Why don’t you just text Wilhelm, I’m sure he’s crawling out of his skin right now too.”

Simon stilled, “What?  Why?”

Maddie shrugged, “I mean probably.  I’d imagine he gets all restless and distracted when he’s not talking to you.  You know, like he used to.”

Simon glared at her as she conspicuously covered her growing smirk behind her crossword.  Touché.

He considered it, though.  Turning away from the cotton film of clouds out the jet window, Simon pulled out his phone, switching to Wilhelm’s contact.  The latest message in their conversation was a two and a half minute Youtube video consisting of some odd dozens of clips of every time Simon has ever said the word “gay” on camera chopped together into a tangled compilation.

It was ridiculous.

It made Simon giggle alone in his bed for twenty minutes last night.

October 4th, 3:27 p.m.

Simon: last chance to claim me as property of Sweden before we touch down in Italy

Simon shut his phone off and stared straight ahead.  He saw Maddie shake her head out of the corner of his eye.

Simon stared at the glowing seatbelt sign until it burned his eyes.

Then, his phone buzzed.

October 4th, 3:29 p.m.

Wilhelm: Simon, please. I would never dream of ripping you away from your adoring fans.  Even if I’m ur biggest <3

Simon: EW SAP

Simon: GIT THAT SHIT OUTTA HERE

Wilhelm: No

Simon: ._.

Simon: pls?

Wilhelm: No

Wilhelm: I’m your biggest fan.  Accept it

Simon: name 3 songs

Wilhelm: Any three?

Simon: ur 3 favorites.  if ur such a big fan

Wilhelm: Sacred Places

Wilhelm: Cantina

Wilhelm: Hell’s Ballroom

Three of his least popular, honestly.  All three from his first album.  All three he’d written just before graduation.  God , Simon hated himself.

Simon: interesting choices

Wilhelm: They’re good.

Wilhelm: Idk u just have like a way with words in those songs

Wilhelm: I felt like I could see exactly what you were seeing

Simon: you probably were

Simon: i wrote those a long long time ago

Simon: i was writing them in the back of mr englund’s class actually

Wilhelm: Makes sense

Simon: i guess i just haven't progressed since then lol

Wilhelm: That’s not what I meant

Don’t ask don’t ask don’t ask don’t ask don’t ask.

Simon: what did u mean then?

Thirty seconds went by.  Wilhelm didn’t respond.  Simon watched the text bubble balloon up then disappear at least three times.  Then a minute went by.  Two.  Three.

Simon looked at Maddie who had moved on from her crossword to the live action 101 Dalmatians playing on the little plane screen.  It entertained him for a couple minutes as he found himself wondering why Cruella DeVille hasn’t become a gay icon yet.  Or maybe she has.  Simon hasn’t been keeping up.

“Hot, right?”

Simon turned to Maddie as she bit her lip indulgently, leering at the screen as Cruella scrambled down her grand staircase.

“You’re insatiable.”

“And you’re a hypocrite.” Maddie raises a sly eyebrow, her makeup-free eyes trailing down to Simon’s lap, “You’d better get that.”

Simon looked down.

Wilhelm: I’m just saying I like your older stuff better. That’s all

Simon: what’s wrong with my new stuff huh?

Simon was kidding.  And he also wasn’t.

Wilhelm: NOTHING

Simon: come onnnnnn it must be something

Simon: i wont get mad

Simon: i promise

Simon: im a slut for feedback ;)

The text bubble appeared, disappeared.

Wilhelm: I just like the vibe of your older songs

Wilhelm: The new ones are good

Wilhelm: Their just kind of like hardcore idk

Simon: hardcore?

Wilhelm: Yeah man idk. All of your music is good

Simon: hardcore…

Simon: like sexually?

Wilhelm: Idk

Wilhelm: It’s just whatever ok?

Wilhelm: I don’t even know what I was trying to say so lets just drop it

Simon: ok well i cant drop it now sorry pal

Wilhelm: Simon

Simon: are my lyrics too explicit for your virgin ears?

Simon didn’t know what he was doing.  He just knew the flaring excitement in his stomach and the grin pinching at his mouth.

Wilhelm: No

Simon: ooooooh i see

Simon: i bet they're too erotic

Simon: i bet u couldn’t get through my new album without pitching a tent

The text bubble left just as quick as it had come.

Then again.  On and off.  For three whole minutes.

Simon: ….what

Simon: no

Simon: wait

Wilhelm: Ok listen

Simon: omg

Wilhelm: Simon

“Oh my God! ”  Simon gasped. Out loud.  And he didn’t even care.

Wilhelm: It’s not what you think I swear

Simon: YOU GOT A BONER FROM MY MUSIC AELGHOWRGHRUEHG

Wilhelm: IT WASNT LIKE THAT

Wilhelm: Ok are you aware that your song was used in a show?

Simon: honey i cant keep track of everyone who wants to use my songs

Wilhelm: It was like last year

Wilhelm: A Netflix series

Simon: ok?

Simon: gotta gimme a little more context here

Wilhelm: Omg Simon the song was playing over a couple…

“Oh my god.”

Simon: the gay couple??

Simon: THE GAY SHOW??

Wilhelm: FUCK YOU!! YES THE GAY SHOW

Wilhelm: It was just because of that scene

Simon: aaaaaaaah yes

Simon: ~the scene~

Wilhelm: You remember?

Simon: remember??

Simon: i enjoyed a little alone time myself with that scene

Wilhelm: With your own song in the background??

Simon: hell yea that shit was hot

Simon: and u clearly didn’t mind either

Wilhelm: It was a coincidence

Simon: was it tho?

Wilhelm: Yes

Simon: you’re telling me that hearing my voice while watching some twink get fingered didn’t get ur dick hard

Wilhelm didn’t respond immediately, so Simon shut off his phone.

Was he sweating?  It felt like he was.  It felt like a wrath of Hell just came raining down on top of him because what on God’s green earth did he think he was doing?

His phone buzzed and Simon died a little.

Wilhelm: I just like your singing

Simon: clearly ;)

Wilhelm: Stfu

Simon: my apologies your highness

Simon: i swear i didn’t mean to make you hard

Simon: if i could do it again i would have sung about socialist politics and your mother

Wilhelm: I hate you

Simon: sure

Simon held a double D bra in his hand.  It had pink, lacey lining and red tassels coming out from the nipples.  It looked far too inviting.  Whoever threw it on stage must have a heart of gold.

Something about putting eight-thousand adoring people in front of you, all cheering and screeching every time you move a muscle: you’ll be compelled to do just about anything.  Even hold a busty pink bra over your chest and tilt your chin up for feedback.

The feedback consisted of piercing screams from Italian teenage girls at the sight of Simon Eriksson absolutely not filling out a bra.

“What do you think, Venice?” Simon mused, his voice booming from the ring of speakers.  The floor rattled with cheers, “Should I give tits a try?”

“YES!”

“SIMON WE LOVE YOU!”

“POUND MY P—”

“Would you fuck me if I was a girl?” Simon asked Maddie.  She was taking a deep puff from a joint, hollowing out her cheeks and closing her eyes.  Her eyelashes brushed against her cheekbones.

She breathed through her teeth.

“Yeah.”

Simon grinned, rolling onto his side and propping his face on his palm, “ Really ?”

“Yeah.  You would one-hundred percent be like a dainty cottagecore femme.”

“Just your type,” Simon puckered his lips, craning his neck up from Maddie’s lap.  She rolled her eyes and held the joint up to his lips.

Simon was set up with a cute little suite overlooking the Venice docks, complete with a water bed, a bohemian balcony, and a sleek black hot tub which Kat had claimed for her and her rosé.  Simon watched her pour another long-stemmed glass of wine despite being the only soul in the vicinity that would ever drink rosé willingly.  If it were Simon he would’ve just drank from the bottle, but it wasn’t Simon.  It was Kat, who has never and will never be seen as anything less than chicly sophisticated.

“You guys really shouldn’t do that outside,” Kat scolded softly in a way that only she could.

“Would you rather we smoke up in Simon’s hotel room?” asked Maddie.

“Yeah, Kat, it’s legal here.”

Kat rolled her eyes, “Decriminalized is not legal .”

Maddie lulled her head around to rest against the edge of the hot tub, inches away Kat’s face.  She took a deep hit, bits of ash curling off the end of the joint, leaned forward, and blew smoke between Kat’s reluctant lips.

Simon chuckled.

Gay people.

The girls started murmuring to each other, one a little tipsy and one a little stoned, a nuclear match for two lesbians.

Simon sat up.  A mistake, really.  The edges of his vision burned a wild shade of violet and gold before he collapsed again, this time on his back.  The wood paneling of the deck was softened by the white macrame rug.  Simon looked up.  The lights here weren’t like New York.  They didn’t suffocate the sky after the sun went down.

Simon snapped a picture and texted it to Wilhelm.

Eight seconds later (Simon counted), Wilhelm followed it up with a dim-lit shot of an orate, pearl-white ceiling.

Simon rubbed his fingers over his heart, digging them into his chest like he was trying to disrupt his heartbeat—not stop it, just disrupt it.  He imagined Wilhelm at that same moment, laying on his back, like Simon, on his feather mattress, contemplating his palace ceiling the way Simon was contemplating the stars.  It warmed his cheeks and shocked the tips of his fingers.

Wilhelm: Want to hear something funny?

Simon: always

Wilhelm: The Queen has a Milan conference in a couple days.  I wasn’t planning on joining her but…

Simon bit his lip and grinned like a schoolboy.

Simon: oh?

Wilhelm: You’ll be in Venice, right?

Simon: actuallyyyyy

Wilhelm: Actually??

Simon: actually I was thinking i’d spend a night in verona before we head south.

Wilhelm: Verona?

Simon: verona

Halfway between Milan and Venice.

Wilhelm: Cool :)

Simon: coool

“Verona.”

“Just for tonight—”

Kat sighed, “You do understand we have to be in San Marino in two days.”

Simon downed the rest of his red bull as Maddie teased his hair, “I understand—”

“What is in Verona that’s so important, anyways?” Maddie asked.  Damn her.  She noticed right as Simon’s cheeks flushed.

“ Ohh ,” Maddie giggled.

Kat cut in, “ Oh what?”

Simon felt two pairs of eyes searing into his skull.  He looked behind himself in the mirror at the horror that was forming within Kat’s features.

“Oh my God.”

“No—Kat, listen.”

Maddie squealed, “He flew down from Sweden for a transcontinental booty call?”

“No, Maddie, he’s flying down for a diplomatic conference in Madrid.  We’re meeting halfway.”

His voice turned sheepish as he stared at his pre-show reflection.

“We just…” He tried to reason with his reflection, with the disapproving gaze of Kat behind him, with the pitiful one from Maddie, “We’re making up for lost time.  That’s not horrible, okay?”

“We didn’t say it was—”

“No, you didn’t, but you could at least stop looking at me like that,” Simon snapped at Maddie, staring daggers.  He expected this from Kat, he deserved it from Kat.  But not Maddie.  A single sigh of disapproval from Maddie was Simon’s equivalent to getting clocked in the face.

Simon watched Maddie’s cheeks flush, watched her eyebrows knit together and her lips press tightly together.

Nice job, asshole.

“Sorry…” he murmured, looking down at his hands like a child.

I am a child.

No, you’re not.

For a moment while Simon was on stage, everything got quiet.  Not literally quiet, obviously .  Just, softer.

He was strutting down the catwalk, six dancers following in step, each showing just a little less skin than Simon, when he stumbled on his left foot.  He waded awkwardly forward before catching himself, rushing back into count and continuing on.  He was a professional, after all.

But there was a second as he was falling.  Less than a second, just a swift blink in time where the stage lights buzzed above him, streaking his peripheral and bearing down.  Simon briefly thought, for that fleeting speck of a moment, that the rigging had failed, that four-hundred pounds of production equipment had flown loose and was hurtling down on him like an iron angel.  For one little moment, Simon thought it was a pure gust of the thing that knocked him down and tangled his feet and nudged between his shoulder blades just hard enough to—

But the rigging didn’t fall.  Of course it didn’t.  What happened was Simon tripped, and then he caught himself.  He doubted a single member of the audience even noticed.  He prayed they didn’t, at least.  Simon finished the song on his knees at the edge of the stage, reaching forward at grappling hands and praying that the sweeping relief he’d felt (just for a second) was just his.

He was going insane.  In the actual medical sense this time.  Simon insisted on driving himself to Verona.  He insisted on bringing himself and only himself on this poorly planned excursion to what must be the bougiest sleepover he’d ever had.  Simon had never driven this far to meet someone.  Not even to get laid.

Simon turned the radio up.

It was his Taylor Swift playlist.  That wasn’t important.

But you were on something

It was one drink after another

Fucking politics and gender roles

And you’re not sure and I don’t know

“ Got swept away, ” He sang, “ In the gray. ”

Red.  Red.  Red.  Red.  Green.

“I just may like to have a conversation.”

(Glowing red like Wilhelm’s LEDs they must have been Erik’s idea just like the snow globe and I bet—)

He drove past a football field.  The mismatched flood lights shone ghostly blue and stark white upon a team.  No, not a team.  Five, maybe six friends leaping and sprinting and clashing together, not a uniform in sight.

(he must’ve been cold lying there on the ground for fuck knows how long he was lying on the frozen turf before he called Simon while Simon was biking there god why couldn’t he have stayed inside or stayed with people he had to have been with August why would August let him out of his sight doesn’t he realize—)

A piercing honk blared over Taylor.

Green.

Simon slammed on the gas and sped down the country roads.  He checked his phone.

13 minutes until arrival.

1 new notification.

Wilhelm: Room only had one king and a pullout couch.  I upgraded it to two queens with a hot tub.  Hope that’s okay.

Simon scoffed despite himself.  So formal.

Simon: i would've been good with a carpet and a throw pillow

Wilhelm: I would never let that happen.

Simon: hm

Simon: anyone ever tell you that you’d be a great manager

Simon: kat would set me up in a crack den with a pizza box for a blanket

Wilhelm: She wouldn’t

Simon: i bet she would if i pissed her off enough

Wilhelm: You certainly have a knack for it.

Simon: …

Simon: ……

Simon: im turning around

Wilhelm: NO

Simon: yes

Wilhelm: No wait I’m sorry I didn’t mean it please

Simon: too late sux 2 b u :/

Wilhelm: Will this change your mind?

Wilhelm: [Attachment: 1 Image]

Simon stopped at another red and opened the picture.  It showed a lavishly detailed rug with maroon and golden accents, legs of polished furniture peeking around the edges of the frame.  But that wasn’t what caught Simon’s attention.  It wasn’t even the twin bottles of champagne held proudly in the center of the frame.  Nope.  It was Wilhelm’s hand, his fingers effortlessly grasping the two necks.

Simon was a hand guy.  What could he say?  And seeing the veins bulge and the muscles flex through Wilhelm’s long, long fingers…

Simon put his phone down.  He was driving.  The light was green and he was driving a car and he was now less than ten minutes away from the hotel (from Wilhelm and his stupid hands and the stupid silver chain bracelet peeking out from under the cuff of a forest green sweatshirt).

He was an adult, goddamnit ( ha ).  He could control himself.  For seven minutes, at least.

Simon put his hood up as he scurried past the front desk.  It was late enough that the lobby was relatively, mercifully empty.  Wilhelm had gotten them a corner suite.  With a hot tub.  On the eleventh floor.  The elevator trip felt longer than the car ride, and Simon holding his breath between every cheery bing probably didn’t help.

What the fuck was he doing here.

Seeing Wilhelm.

Why?

I miss him.

(you’ve missed him for eight years)

But now he’s here he’s within reach, I can reach out and touch him now and he’ll be there, that’s new, brand new but also not, it is a new old feeling that I will never ever turn down again.

(you’re disgusting)

I know.

Room 1172.

Simon knocked.

one mississippi…two mississippi…three mississip—

The door swung open.

Chapter Text

If you had looked from the cobbled border of the Adige at 9:16 p.m. on October 7th, counted your way the Vista Palazzo up to the eleventh floor, and trained them left until Suite 1172 peeked out from behind a mighty southern magnolia’s decaying blossoms, you would have seen him.

The tree had been planted from Floor 10’s Dahlia Tea Deck which required a monthly membership or an under-the-table bride to dine on.  It was young enough to stand just shy of fifty feet.  Stretching its fingers towards Floor 12 but coming up short.

If you were in the right place at the right time on the evening of October 7th, the yellowing petals and hearty pines would have danced in the gusting wind, swaying to the melody of car horns and rapid waters, and the curtaining branches would have parted just right.  They would have twisted and bent and given way until, clear as a crystal wine glass, Crown Prince Wilhelm of Sweden stood exposed, his back to the street as the muscles in his back flexed.  You wouldn’t have seen what was in his hands, or the shuffling of his feet, or the imaginary string tying his ring finger to that of his guest, a guest with matted, curly hair damp from a post-performance shower.

You wouldn’t have seen the prince’s guest as he lingered around an ornate velvet loveseat.

What you would have seen was Sweden’s future king whip around in an instant and draw the drapes closed.

“They’ve got water or juice or, uh…Red Bull?  There’s a bunch of shit in the fridge, really, so just help yourself, but I—”

Simon flushed.  It wasn’t quite out of humiliation or terror, or even fatigue.  The blood rushed to his cheeks like a silent pat on the back, a simple acknowledgement that yes, I am here and so is he and it’s weird but we are here together and my heart is still beating .  So, Simon smiled.  His shoulders eased and his eyes crinkled as he watched Wille blunder around in an awkward little box step, gesturing indiscernible from one corner of the suite to another, ever so often catching Simon’s eye only to break the contact one moment later.

But his matching blush was not lost on Simon.

“I believe you had something for me?”

Simon had no idea where he got his balls from.  It sure as hell wasn’t his father.  Maybe Sara.  Maybe Rosh.

Wilhelm snaps out of his spree and blanks.  Simon smirks at him, his ongoing blush sending what was probably a bizarre expression.  It worked though, as Wilhelm snapped into action and strided back toward the window sill.

Simon leaned his back against the door until it sealed shut.  Simon tried to ignore himself as blood pulsed down his fingertips.  They tingled along with his cheeks, his stomach, his fucking tongue .

If he didn’t know better, Simon would have blamed an allergic reaction.

No, though.  No allergies.  Just stupid Wilhelm and his stupid back muscles swelling over his shoulder blades before curving into a delicate waist.  Simon was blushing over somebody’s clothed back.

And I’m not gonna apologize.

You really should , Maddie would say.

But Maddie wasn’t here right now.

“Should we bother with glasses?” Simon purred, wading across the plush white carpeting and collapsing onto the couch with a grimace.  You’d really think a five star hotel would include a five star couch, but the stiff white leather strained against his weight with an uncomfortable squeak.

“No,” Wilhelm drawled, popping the second cork and carelessly tossing it aside.

Hot.

That was not hot, please seek help.

Then Wilhelm was in front of him, holding out a bottle roughly the size of a bowling pin.  Simon gripped the neck and their fingers touched, so he indulged in a large, unceremonious gulp.  He shut his eyes, suppressing the burn against his throat and tilting his chin up.  Simon was never quite a wine guy, drinking it out of sheer will and necessity in place of anything stronger.  He had rules, after all.  The rules scribbled on a piece of notebook paper sitting crumpled at the bottom of his suitcase an hour and a half away.

Simon went through a mental checklist, his eyes still blissfully shut.

Nothing harder than wine.  Check

Nothing harder than weed.  Double check.

No blackouts.  Unlikely.

Never alone.  He’s not alone.  He’s with Wilhelm.  Simon is arguably the least alone he has ever been.

Nothing to worry about.  Nothing at all.  He had no rules about drinking with the crown prince alone in a hotel room an hour and a half away from his living breathing conscience.

Simon didn’t think he’d ever need rules for this.

Wilhelm chuckled.  He snapped his eyes open.

Wilhelm was still looming above him, a tricky, troubling smirk on his face, the neck of his bottle extended towards Simon.  Shit.

Simon clinked their bottles together.

“Cheers,” He muttered, white hot embarrassment appearing loud and clear on his cheeks.

“Cheers.”

Wilhelm slinks down next to him, taking his own, much smaller drink.

“This couch sucks.”

And then he was gone again.

Simon, in his patheticism, nearly pleaded for him to come back .  Nearly.  Because right as he was opening his mouth, Wilhelm peeled off his shirt and strode through an open doorway.  Simon had seen a flash of pale skin bathed in a light warmer than the glow of his Stockholm pool.

“Hot tub’s warm!  You coming?”

Hot tub.

“Yeah!  Coming!”

Simon tugged the edge of his tee shirt and pulled it off his head.  Probably for the best.  He was about eighty percent sure there was a jizz stain on the left sleeve.

He quickly smoothed his hair before turning the corner, eyes trained at the carpet.  A pair of dark washed jeans lay discarded on the trail to the hot tub where Simon would not look.

Simon shut off his brain and removed his sweats.  In hindsight, a more “conservative” pair of underwear would have been ideal, but Simon in his post-show idiocy decided on a very gay pair of Calvin Kleins.  They were advertised as an “athletic active jockstrap”, but that really just meant a thong.

Simon looked over at Wilhelm, submerged up to the chest in bubbling water.  His head was tilted back and his eyes were closed, akin to how Simon must have looked downing his champagne.  Bubbles swelled and popped so that Wilhelm’s pecks glistened under the tub’s ambient blue.  It was eerily, thrillingly familiar.

Simon stepped a foot into the water while Wilhelm had his eyes shut.  He swiftly sank in on account of the heat swirling below his stomach.  And Wilhelm wasn’t lying.  It was nice.

Simon took another swig, risking a glance across the tub.  Wilhelm still had his eyes shut, grasping his bottle in one hand, his shoulders drawn into a tense line.

“That’s not acceptable hot tub stance, bro.”

Bro.

What is he?  Twelve?

Wilhelm cracked one eye open with a sarcastic little huff.  He readjusted, loosening his posture and extending his arm to rest closer to Simon.  It was probably by accident.  Probably.

“Sorry.”

Simon winced, “I didn’t mean—” he paused, holding his hand idly above the water, feeling the surface bubble against his palm, “Long day?”

Wilhelm smiled wryly, “It always is, right?”

“Maybe,” Simon said, “But I happen to enjoy my career, so…”

He’d meant it as a joke.  A shitty joke, in hindsight, but not a joke that would’ve made Wilhelm’s smile drop and his brows knit together the way they did.

You fucked up , the alarms in Simon’s head went off without a hitch.  They’d been waiting eagerly to sound ever since he set foot in the hotel.

Wilhelm sent his troubled gaze down, avoiding Simon’s eyes again.

You fucked up.

“It’s not that I don’t—”

“I didn’t mean to—”

Their stunted responses collided.

Simon gulped, “Sorry…you go.”

Wilhelm obeyed with a tight press of his lips, “It’s not that I hate doing all that stuff , you know?”

He paused.  Simon assumed he wasn’t waiting for a response.  It was the pause of someone picking and choosing their words with painstaking care.

“It’s just doing it with her .”

“Your mom?”

Wilhelm sighed, throwing his head back like a little kid, “I just—I’m almost ready , you know?  I’m so close to not needing her anymore, but… but she’s just always fucking there .  It’s like, impossible.  It’s impossible to get anything fucking done.”

Simon pondered it.  He imagined The Queen and her son, side by side on some conference.  He’d never quite thought of it before, not beyond Her Royal Highness spouting her diplomatic opinions while Wilhelm sat quietly next to her, most likely under orders to take mental notes of her tactics, so that one day, when the queen was dead and gone, he could carry them on without a hitch.

He was almost ready.

“Really?” It was the only thing Simon could think to say.  Any notion of Wilhelm as an honest-to-God royal, capable of that type of neutrality, it just had never occurred to him.

“Yeah.”

Wilhelm didn’t say anything else.  So, naturally, neither did Simon.

He watched as the crown prince took a generous drink of champagne and followed his lead.

Maybe two, three minutes passed before.

“What do you mean ‘get done’?”

“What?” Wilhelm asked.

“What are you trying to get done that you can’t do with your mom there?”

Wilhelm stayed quiet, gazing longingly down at his bottle.

“I don’t know.” He muttered.

He’s lying.

“Are you lying?”

Wilhelm looked at him with a searing gaze that Simone was definitely not prepared for.  It threw his psyche for a loop for a good three seconds.  It might have been partially due to the alcohol, but it was mostly just Wilhelm and his acute ability to get to Simon the way no one else could.

Wilhelm countered him after a few heavy seconds, “Are you lying?”

“About what?!” Simon squawked, sounding a little hysterical and a little drunk.

Wilhelm deflated instantly, dropping any kind of accusation and slumping back into himself.  His eyes lost all sense of caring.

“I don’t know,” He chuckled.

“O—kay?”

“Okay.”

Simon let it go.  Wilhelm certainly had, taking another sip and adjusting the hot tub settings.  The jumping bubbles died down to a quiet simmer that tickled Simon’s chest.

“That alright?” Wilhelm asked.

Simon cleared his throat, “Uh, yeah.  Yeah, that’s good.”

“Good,” Wilhelm mused, a slight smile creeping back, “So, how was your show?”

“Well,” Simon smirked, “I’ve come to the conclusion that fake tits are gonna be my next big showstopper.”

Wilhelm coughed.

Mission accomplished.  Mood officially varied.

“Yeah,” Simon continued, ignoring Wilhelm’s battle for air, “Got a pretty good reaction from Venice.  Think I might introduce it once I get to Spain.”

Wilhelm stared at him, his mouth agape and twisting into an amusing grin.  He raised a considering eyebrow, “You’d be a hot drag queen, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I know .”

Simon blushed.  He also didn’t care, “That’s more like it.”

“Careful though,” Wilhelm said, “Fake tits, that might just be the cherry on top of the cake.  You wouldn’t be able to fight the boys off.”

“Right,” Simon grimaced, “Because I’ve got such a long line as it is.”

“Don’t you?”

Simon thought about it, “I mean…I guess.”

“You guess?”

It would be nice if Wilhelm could contribute a little more because now Simon was forced to think about his own words.  Who the fuck thinks about their words while sitting in a hut tub?

“You know what, you’re right, I’ve got a line around the block of healthy specimens waiting to fall in love with me after a night of passionate lovemaking.”

Wilhelm didn’t stutter the way Simon hoped.  Instead he just shrugged and raised the bottle back up to his lips.  If Simon had to guess, they were both about halfway through the champagne stash.

“Can’t blame ‘em.  You’re pretty easy to fall in love with.”

Simon watched as Wilhelm didn’t look at him, just tilted his head and took a hearty drink like an asshole.

“That’s not—” He stammered, “No one actually falls in love with me.  Do you understand?”

Wilhelm drew his eyebrows together, yet he still managed to look painfully unbothered, “No, I don’t understand.”

Simon huffed and looked away, sparing another sip before attempting again, “People just don’t fall in love with me.  No one’s ever around long enough to fall in love with me.  Does that make sense to you?”

Simon was being an asshole.  He knew it and he didn’t care.

“That doesn’t make sense to me.”

Okay then.  Wilhelm was being a bigger asshole.

“Oh my God,” Simon strained, “It’s not complicated, okay?  Guys just don’t wanna—”

“Why are we debating this?” Wilhelm asked, only sounding vaguely curious.

“Because—”

Because you need to know, you dickhead.

“—I don’t know.”

You need to know that you were a once-in-a-millenia case.

Why would Wilhelm need to know that?  It was awkward and wasn’t important and it was embarrassing as fuck.  He didn’t need to know.

Wilhelm, despite his perpetual assholery, seemed to understand the unwarranted distress Simon was in, and dropped it.  Finally.

Can they not have one conversation that doesn’t end in awkward silence?

Wilhelm chuckled, “I guess not.”

Simon blushed.  The champagne was kicking in, clearly.

“Let’s talk about something fun.”

Wilhelm chuckled, “Like what?”

Sex.

“Sex.”

Simon’s filter was gravely failing him tonight.  And in the stupidly expensive atmosphere of this goddamn hot tub, he simply did not care.

Wilhelm fully laughed.  Like, fully.  There was no better way to describe the loud, startled howl that arose from his mouth.

“You’re so…” Wilhelm started, hiding his grin behind his free hand and looking up toward the ceiling, probably asking for divine intervention to deal with this cock-crazed maniac he was sharing a hot tub with.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“I really don’t think you do,” Wilhelm dismissed him, grinning down at the water and taking another indulgent drink.

“Okay well, let’s see,” He was too far in now, might as well drive it home, “ Simon you’re sooo hot, sexy, brilliantly in tune with your sexuality in such a revolutionary way that our generation has no choice but to love and accept due solely to how many raging boners you give them .  That’s what you meant, right?”

Wilhelm stared at him deadpan, “Yes.  That’s exactly what I was going to say.”

It was such a stupid thing to blush at, but Simon had deemed himself the king of stupid decisions before his seventeenth birthday.

“Well,” Simon said, reaching out to grasp at Wilhelm’s forearm in mock earnest.  The movement sent a shock of static through his head to the point where Simon thought he was going to sink below the simmering water’s surface.  He told himself it was the booze.  It might have been, “All I ask is that you exhibit a higher level of self control than the guys I meet at the bars and please, jerk off at me rather than on me.”

Wilhelm laughed again, infectiously.  Simon had to be honest with himself, the sound was more intoxicating that the nearly empty bottle in his hand.

“Come on ,” Wilhelm pleaded between giggles.

“No, man!  No, that’s exactly what I’m saying, you gotta cum at , not on.  Never on,” Simon felt his voice cracking into similar laughter, “Please, I’m begging you.”

Wilhelm shrugged, mischief on his stupid pretty face, “Beg some more, because I’m not convinced.”

Simon reddened even more, disguising it as another fit of laughter.  He finished off the champagne, frowning at the empty bottle and tossing it aside.

“Cheers,” Wilhelm said, lifting his bottle before downing the rest in a swift gulp.  Simon watched his Adam’s Apple bob and settle before Wilhelm discarded his bottle in a similar fashion.

Apparently Simon didn’t look away quick enough, because the moment he turned his eyes back up, Wilhelm was staring at him with an admittedly stupid expression.  It would have been funny—it was funny—if it weren’t for the line of Wilhelm’s eyes trailing just south of Simon’s eyes.  The water pooled around them, tempting him.  There couldn’t be more than a foot between them, Simon’s hand still gripping at Wilhelm’s bare arm with no intention of moving.  Wilhelm’s fingers, a constant enigma of delicacy and strength, brushed the side of Simon’s bicep, touching him just to touch.  It was a nice change from the deliberate force he was used to.  Simon couldn’t imagine that kind of touch from Wilhelm.

He couldn’t imagine Wilhelm touching him rough and forceful without an ounce of tenderness.  Maybe if Simon was lucky he’d get a gentle caress on his neck while his partner was in the middle of bruising his hips.  Only if he was lucky.

Wilhelm could never touch him like that.  It was like a paradox.

And maybe that was why Simon so easily slid closer to him, slotting their thighs together and ever so slightly pressing his body under Wilhelm’s extended arm.

He realized too late that it wasn’t allowed.

He realized as soon as Wilhelm’s cheeks flushed and Simon registered just how clearly he could see the textures of his cheeks.

“You’ve, uh…” Simon tried to snap into action, bringing a wet hand from the water to tease at the hairs sticking to Wilhelm’s forehead, “There.”

“T-thanks.”

Part of him was proud that he had finally made Wilhelm stutter tonight.  But a bigger, more reckless part was dead set on how to make it happen again.

He slipped unwittingly into his bar routine, steps to take once he got a guy close enough.  He took it upon himself to smooth Wilhelm’s hair over to the side with slick fingers, disheveling just slightly to his own liking before giving it a boyish tussle.  It was too rehearsed to go unnoticed.

“You use that move with all the boys?” Wilhelm chuckled, his blush juxtaposed by his voice’s quiet, sweeping confidence.

“No,” Simon grinned, playing along with his own game, “Just the dumb ones.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Okay.

Too far.

Also just a horrible line.

So really just horrifying all around.

Wilhelm must have felt the horror as his face blanked.

save it save it save it save it

Simon slumped back with a huff, sinking down to rest his head against what would have been the edge of the hot tub but, of course, it was just Wilhelm’s arm.  Not his best save.

“We’re out of wine,” He grumbled.

“Champagne,” Wilhelm corrected.

“Fuck you.”

They laughed.  Crisis a little bit averted.

There was a delicate silence brewing between them, growing stronger and harder to break each second that went by.

Wilhelm was the one to speak, “Wanna watch a movie?”

“What kind of movie?”

“...Action?”

“ No .”

“Horror?”

Two queen beds ended up to be unnecessary, Simon and Wilhelm had set up camp in front of the TV, taking the pillows and comforters with them.  Simon had put his sweats back on, simultaneously threatening homicide if Wilhelm put on his jeans after taking a dip.

After seeing In the Tall Grass on demand, Simon had quickly scrolled past and selected IT , so they were watching a girl get blood blasted while Wilhelm ducked behind him under the guise of being “squeamish”.

Pussy , Simon had muttered.

Their discarded room service sat ravaged by their feet, chicken parm for Wilhelm and kale salad for himself.

“They’re so gay, right?”

“Who?” Wilhelm asked, his voice muffled by the comforter he was hiding in.

“Them.” Simon waved half assed at the screen.

Wilhelm perked his head up, “The kids?”

“Yeah, the gay kids.”

“Are they gay?”

“ Look .”

Two dorky tweens on screen were bickering over some bullshit before the one with glasses prompty snapped the other’s bruised, broken arm back into place.

Wilhelm groaned.

“You fucking bitch , it was a trap!”

Simon tried and failed to subdue his laughter, “Come on Wille, it’s not that bad—”

“No.”

“Just look!”

“No!”

Simon openly laughed at him.

Wilhelm had his head rested against Simon’s thigh, wrapped up in a white feather blanket.  Simon was drunk enough to understand how cute he was.

“Better not fall asleep down there,” he said, “The sequel is three hours long.”

“Ughh.”

“Why would you buy all that wine if you knew you couldn’t handle it?”

“Champagne.”

“Right.”

Wilhelm groaned, nestling into the blanket.  Cute.

“I don’t know,” he muffled.

“Well,” Simon turned his eyes back to the movie, “Doesn’t matter now I guess.”

Wilhelm was quiet for a long time, so long that Simon had accepted that he’d fallen asleep.  He attuned himself to the cool glow of the television, the buzzing radiator, and the traffic noise from below their window.  That was until, a quarter till one, Wilhelm shuffled in place and poked at Simon’s knee.

“Thanks for coming tonight.”

Simon heard it, vaguely, but he still played dumb, “What was that?”

“Thank you…for hanging.  I didn’t feel like being alone tonight.”

Simon waited another minute or two before responding, counting the seconds between Wilhelm’s steady breaths before succumbing.

“Me neither.”

When Simon’s 6 a.m. alarm went off, he was tucked in on the floor, two pillows under his head and neck and a tray of orange juice and a yogurt parfait sitting in front of his eyes.

There was a comment card, a few short sentences scribbled in pen onto the hotel’s paisley blue stationary.

On the ride to San Marino, Simon would clutch the note tight in his palm, idly tracing his fingers along the crisp edges.

Had to catch and early flight, but I had fun last night.  Talk to you soon <3

—Wille

Chapter Text

Simon cried in Barcelona.  He couldn’t help it.  He burst into tears in the middle of his piano set, the stretch of the night when the ensemble was backstage and the lighting techs got a coffee break as Simon held down the fort for twenty minutes.  Perched at his custom lilac piano, half way through Metal when the tears came.  There was no preamble, he didn’t even notice he was crying until his voice cracked on the bridge, and everything past that was a blur.

A tear dropped onto a white piano key, he fell silent and his lip quivered.  You would’ve thought his mic had cut out had it not been for Simon carrying on the melody with stiff, tired fingers.

The audience was cooing, screaming, cheering all at the same time and it made him cry harder.  Have you ever cried with 20,000 pairs of eyes on you?  20,000 voices cheering you on.  Every inch of it felt wrong, right down to his shivering bones.  Simon stopped playing to rub furiously at his eyes.  He couldn’t remember the last time he cried, or the last time he cried in front of anyone, or a single time in his life he cried to someone that wasn’t his family.  He couldn’t even recall crying in front of Ayub, in front of Rosh.

He stared down at his piano, keys blurring together, the creeping sense of performance pumping from his heart and echoing through his tingling skin.  He was an actor, and this was his scene, and this was his audience, and he expected a bouquet to be thrown any minute because Simon was acting his heart out against the stubborn stream of tears.

His cheeks flushed, from the tears or the embarrassment he wasn’t sure.

“Taylor cries on stage.”

“Mmmf”

“Billie cries on stage.”

“Pfft”

“I’m pretty sure Harry Styles has—”

“I want to crawl in a hole.”

Maddie pauses, “I don’t blame you.”

Simon throws his head to the sky, “Ugh!”

They were going to go bar hopping tonight, seeing as it was their last night in Spain, but that was before Simon cried out 10% of his body fluid onto a $30,000 piano.

“Do you think Wilhelm’s seen it?”

Maddie squints, “Does Wilhelm normally keep up with your shows?”

“He saw when I fell on my ass in New York,” Simon grimaced.

Maddie sat up on her hotel bed.

“He did?” She asked through a mouthful of microwave popcorn.

Simon nodded, “He texted me that night.”

How’s your ass? Simon still thought about it sometimes, his gut twisting every time, but he minded less and less.  He’d never admit it to Maddie, but the feeling of Wilhelm knowing—just knowing what Simon did, where he was, who he had stumbled down the street with on any given night—was bordering dangerously close to enjoyment.  A very, very sick enjoyment.

“You mean the night you went home with—”

“Yeah,” Simon muttered, his cheeks flushing red, “I saw it in the morning.  Sort of embarrassing.”

“You liked it.”

Simon glared, blushed some more, then threw a piece of popcorn at her.  Maddie threw one back, and that was how they ended up picking kernels off the hotel carpet.

“Hurry up.”

“You hurry up,” Maddie snapped.  She was on her hands and knees, head under the bed while Simon shined a flashlight underneath.

“Maddie, hurry up so we can go out.”

Maddie arose from under the bed, squinting, “You really want to go out?”

“Yeah, I really do.”

“Because you cried?”

“ No ,” Simon shoved her shoulder, “We were going to go out anyway.  We’re sitting here being boring because I cried, so let's not be boring.”

Maddie glanced at the analog clock.

12:58 a.m.

“A little late, no?”

“Not for Spain,” He ducked under the bed, grabbing the last stray kernels and dumping them in the trash, “Come on, get your glitter and let's go.”

As if the universe wanted to fuck with him some more, Simon’s song began playing as they were ordering their drinks.

“Kismet,” Maddie grinned around her straw.  After a little urging, she had gone all out, tinseled hair and glittery cheeks.  Simon looked no different, if a bit puffy still.

“Eat a clit.”

“Watch me.”

And with that, Simon was left to fend for himself.

He locked eyes with a guy across the bar, broad and at least 6’2”.

Simon grinned.

Bummer.

It took all of two minutes of sneaky glances for the guy to make his way over, sliding easily into the seat next to him.  Simon waited as he stared forward, ordered another drink, and sat.  He waited, and he waited, and he tried not to scoff at how highschool the tactic was.

The Guy took a sip of his beer, another, before glancing at Simon.

“¿Eres nuevo?”
Simon’s eyes widened only for a moment before catching on.

“Soló de visita.”

The guy grinned and nodded, Simon would be charmed if he wasn’t so fucking grateful.

He didn’t know, and Simon couldn’t remember the last time that happened.

“Soy Marcus.”

“Simon.”

“ Simon ,” Marcus drawled, “Bonito.”

The peculiar, nagging little fact occurred to him that Wilhelm had never called him pretty before.

Simon flashed a grin and looked down.

Wilhelm liked how Simon looked.  He must have.  At some faraway point in time.  But was he pretty?  Had the word ever even crossed his mind?  What would he have to do to be pretty to Wille?  These were the very unhelpful and unwelcome questions Simon was asking himself as he watched Marcus bite his lip.

What was it Zac Efron had said?  Get your head in the game.

Simon’s phone buzzed in his pocket.  He went to reach for it before remembering himself, redirecting his hand towards Marcus’ bottle.  He trailed his fingers down the neck, collecting beads of condensation before pushing Marcus’ thumb out of the way of the label.

“ Estrella ,” he read, “¿Es buena?”

“Pruébalo.”

Simon smirked.  He wasn’t a beer guy, but he took a hearty sip.

Simon coughed on the last swallow as Marcus bit his lip.

He went in for the kill.  Pushing the bottle back into Marcus’ hand, Simon spoke, “Termina esta.”

“¿Por que?”

“Para que podamos bailar.”

A wolfish grin spread across Marcus’ face.

“A la mierda la cerveza.”

Simon smiled sweetly and took his hand, just romantic enough to still hold control.  The second Simon loses control, he’s finding Maddie and dashing home.

A new song was playing, quicker, heavier on the production than Simon would recommend, but it worked for what he needed to do.  Marcus wasn't a dancer, that much was clear.  If Simon had to guess, he’d say that staring from across the bar with a beer in his hand was his usual shtick.  But he’d followed Simon out of his comfort zone which, in layman's terms, meant he had the boy in checkmate.  Simon didn’t waste a second to pull him close by his belt, not quite flush, but enough.  For now.  Marcus’ hands found his hips like clockwork and quickly closed the distance.  Simon took in the firm line of his body, the heat radiating through his shirt, the urging of fingertips against the jut of his hips.  It was all too comfortable and all too easy to enjoy, and Simon kept his eyes dutifully open.  He had to.  He’d picture Wilhelm if he didn’t.

They were nearly nose to nose when Simon looked over Marcus’ shoulder.  Maddie was leaning against the wall beside a glowing exit sign, her face lit up by her phone screen.  He felt his phone buzz in his back pocket before a pair of large hands found their place on his ass, quicker than he would have expected.

“Impaciente.”

Marcus didn’t respond, only leaned down to suck a bruise into Simon’s collarbone.

Shades of acid pink and blue blurred the edges of his sight, and through the haze, Simon watched Maddie leave.

“—y está justo aquí abajo.”

The streets were slick from the rain.  If Simon looked straight down the road, he could see trickles of yellow reflecting off the concrete from the streetlamps.  It looked like something from a painting he saw once, but in the painting, there were people.  Nobody was out tonight.  It was pushing 3am and everybody had either drunk themselves to sleep or stumbled their way home.  Marcus was doing the latter, minus the stumbling.  He strode quickly down the street Simon wedged under his arm, trapped to his side.

But Simon had a hold of himself.  He slouched and stumbled and leaned too far into Marcus.  He was stone cold sober, and so was Marcus.  The rest was an act.  Simon would trip, and Marcus would laugh before tugging him that much closer.

“Un bloque más, ¿vale?”

“Vale,” Simon hummed.

He saw one person the whole trek—a short, broad man with a goatee cursing at his phone while climbing into a car.  Simon wasn’t sure that counted.

Simon let himself get dragged to a modest brownstone wedged between three or four identical others.  Marcus didn’t talk as he unlocked the door, or when he led Simon up the stairs by his wrist, or when he shut and locked the bedroom door.  Simon opened his mouth to ask, to say something— anything .  There wasn’t much a man could do to throw Simon off, but the lingering, suffocating silence through the creaking condo was cutting it close.

Before he could get a word out, his back was thrown against the door and a pair of heavy hands was at his hips.  He was pinned.

Marcus grabbed his hair and yanked, crushing their lips together in a bruising kiss.

Simon gasped, “Wai— espera! ”

Marcus pushed further.  He bit Simon’s tongue and dug his nails into the exposed skin above his hip.  Simon whimpered, but he went with it.  The only other suitable option was to hastily undo the lock and book it out the door.  This was easier.

Simon was thrown around, the bedroom door scraped and splintered his cheek.  He opened his eyes.  In only the diluted glimpse of streetlight from the open window, he watched the wooden doorframe.  He stared at where it met pearl white paint.  He choked down the lump in his throat and shut his eyes again.  If he tried, he could pretend the fingers in his hair were slender, gentle, maybe caressing him rather than holding.  Simon pretended it was Wilhelm gripping and choking and taking him for as long as it took until he lay sore and weary under a thin white sheet.

He meant to leave as soon as Marcus started snoring.  He played out his escape: a careful trip down the stairs, slowly and silently shutting the front door, and a quick Google Map to figure out just where the fuck Marcus had taken him.

But the fatigue was gaining on him—it had been all night—and against his better judgment, Simon fell asleep before he worked up the strength to move a muscle.

The light that woke Simon up was bright.  It wasn’t warm or golden or even dull.  It was simply a blank, heavy brightness that stung his eyes the second he tried to open them.  The most he saw was a blurry crack of light before sealed them shut again.  Of course Marcus didn’t have curtains, the fucking alien.

Simon groaned, shoving his face further into the pillow.  He grazed his hand across the bedding.  He sighed in relief when he found only cold sheets and a duvet pushed to his thighs.  Apparently Marcus didn’t have A/C either.

Simon flipped himself over and sat up.

The crick in his back reminded him why he never slept on his front and he winced, feeling around the floor for his clothes.  With any luck, Marcus was out for the day and would allow him an easy escape.

He dressed slowly, the early signs of a migraine straining behind his eyes as he pulled on his jeans.  He was searching for his shoes when his phone started buzzing in his back pocket.

“Hey Maddie—”

“Where the hell are you, Simon?!”

“Oh.  Hey Kat—”

“You know what?  Never mind, I’m tracking your phone.  I’ll be there in ten.  Please clean yourself up before stepping outside, the last thing you need right now is to look like a mess.  Maddie said you would—”

Kat went on as Simon laced up his boots, his eyes catching on to a scrap of notebook paper placed carefully on the nightstand.  He picked it up and stared at the phone number scrawled in blue ink.  Then, he faltered.

Ring mig

Two little words scribbled under the phone number.  Simon furrowed his brows.

“We can talk about it later but just please be ready.”

Swedish.

“Simon?”

Swed—

“Simon!”

Simon hung up.

Kat was angry.

Maddie was angry.

Simon was confused beyond belief, staring dumbfounded at the note Marcus left, creasing and decreasing the corner until it tore off and fluttered to his feet.

Kat, realizing her scolding was getting nowhere, had resigned herself to the silent treatment, picking at her manicure, her suitcase between her knees.

Maddie was stewing in the tension between them.  Her silence was less confrontational, and doubly frightening.  She hadn’t stopped by his room while he packed, and she hadn’t said a word in the airport cab.  Maddie had popped her headphones on and stared out the window, subjecting Simon to Kat’s death glares for forty odd, awkward minutes.

Simon let out a silent sigh and took out his phone.

[5:43 p.m.]

Simon: hey

[5:51 p.m.]

Wilhelm: Hi

Wilhelm: How was Spain?

Simon: kinda shitty honestly

Wilhelm: Oh?

Simon: yeah like you didn’t see me cry like a baby mid song

[read 5:55 p.m.]

[6:01 p.m.]

Wilhelm: I think I heard something about that…

Simon: i can’t tell if ur making fun of me

Wilhelm: I’m not.

Simon: oh

Simon: ok?

Simon watched the text bubble disappear, reappear.

Wilhelm: Are you alright?

Simon: obviously

Simon: i just like

Simon: had a moment

Simon: you know?

Wilhelm: A moment?

Simon: yeah you know when you like haven’t cried in a while?

Simon: and then it just kind of gets you one day?

Simon: and then you’re back to normal

Wilhelm: Mhmmm

Simon: you bitch, i know you know what i’m talking about

Wilhelm: I really don’t

Wilhelm: Unlike you I cry often and healthily

Wilhelm: Bitch

Simon: language, your highness, please

Wilhelm: Dear God, I apologize.  Please tell your virgin ears I’m sorry.

Simon: you stay the fuck away from my virgin ears

Wilhelm: No :)

Simon: 🖕

Wilhelm: Harsh

“You should have texted.”

Simon perked up, staring over at Maddie who was staring right back.

“I know—” Simon started.

“I know we fuck around a lot but—” Maddie cut herself off with a sigh.  She screwed her eyes closed, contemplating her next words, “You have to text me, Simon.  When we’re in a foreign country with no security?  When we don’t know our way around?  When I don’t even know the language ?  You just—you have to text me if you're gonna disappear, Simon.”

“I should have checked.” Simon said as soon as Maddie took a breath, “I should have checked my phone, I know.  I saw you leave, I know you texted me, I should’ve—” Simon sighed, slumping back against his seat, “ God , I should’ve just left with you.  It was a stupid idea to go out anyway, we could have just stayed in.”

Simon shut his tired eyes and listened to the airport bustle around him.

“Did you have fun at least?” Maddie asked wearily.

“No.”

A few seconds went by, Simon didn't open his eyes.  He felt Maddie ease back into her seat.  A moment later, thin, ringless fingers threaded their way between Simon’s.  Maddie’s hand lingered for a while and Simon welcomed it.  She squeezed him once, then let him go.

Wilhelm: How hard would it be to get a hotel in Paris this weekend?

Simon: easy as asking me for my room number

Simon: why? miss me or something?

Wilhelm: Yes

Simon’s cheeks flushed.

He glanced over at Maddie.  She was whispering to Kat.

Wilhelm: I want to see you before you go back

Simon: shit

Simon: forgot about that

Wilhelm: Forgot you get to go home next week?

Simon: i forgot i have to go back to new york

Wilhelm: Come on

Wilhelm: It can’t be that bad

Simon: yeah

Wilhelm: Yeah?

Simon: yep

Wilhelm: I’m confused

Simon: yessir

Wilhelm: What?

Simon: huh?

Wilhelm: I hate you

Simon: you don’t but it's ok

Simon: [Attached: Hôtel Plaza Athénée]

Simon: the eiffel suite

Wilhelm: How modest

Simon: i could upgrade to the royal suite if you’d prefer

Wilhelm: Pls no

Simon grinned.  He couldn’t help it.  He grinned until their gate was called, and he grinned lugging his and Maddie’s luggage into first class.  He pulled out his phone as the coach passengers were seated, enjoying his last few moments of service before taking flight.  He opened his thread with Wille, musing the chance of upgrading his suite in Paris before Kat hissed from across the aisle.

“Fuck.”

Simon almost asked.  Almost.  Because a moment later, he was forwarded a screenshot of a Twitter post.  If Simon had looked closely at the username, the icon, he would’ve known right away.  Instead, his eyes were drawn to the photo attached to the post.  It was a photo of him, barely lit by the rising sun, face down on a bed that wasn’t his, a pillow clutched to his chest and the duvet yanked embarrassingly low on his hips, and for a second, Simon said nothing.  His skin was marked, scratches and bites and bruises traced down his spine and for a second, he just stared at it.  Simon stared at his naked body, limp and bruised and on display as if it was meant to be.

He stared with his mouth agape.

“¿Señor? estamos a punto de ascender. Si pudieras, por favor, apaga tu teléfono—”

Simon shut off his phone and threw it in his carry on.

He began crying before the wheels touched off the ground.

Chapter Text

The U.S. Sun

Latest News

Over the five years Simon Eriksson has been in the limelight, and in the two years prior, scandal seems to follow the 24-year-old wherever he goes.  In the time since he was 19, Eriksson has delivered three studio albums under Sony, his latest of which was only just revealed to be nominated for Album of the Year at the Grammy Awards.  Not surprisingly, his hit single “Cynosure” is nominated for Song of the Year.  However, life for the popstar has shown to be more than blue skies and easy rides.

A rough week for pop icon Simon Eriksson finds the young singer ensnared in not only a public meltdown, but a digital sex scandal to rival Kim K.

If you are getting deja vu, you are not alone…

Nearly nine years ago to the dot, Eriksson’s homeland of Sweden was shocked by the emergence of a, to put it lightly, sensitive video of Eriksson and another student within the walls of Hillerska Boarding School, at which he was attending his first year.  Though its very existence is disturbing, the main upset amongst the public was the anonymous boy depicted in this video, one that bore a striking resemblance to none other than Crown Prince Wilhelm of Sweden .  Although his involvement in the video was publicly denied by His Royal Highness shortly following its release, many have opted to draw their own conclusions.

READ MORE: Sweden’s Young Royal: The Queer Scandal That Shocked a Nation

Flash forward to last Sunday when a brand new photo of Simon Eriksson hit Twitter from an anonymous and now deleted account.  This time around, Eriksson was shown seemingly asleep, nude, and scarcely covered.  Considering the quick removal of this photo and the poster’s account, we can assume the singer’s legal team intervened.  This suggests the unfortunate theory that Eriksson did not consent to the posting, or even the taking of this photo.  The singer has yet to issue a public statement regarding the matter.

Regrettably, the photo was posted less than 24 hours after Eriksson began trending on Twitter following an emotional moment at his performance in Barcelona.  According to first-hand accounts and cellphone videos taken of the show, the singer paused mid-song to break out into tears.  This bizarre, heartbreaking moment was described by many of Eriksson’s fans to be out-of-character, making the next day’s events all the more tragic.

But, save for his debut album at 19, heartbreak has never looked good on the young singer.  Fans, rest assured, Simon Eriksson is never down for long.

Chapter Text

“Simon, don’t read that.”

He wasn’t reading it, not really.  Simon had finished the Sun article about three minutes ago.  He’d been stuck on the closing sentence ever since.

At first, he had just needed something to do with his hands, something to look at that wasn’t the crystal chandelier or the questionable lobby carpet.

“Do you think they were going for, like, a 1920s Agatha Christie vibe?” He asked, staring down at the floor.  His hand still clutched his phone, article open.  He never got around to closing Twitter on the plane, what with the turbulence and the snorers and the imaginary needles crawling up his spine and into his brain.  That picture was just one tab away.

“A what?”

“Or did they just raid some dead, eccentric matriarch’s estate?  I don’t know how else they could explain this carpet.”

Simon couldn’t return Maddie’s glance, he was too enraptured by the twists of crimson against runty orange.  But the concern, the stupid fucking pity in her eyes still landed, heavy.  No big loss, he guessed.

She looked away—Thank God—and over towards the pearly wooden desk, “You should ask them.”

Simon sniffed.  I wasn’t quite a laugh, but anyone with eyes in the back of their skull who’d been watching him like a hawk for the last four hours (Maddie) would have noticed the corners of his lips curl into a smile that was almost there .

“I’d rather set the carpet on fire, spare everyone the headache.”

Maddie shrugged, “I don’t know, man.  Looks like they’d shit themselves with glee if you said a word to them.”

“ Gross ,” Simon scolded, but he looked up anyway.  At first he didn’t see it.  A bored concierge marking up a map with her cheek on her palm.  The man at the front desk, handing Kat a handful of keycards and grinning like he was just dying to show off his crooked, yellow teeth— God , Simon could be a bitch sometimes.  He forgot what he was even looking for, but only for a moment, only until he heard the chattering.

After enough people whisper about you, picking up on it becomes second nature.  Simon didn’t even need to scan the room.  It was two of the younger ones, bellboys drowning in their stuffy little suits, all but hiding behind a golden trolly and sneaking glances across the lobby.

Simon’s skin prickled.

“I almost feel bad for them, you know?” Maddie went on, but Simon noticed her nervous finger twitching against her thigh, rings clacking together like the world’s tiniest drum set, “Seeing your dumb pretty face is probably the highlight of their week.  Their month !  I bet they’re gonna go home and tell their moms that the Simon Erikkson breathed the same garbage Paris air as them.”

“At least I’ll make someone’s mother proud.”

Maddie frowned before a keycard was thrown into her lap.

“Sixth floor.  With me.” Kat’s voice was tight.  Simon had learned through the years to tell when she was on edge.  It’s an acquired skill—managers are usually on edge, but Kat had a few subtle tells when she was one bad joke away from burying her heel into someone’s chest.

The two-word sentences were a damning sign.

“Simon—”

“Eiffel Suite, floor ten, I know.”

Kat pursed her lips, tightening her ponytail with two sharp tugs .  Like school kids, Maddie and Simon trailed her to the elevator.

The light fixtures flickered and they rose with a droning buzz.  An enclosed space with two workaholics on the verge of two very different nervous breaks and a bubbly, anxious little lesbian standing sullen between them—just what Simon needed in these trying times.

The elevator dinged and continued its crawl to the third floor.

When Simon cleared his throat, Maddie honest-to-God jumped.  He went on anyway, “Does one of you want the suite?”

Ding

Kat sighed.

“No?” Maddie furrowed her eyebrows.

“I just—”

Ding

“—feel like an asshole.”

“Take the room, Simon,” Kat clutched her carryon.

“I don’t need it, really.  I mean why should I—”

Ding

“You’re the talent.” Kat states, staring up at the analog 5 like it would explain everything.

“So?”

Ding

“This is us.”

Kat gathered up her luggage, and Maddie did the same.  Simon glowered down at his empty hands—his bags were probably waiting for him on the tenth floor.

“I serious, Maddie do you want—”

Maddie shoved a cold, pale finger against his lips, “ Shush .  Take the room, Simon.  Rest, relax, come up with some more funny zingers about the carpets in this place.”  She stood in the way of the elevator doors, biding Simon’s time just a little longer, “If you want some company, or dinner, or a makeover, or whatever you need, just—”

“I will.”  Simon cuts her off, pressing his lips in a line.  He felt her hand brush against his knuckles, just for a moment.  Then, Maddie was gone and the door shut without a sound.

Four floors in a stuffy elevator with weird, inception-esque mirrors was quite the feat for Simon.  Sure, he was about ten threads away from scratching a hole into his pant leg, and he was pretty sure his hair would fall out in handfuls if he so much as combed it, but he made it to his room.

Hooray for Simon.

He stood still in a moving box for five long minutes, carrying absolutely none of his luggage, and delivered himself safely to a room that could house five people easily.  A real laborer.

He gave the place a scarce look-around on his way to the bedroom before collapsing against the door.  He didn’t need to look in the minifridge, he knew it was stocked.  The next time he emerged, he would draw the east-facing curtains and keep his eyes down through the halls.  But for the foreseeable future, Simon was content to curl up on the floor.

He pulled out his phone, more on instinct than real curiosity.  He knew what he would find.

Of everything that had happened in the shitstorm that was last week, Simon could get past exactly two of them.  The first was, obviously, fucking predictably, the picture.  It wasn’t even that bad , he knew.

It barely even looks like you.

You can barely tell.

It’s just a photo.

It was a photo.  Only a photo.

It could always be worse.

Could’ve been a video.

Simon said it in his head, over and over.  Then he said it outloud.  Could’ve been worse .

“Could’ve been worse.”

And isn’t that just the poison cherry on top of the shitty cake?  This could have been so much fucking worse.  Marcus had him turned around.  Who knew when he’d gotten his phone out?  Who knew what snapshots didn’t end up on his burner account?

Simon stared down at the carpet.  A different pattern, somehow uglier.  He laughed to himself, humorless.

I really could have been worse.  Marcus could have had horrid, simply wretched sheets that clashed with his skin tone and had dinosaurs or some shit.

No, the charcoal sheets didn’t make it worse, but they didn’t do jack shit to wash out the hickies and bruising and scratches marking Simon’s spine (they were still there, he could feel them rubbing and burning against the door).  It wouldn’t have been enough for Marcus, he thought, to just get Simon’s face.  Nobody cared about the face.  They wanted his body.  They wanted the proof, and they fucking got it.

The proof was all over his timeline, proof that Simon was marred and defiled beyond recognition, as if they didn’t already know .  It wasn’t really a sex scandal, Simon Erikkson being a slut doesn’t whip up this kind of frenzy.  Simon Erikkson getting shoved under a spotlight, naked and defenseless, is what piques interest.  It’s just where they like him.

Simon couldn’t tell any longer whether he was being dramatic.  He couldn’t tell if he should have been more angry, more sad, maybe go into hiding until his body withered and aged to where only the sickest fucks on earth would even think leer at him.

And that was only item #1.  Because, half an hour before landing, he had found that article.  There were probably—definitely more by now, all saying the same goddamn thing, all getting it so goddamn wrong, but some lucky/unlucky writer had manage to spellbind him with their sheer fucking wrongness.

Simon Erikkson is never down for long.

It was a bullshit line, he guessed, filler because somebody was on a deadline and someone else might have read a Reddit thread about him when he was nineteen.  It didn’t matter, it weighed in his chest all the same because Simon was confident—100% hand over his heart, swearing to a God he probably didn’t believe in—that he’d been “down” since before his voice broke, so long that he could barely picture what it meant to be up .

Maddie was right.  He shouldn’t be reading it.  He shouldn’t see his name anywhere except on monthly bills and takeout recipes like a normal fucking person.

Simon groaned with his whole chest.  He banged his head back against the door, rubbed his hands over his face, yanked at his hair, rocked until the horns and engines outside eased down.  The A/C unit clicked on in a gentle hum.

With open ears, Simon listened.  He sat back against the door, ass going numb on the ground, fingers clutched to his drawn knees and hummed with the A/C unit he was sure, certain he had the right note.  He held the note as long as he could, until his voice broke out.  He breathed in, stretched his lungs as far as they would stretch, and found the note again.

He should call Maddie.

He should eat some food.

He should write some songs.

He should figure out just how on earth he was going to handle this.

He should absolutely not call Wilhelm and tell him every thought in his head just because he missed his voice.

Simon’s breath ran out again.  He looked upwards, watched the little silhouetted birds dance across the ceiling.

“Fuck it.” He muttered.

“Fuck it, right?”

Simon fumbled with his phone, nearly dropping it more than once, but he made it to Wille’s contact.  His thumb hesitated no longer than a second over the call icon.

Time to wait.

And Simon waited.  And waited.  He counted the rings off out loud.

“Three…”

“Four…”

“Fiv—”

The tone shut off.

“You have reached the voicemail of—”

Simon stared down at his phone like it had just thrown a suckerpunch straight at his nose.  It wasn’t that he couldn’t believe it—he could.  Wilhelm was busy, he was a prince and he did important things like sit in stuffy rooms and look fucking hot in suits and debate income inequality with one of his mothers wrinkly cretins.

Bzzz

Simon’s eyes snapped down fast, he really should have been embarrassed.

Bz—

“Hi!” He winced at his own volume and tried to sound like he wasn’t currently curled on the floor hugging his knees and talking to himself.  Simon cleared his throat quickly and tried again, “Uh, sorry, hi.”

Good enough.

“ Hey .   Sorry I didn’t pick up, I needed to get away from…you know… ”

Simon stared at the ceiling.  He should say something.  He made the call, he should have something to say—

“ I wanted to—” Wilhelm paused, sighed.  From the sound of it, he’d held his phone out and turned away to do so, “ I wasn’t sure if you'd want to talk. ”

“Oh.”

Say something.

You goddamn gay idiot brain say something—

“I don’t really.”

“Oh… ”

“Well,” Simon started, “You’ve been here before…to Paris, right?”

If Simon perked his ear, he could hear the cogs turning in Wille’s brain.  It was the funniest thing, trying to figure him out.  Simon always knew when Wille was chewing on a thought, and he was always dumbfounded by what got spat out.

“Loads of times, yeah ,” Wille seemed to relax, he sounded like it at least.  Simon pictured him ease against a wall somewhere far from here, hidden away in some palace cove.  Loitering on the street, maybe, leaned against Malin’s sleek monster of a car.

“Why?” Simon thought there was a grin in his voice, “Wondering where to get the best croissant?”

“What if I am?  Where would I go?”

“Then I would hate to break it to you, but the best croissants are four hours away, a little corner patisserie in Nantes.”

Simon felt himself grin, “Say something else French.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to hear that little accent you just did.”

“...Fuck you.” Wilhelm muttered so quietly that Simon almost missed it.

He almost wished he did, because the laugh/bark he let out was decidedly unattractive, “No!  I liked it, I swear!  Do it again.”

“ ...”

“Please?” Simon dragged the word out, playing with the frays on his jeans.

“It’s not even an accent really, like, that’s just how the words are pronounced.”

“Mhm, yes.  Absolutely.  Now, pronounce some more.”

“You don’t know French, do you?”

“...I don’t see how that’s r—”

“Je m’inquiète pour toi.”

Simon circled a finger through his shirt, over his heart, “What does that mean?”

“Do you still want me to come?”

Simon’s finger stilled as he pictured it.  He had three days in Paris.  Two shows.  Then back across the ocean until December.  He’d been offered a New Year’s slot in Stockholm, and he was almost inclined to accept.  But he could tell Wilhelm that another time.

“Yeah.” Simon surprised himself with how softly he’d said it, like he was afraid to mean it so much, “And you can just, like—” He waved a trembling hand nonsensically through the air, “—drop everything and—”

“Yes.” Wilhelm didn’t let him finish, “I worked it out.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Simon smiled all teethy and squinty like he hadn’t done since probably age nine.

He looked out the window at the setting sun, casting gold across the room in dusty rays.

“Okay.”

Chapter Text

Step.  Step.  Step.  Turn.

Simon flicked his curls out of his eyes with a precise jerk of his head.

Mental Note to Maddie: I need a haircut.

Step.  Spin.  Drop.

Tonight, he was a Slutty Disco Ball, as Maddie had put it.  Her intonation implied that it was an all-caps type of look, all proper and official.

Simon buried his grin and kept on singing.  Proper and official as he flounced around in a crystal mesh top that left little (read: nothing) to the imagination and a pair of equally shimmery trousers.  He’d brought along a skirt from Madrid that would have been just perfect , but that was before Simon’s management team had gone into crisis mode, the likes of which he’d never seen.  Apparently when you’re an international sex symbol/pitiful man-whore, “crisis mode” meant covering him head to toe in designer fabrics like a very fashionable nun.

When they'd tried to give him an undershirt tonight, a jacket to match the pants, Simon shrugged them off.

“Simon—”

“No.”

“Please don’t make this difficult.”

“I’m not being difficult, I’m just dressing like I always have!”

Maddie hadn’t looked at him while he bickered with Kat, keeping her strained eyes and steady hands trained on shaping Simon’s overgrown curls away from his eyes.  But he watched her through the mirror as she tensed and untensed her jaw.

“Simon…”

God, Kat’s fucking tone.  It made him dig his nails into the armrests of his chair.  Then, when the wood didn’t give, he dug them into his palms.

“We just want you to be comfortable.”

Simon swore he’d felt Maddies finger tense in his hair.

“Well, don’t worry about me.”

And the conversation ended.

Simon got his way, as always, and went on stage half naked.

Score one for Simon.  Take that, Kat—or Marcus, or society, or whoever he thought he was one-upping with the sight of his naked chest.

He had to admit, it felt like a win whenever Simon got to show off like this.  A twisted, miniscule, fleeting win.  Always fleeting.

He was on his knees now.  Simon was on his fucking knees in front of 6,000 people when the triumph turned sour in the pit of his gut.  It was akin to a dingy fluorescent bulb flickering on, the way his lungs flared and threatened to burst his ribcage.  His stomach twisted in tandem.  His fingers shook with the microphone’s weight.  It was a cumulative, all-consuming feeling that Simon had never been able to name.  It was almost fear, almost dread, a tinge of humiliation, but all it was for certain was uncomfortable.  It was a cold and hulking discomfort and Simon had to ignore it as it settled in his chest, sat in his throat and crept through his muscles until every step of choreo felt stiff, like he was dancing his way across a stage of nails.

He kept going though, because he was, before anything else, a performer.

“I hope you're happy with yourself,” Kat drew into her wine glass, her voice echoing out.  If you listened closely, like Simon knew to, you could sense the slurring in her voice.

“Why, thank you, Katherine,” Simon grinned triumphantly, “I very much am.”

Maddie squinted at him, then went back to typing— furiously typing, which either meant her landlord was being dickish or she was texting Felice.

Simon didn’t kid himself.  He knew it was Felice.  He knew the two of them rode the same wave of always, always , knowing.  Between Maddie’s infallible nosiness and Felice’s ability to read a room from across an ocean, there was no plausible scenario in which they didn’t know Wilhelm was meeting him.  Simon didn’t tell Maddie, and he sure as hell didn’t tell Kat, but he trusted them to pick up the connotations of ‘I think I’ll just turn in early tonight’ .  After all, is it really considered a secret to let an obvious, albeit unspoken truth remain unspoken?

Simon reasoned with himself as the girls drained their glasses.  If they knew what he was up to and decided to bite their tongues, then coming clean now would break the three’s silent agreement.  Yes , Simon thought.  Don’t ask, don’t tell.  It totally works.

So, as Maddie struggled with her coat sleeves, as Kat ushered her to the door of his suite and threw him a stern glance, Simon took it in stride.

“Don’t have too much fun, kid,” She muttered, and the door slammed shut.

The hotel was a bit of a paradox in itself.  It was clearly built late 20th century yet fixed with all the trappings of a Victorian inn, the type where ladies would sip tea with stone faces and stiff gowns and, like, wigs that had their own skeletons.  Simon wasn’t totally versed in Victorian fashion, but this was the vibe he got when he looked at the chiseled fireplace, the polished wood, and the ticking grandfather clock that was, by the way, annoying as shit .

The hands were bounding swiftly towards 10:30 p.m. and Simon was one tick away from shoving a couple q-tips as far down his ears as he could.

But he couldn’t puncture his eardrums tonight.  Wilhelm was coming.

Wilhelm would be touching down on a private airstrip any second now and Simon couldn’t think of anything but the incessant ticking and the weird way his skin wrinkles over his knuckles and have they always looked like that, oh God am I getting old?

Unproductive was one way to put it, certainly unattractive.

Simon couldn’t shake the image of Wilhelm, jetlagged, tired, maybe a bit scruffy, being greeted to Paris by an anxious insomniac too fixated on his weird hand creases to even—

Bzzz

Simon flinched.

He stared at his phone for a moment before throwing himself halfway over the table and scooping it up.

Wille: Just landed!!  Be there in half an hour.

Wille: Maybe less if I get this guy to speed for me.

Wille: [Image Attached]

Simon laughed.

Wilhelm was clearly going for a discreet, paparazzi-type photo taken at crotch level and awkwardly angled to catch the ancient, graying driver with what looked like a permanent scowl etched in stone.

Simon: lol u can try

Simon: Hôtel Plaza Athénée floor 10

Simon: don’t stop in the lobby ok? just come straight up i’ll let you in

Wilhelm: Should expect a gun and ski mask waiting for me under the doormat?

Wilhelm: A map of the nearest bank perhaps?

Simon: i’ve even gone to the trouble of highlighting our entry points in pink just for you

Wilhelm: I’m honored.

Wilhelm: Be there in fifteen.  Seriously I just had to start bouncing my leg and he’s going ten over the limit.  How about that huh??

Simon: just get here safe dumbass

Simon: ill see u soon

Wilhelm made it in 14 minutes and 32 seconds, and Simon was seriously questioning the Crown’s screening process for their drivers.

Simon sat by his phone, got antsy, chugged a small bottle of red from the mini fridge, then sat back down for fourteen minutes.

Then came a knock at the door.

Simon didn’t waste any time to ponder what would happen when he opened the door.  It was bizarre, really, considering the speed his brain had been whirring at all night.  It was like a switch flipped.  Wilhelm was here, right behind the door, and it was time to stop thinking.

He all but scurried his way over, flinging the heavy wood open and what he saw did not disappoint.

Wilhelm was beautiful.  There was no way around it.  He was beautiful in their school uniform, he was beautiful in Simon’s hoodie, in his smart charcoal suits, in the morning with his hair in tangles.  He was beautiful now, dark circles ringing his eyes, his cheekbones sharp and high, malnourished but in a hot way.  The brand of handsome where everything is a tad too skinny, a tad too sharp, but there’s just something about it.

Maybe Simon’s losing his mind.  He didn’t care enough to ponder it.

He yanked Wilhelm inside by the front of his hoodie, slammed the door, and pounced on him with all his might.

And to Wilhelm’s credit, he held him.  In fact, his arms curled around Simon’s middle and squeezed until his nose was squished into Wilhelm’s neck.  There was no air between them.  But then again, Simon supposed there didn’t need to be.  Simon breathed him in, the sweater fuzz, the aftershave, the musk, and ran his fingers up the back of Wilhelm’s head, weaving through his hair and holding him there.

He smelled great.  He smelled like Simon should move back to Bjärstad, change his name, and throw his phone in a pond.

The cotton from his sweater must have bundled in Simon’s ears.  The noise fell away.  The humming radiator, the ridiculous grandfather clock, the very shuffling of his hands desperately clutching and unclutching Wilhelm’s back all melted together and sank down too far for his ears to grasp.  He could hear Wilhelm’s heartbeat and he only knew his own existed from the incessant pattering in his chest like the organ had found its target.  Like it was taking a running start and muscling its way through his ribcage.

He let his breath out in one harsh puff and went back for another whiff.

Wilhelm laughed silently.  Simon only knew it happened because Wilhelm’s chest swelled and bounced against his cheek.  Simon could feel Wilhelm’s heartbeat against his lips where they met the neckline of his sweater.

“What?” Simon prodded, nosing against Wilhelm’s neck on autopilot.

A huge hand rubs slowly and firmly across Simon’s back, urging his flighty heart.

“Tickles,” Wilhelm’s voice was muffled.  His face was pressed into Simon’s curls.

Hot skin and hot breath were all Simon knew for a moment.  The dingy lightbulb flickering around in his brain for days finally sputtered out.  What Simon sat in then was a blissful, quiet black squeezing him in as Wilhelm glided his hands around to firmly grip his shoulders.

And his hands were perfect, Simon had always thought so.  Soft yet firm palms, smooth from a life of luxury.  The gentle hills and ridges gave way to long, slender fingers that could pinch Simon to dust between their knuckles as easily as they slid across a grand piano.  He had forgotten them.  How could Simon forget such perfect things?

As if Wilhelm had heard him, the grip on his shoulder tightened and pushed.  Nice try , Simon thought.  He wouldn’t be pushed tonight.

He would, however, pull back.  Fortunately, Wilhelm did not let go.  He held him just as surely now, only with room to breathe.  Room for Simon’s ears to settle.

The ticking returned, the humming, the chirping the—

“How are you?”

Simon blanked.

He had been awful, numb to the point of decay curled up on hardwood floors.  Then Wilhelm had come and Simon had been reset.  He hadn’t been anything, and it had been beautiful.

Now all he saw were the familiar stranger’s eyes filled with the easiest, warmest calm.  He was beautiful and terrifying as he looked at Simon.  It’s his job to get looked at, but rarely does he ever feel this perceived.

“Fine,” Simon gritted out his best welcoming smile even as Wilhelm’s eyes dulled just barely.  He’d been hoping for a different answer.

“Well,” Wilhelm said, turning his back to Simon’s intense relief, “Good.”

He watched Wilhelm float around the suite, observing the stuffy decor.  It was nice, for once, to be the observer, hungrily following the length of the prince’s gait, the arch in his spine as he leaned to examine the clock hands.  Maybe those tabloid junkies are onto something.

When Wilhelm turned back, Simon aborted, snapping his head to the window and finding surprising relief that he saw only naked branches swaying, waving through the glass against the night’s blackness.  It seemed all the lights in Paris had burnt out.  Or, Simon considered, they were too high for the lights to reach.

“Reminds me of the palace,” Wilhelm said to the silence.

Simon startled, “Should we find a motel then?”

Wilhelm snorted, crouching by the fireplace without a word in response.  Simon wanted to skip across the knobs in his spine.  Instead, he startled back as a strike of orange flames shot up from the wood.

“How the fuck—”

Wilhelm turned back, grinning from his spot on the maroon carpet, “Didn’t you know?  I was a boy scout.”

He tapped a slender finger against a dial wired into the side of the stone.  Fake stone, fake fireplace.  Maybe this place wasn’t so bad.

Simon smiled, creeping across the carpet to sit gingerly next to Wilhelm.  The heat licked his cheek as if to remind him what warmth really felt like, “Still got the uniform?”

“Only for special occasions.”

“Ahh,” Simon drawled, hugging his knees and gazing at the dancing flames, “Saving it for Coronation?”

It was a ridiculous thing to say in any case, but especially here in this room with this boy—this man.  The word sounded ugly coming from his lips, so imposing and so important Simon thought it might trample out the fire.

They only sat with the C-word and the crackling silence for a moment.

“No,” Wilhelm said blankly, “We have a whole getup for that.”

Simon could’ve nodded, could’ve been shaking his head in protest.  Whatever it was had been cut off halfway through as Simon jolted his head upwards, screwing his eyes closed just for a second.

“How soon?” He asked, his voice nauseatingly shrill, “How soon will that be?”

Simon glanced over, scared and side-eyed, at Wilhelm.  His face was, as always, unreadable as he considered the licks of fire.

“Soon.”

Simon felt his face screw up.  Soon .  It could mean anything, it could mean tomorrow.  It meant it wouldn’t matter if Simon played New Years in Stockholm, not if Wilhelm would already have a crown on his head.  It meant they were on borrowed time, just like fucking always.

Simon grew hot, from the fire before him and from the boiling in his veins, melding together where blood met his flesh.  He grew angry.

“At least I think it’s soon,” Wilhelm continued, oblivious, admiring the flames where Simon was glaring daggers, “We’ve been working and talking about…It’s just a few now to sort out.”

“Sort out.”

Wilhelm’s eyes broke from the fire, he too was hugging his knees now, “Yes.  Just getting things in order, you know, for when I take over.  I need to rehearse my policy speech.  Mom wants to launch a charity in my name to announce at the induction.  And, you know, I’d like to assemble my own advisory council, stuff like that.  These things take planning.”

“So much planning that you ran away to Paris?”

Wilhelm looked baffled and Simon would have laughed.  He would have if he didn’t feel like he was scaling a mountain towards a bitter reward.

The skin between Wilhelm’s eyebrows tensed and creased, “I thought you wanted me here.”

“I thought you had nothing better to do,” Simon should stop, he knew he should, and he wanted to.  But he was hunting for a truth he desperately didn’t want to find.

The heat was growing thick between them, congealing with the growing sweat on their foreheads into something sour, petulant.

Simon was on his feet in an instant, pacing aimlessly before taking his post at the minifridge.  He opened it, drinking in the gust of cold air under the guise of examining the contents.  He already knew the drink options, and he knew they’d do him no good at this moment.

“Something better than being here for you?” Wilhelm called, likely still melted to his spot.  When Simon didn’t reply, he heard a hurry of shuffling across the room.  A second later, Wilhelm’s urgent voice.

“I was worried, Simon,” A frustrated huff, and then, “I thought maybe you needed someone—”

“And I thought we were gonna drink and play one of your dumb rich people card games.  Silly me, I didn’t realize you had your crown prince juggling act back home.”

Wilhelm padded carefully across the floor like he was approaching a wild animal.  Simon grabbed the closest bottle he could find and shot up, closing the fridge before Wilhelm could feel the icy air.

“Why are you upset?”

Simon rolled his eyes, stealing his expression and keeping his eyes low, “I’m not upset.”

Wilhelm closed in on him until Simon saw the toes of his socks in his periphery.

“You’re not upset, you just don’t want to talk about my life?”

“That’s not what I—”

“Do you want to talk about the weather?” Wilhelm continued as if Simon’s mouth had been sewn shut, “Do you want to talk about how you jumped me the second I got through the door?”

Simon cracked the cap off his Tito’s shooter and didn’t drink it.  He screwed the cap back into place.  Then off, then on again.

“Let’s talk about Maddie texting me on the plane about how I have to ‘screw your head back on’.  Why not talk about when you called me yesterday?”

“Why would we?”

“Maybe because you sounded like you’d been strangled?!” Wilhelm rubbed his hands violently over his eyes and mouth when Simon finally and mistakenly looked up at him, “Why don’t you ever want to talk about fucking anything ?”

Simon’s eyes prickled in their sockets.  His mouth tightened and twisting into what may have been a wry, nervous smile.  He couldn’t be sure what he looked like.  His only reflection came from Wilhelm’s tired eyes.

“You don’t really want me to get into it.” He spoke carefully, quietly like the air around them could crack and shatter at any time.

Wilhelm had started to hold his gaze when he realized he had Simon in a corner, literally and figuratively.  He spent a few seconds watching him like madman, fingers tensing and relaxing periodically.  All of a sudden, he screwed his eyes shut and dropped his head.  A short huff burst out of Wilhelm and Simon watched lips curl into a thin, frustrated line.

“I just want to know what you’re fucking feeling.”

Simon was frozen.  On his face must have been pure fright.  He could feel his mouth growing numb, stuttering over words he couldn't form because he was frustrating the only person who wanted to listen to him—the only one Simon wanted to talk to.  There was one person in the whole seven continents that Simon was dying to spill his guts to, and he was standing in front of him, begging him to talk and offering to listen.  And Simon couldn’t find the fucking words.

He really, really hated himself.

“I really hate myself.  Sometimes.  All the time maybe, I’m not sure.”

Wilhelm’s eyes were unchanging.

It was a start.  A horrible one, but at least Wilhelm had shut up.

“Not—I mean, not seriously but,” He was stuttering, “I just can’t seem to…”

And that was it, Simon was done.  His grand gut spilling had amounted to three sentences of incomplete yammering and Wilhelm had better be grateful.

He had more to say, if all his emotions of the past few days, the past ten years, could translate into human language.  Unfortunately, Simon’s communication skills fall short beyond writing songs about kissing boys and missing boys.

It was quiet again.  It was quiet like a horror movie gets before the monster jumps out from behind the grass.

Some people cry when they get scared.  Sara was like that when they were little.  She’d tear up whenever they’d overhear their parents in the kitchen while growing thoroughly accustomed to the sound of a shattering plate.  Sometimes they lose their breath, stick their face out a window and rub a palm over their speeding hearts.

Simon tended to fall silent.  His running motor of a mouth took him far in the fits of arguing then sputtering to a screeching halt when he was suddenly made to listen.

Wilhelm’s patience was running thin, it had to be.  Simon was a rabid dog, fidgeting with the alcohol in his hands.  His eyes darted wildly across all the stress lines in the prince’s face, around the room and out the window, up to trace the pearly ceiling, then back to Wilhelm’s stony face.  And round and round they went.

“I don’t know how to start with you,” Wilhelm said, the steely determination in his eyes betrayed by the resolve in his voice, “I don’t know how to reach you anymore.”

His voice dwindled out on the last syllable, cracking with fatigue or tears or a boyish mixture of both.

Still, Simon felt like the child in the room.  Small, stupid, and powerless all over again.

He took stock of his bones, muscles, and tendons, flexing his fingers and shuffling his feet to make sure that he, the human puppet he was, could still move on his own.  He took a deep, shaky breath.

“I don’t know either,” Simon whispered, “Where to start, I mean.”

Wilhelm just stares, wordless.  He gave Simon no hints on how to proceed.  Instead, he stepped back and leaned against the back of the sofa, adjacent to Simon whose back was glued to the floral wallpaper.  Wilhelm sat patiently as his audience of one, waiting for Simon to continue.

He didn’t want to try.  He didn’t want to pick apart the chop salad in his brain but something in Wilhelm’s eyes told him this might be his only chance.

“I can’t explain it,” And it was apparent his voice box had retired as Simon continued to speak in strained whispers, “And I can’t complain either.  Everything bad that happens, everything you’re worried about—and Maddie, and whoever—It’s all just me.  I let it all happen, I encourage it sometimes.  Like— shit —sometimes I think I like it and sometimes I think I love you but—”

Simon choked.  Genuinely choked.  He squeaked and coughed on nothing like his tongue had gagged itself.

He had thrown himself overboard now into waters too choppy to wade in.  Simon wanted the waves to take him under, drag him down into the cold wet but all he felt were the tears running from their cage.  He tasted metal on his tongue and salt on his lips.

Then Wilhelm was in front of him, taking the tiny plastic bottle from his hand and squeezing the other in his own.  Through the sting of blurry tears, his eyes latched on Simon’s like two blue life preservers.  Wilhelm’s eyes leveled him out, pinned him to the wall, and clenched around his throat all on one scrutinous look.

“But?” Wilhelm’s voice rattled through him.  It was so commanding, so consuming that the one syllable might have reversed the flow of Simon’s blood.

But what?

Simon thought and came up short yet again.  He was already miles off script with no breadcrumbs to lead him back.  He couldn’t think.  He couldn’t.

But What? But What? But What?

“But, I don’t know,” He could hear the tears in his own voice, sticking the words together into one short, feeble death rattle.  His cheeks were stained by now, the old tears drying grainy on his lips to make room for the new.

It was then that Wilhelm took his face in his hands, cradling him more gently than he ever deserved.  The life preservers floating in closer, closer, becoming crystal oceans of their own and Simon had to shut his eyes lest sink too far in.

Salt mingled with vanilla lip balm for one bittersweet moment and Simon, lips hot and aching already, chased the mixture down.

He used all his strength, all his shame and his want to push off the wall and further into Wilhelm’s palms.  It only worked for a moment.  Just as quickly as their lips met, Simon was held back and deprived again.  This time, it spouted a new batch of tears.

In shame, he closed his eyes again, dipping his chin to his chest to gain back some semblance of privacy before his wet gasps were muffled by soft gray fabric.

“It’s okay” was whispered in his ear more times than Simon wanted to count as Wilhelm petted his hair, clutching his shaking shoulders, “It’s okay.  It’s okay not to know.”

Simon was crying in earnest now, he grasped at clothing in search of the skin underneath.  He let tears and snot and spit stain Wilhelm’s sweatshirt as the prince continued his comfort crusade.  He went on like he had it all rehearsed, brushing away Simon’s tears before they seeped down to his mouth, rubbing a firm hand up and down his back before suggesting the wonderful idea of a bed—of rest.  Simon let himself be dragged to the bedroom, guided under the covers more gently than he ever had been.

Simon paid little attention last night, but the bed was delightfully soft.  As the minutes ticked from the other room, his tears subsided and his tired limbs sank gratefully into the mattress.  He could hear Wilhelm puttering around in the bathroom, the fireplace, the kitchen, and just when SImon began to grapple with sleeping alone, the mattress dipped next to him.

Simon didn’t open his eyes that night.  He did, however, reach across the silky sheets to grasp the hand waiting for him.

Simon didn’t open his eyes that night.  Even when a heavy sliding, a click , and muffled syllables drifted into his right ear.

He merely sighed and dreamed of the whomping trumpet voices of the teacher in Charlie Brown.

Simon didn’t open his eyes until the next morning when gray sunlight and a chilly breeze affronted his senses.

When he did open them, Simon found his sliding balcony door a couple inches ajar, his hand grasping thin, chilly air, and the sheets cold where another body had been.

Chapter Text

Apparently, a walk of shame through a 325 year old palace hits you like an ice cold bucket of perspective.  He didn’t get back until past 3am  Wilhelm had to admit, he was surprised it took so long.  Contrary to popular belief, the palace operates less like a hive mind and more like a path of haphazard stepping stones.  Erik had taught him the way across as long as he lived, showed him the sturdy stones, where and how to place your foot.

Wilhelm had abandoned every careful path he knew the second he got on a plane to France.  It was the most methodical, most intentional way a person has ever lost their footing and tumbled into the rapids.

It was nice while it lasted at least, letting the billowing currents drag him every which way, weaving through his hair and soaking his clothes through before spitting him out on Simon’s doorstep.

They fought.  Wilhelm had an inkling they would.  Wilhelm went years with this memory of Simon in his head, aided only by the occasional mag cover and tabloid interview.  He remembered a boy so headstrong that he stayed at a school swimming with classists, never failing to call anyone out, especially Wilhelm, when he was treated less than he was worth.

But Simon had changed.  Of course he had.  Wilhelm had rewired his brain a thousand times over since Hillerska, so much so that the scared little kid gasping for fresh air, heart hot-wired from touching pinkies with a boy, was as alien to him as Simon was now.  The outline was there, tracings of pencil long erased and drawn back over, forming shadows of what used to be.  Simon still gave him shit for his taste in food (or lack thereof), Wilhelm still sat him down to watch the most pretentious movies known to man and let Simon bitch the whole way through.

The thought, wretched as it was, crept in through the fog of the morning, that maybe Simon and Wilhelm were strangers to each other.  They were ghosts dancing around each other, tied precariously together by a thin, fraying string, trying to relearn a thing reserved for the young and stupid.  The notion trailed him through the palace, nipping at his heels and slinking along the polished baseboards.

Wilhelm wasn’t young anymore.  And he did not want to be stupid.

The grace period for careless decisions had ended years ago, but staying in line, Wilhelm realized now, was a hell of a lot easier without the prospect of Simon, his hair, his voice in the same room just a plane ride away.

Wilhelm eased his bedroom door shut with practiced silence.  He looked over the space like it wasn’t his own.  A framed photo of Eric, stationary set from Christmas, neat and creaseless bedsheets.  Everything how it should be.  Eight years of work to clean up his messes, clean up his mind, and make everything right .  Eight years of progress torn to shreds because somewhere smothered under Wilhelm’s skin, there was still a lovesick child clawing at his ribs like they were a cage, itching to take the reins again.

This is not the way a leader acts , his mother said on the phone, the sounds of a nocturnal Paris humming under the speaker.  I thought you’d matured.

It made Wilhelm leave Simon alone in a cold bed.  He carried the slimy feeling of guilt home with him because he thought so too.  He thought he’d made himself whole again, made himself a man deserving of the crown and fit to bear its burden.  He was wrong.  He fell from his post again, he gave Simon things he couldn’t afford to give.  He would pick up the pieces best he could, he would apologize to Simon and pray with little hope that it would be enough.  He would take his response in stride because that was what leaders did.

First on the cleanup list: The Queen.

Simon woke up cold.  He didn’t need to look to know Wilhelm was gone.  He knew the weight of waking up alone like the back of his hand—like rocks sitting in his stomach, weighing him down.  It took several seconds to shake the blur in his eyes.  He’d been crying last night, he could feel the puffing under his eyes.  He may have even cried in his sleep, it wouldn’t be the first time.

The mid-November wind swelled into the sheer curtain before flicking it to the left.  To the right.  Wilhelm left the balcony door open.  Simon scoffed.

He padded across the icy floor in a clumsy rush to shut it.  Simon rubbed over the raised hairs on his arms and crept into the sitting room.  Everything was as Wilhelm must have left it.  Fireplace shut off, the corner of the carpet pressed flat where Simon had upturned it in his hurry.  Like no one had been here at all.

Maybe that was true, Simon mused as he made his way silently to the kitchenette, maybe he was going insane and had an argument with himself last night.  The thought was almost nicer than the truth.  The truth was that Wilhelm was there.  Wilhelm got upset with him, got him to talk even just a little.  Wilhelm cracked open the rusty little door in his mind and got some truth out of Simon.  Wilhelm kissed him when he cried, so softly and quickly that Simon may have actually imagined that part.

Wilhelm put him to bed, likely had a moment of sobering regret on the balcony, laid out a bottle of water, a glass, a mug, and a columbian blend coffee pod on the counter because columbian was Simon’s favorite and Wilhelm is too considerate for his own good.  Then he left.

Simon understood that so well that he nearly— so nearly —was not upset.

Never in his life had he loaded a Keurig so aggressively.

He watched the brown sludge drip meagerly for a second, two seconds, ten seconds before he gave up.  He pivoted like a puppet on strings back towards the bedroom in a manic hunt for his phone.  He didn’t even know how long ago Wilhelm left, but he deemed it long enough to text him.

Simon: hey

[Delivered 8:22am]

Simon didn’t linger on the thread, he couldn’t stand reading texts from the night before tinged with excitement only to be juxtaposed by this morning’s bleakness.  He took a screenshot and couldn’t say why.  Something about the playful back and forth not even twelve hours ago followed by such a hollow greeting.  It was a little bit perfect.  Deeply ironic and perfect.

A migraine was steadily pounding at his temples and it dragged him back toward the kitchen where his coffee was cooling.  He down a glass of water and took his coffee to the couch like any other morning.  Simon felt the fatigue in his brain spreading to his fingers as they absently switched the channels.  Reality TV, cooking, The Office, bike racing, The Office, The Office, Wilhelm shaking hands with the Prime Minister.  As quickly as Simon jammed the next button like a knee jerk reaction, he wasn’t fast enough.  The image of dimpled cheeks, chapped knuckles, and quaffed hair stung the inside of his eyelids.  It was branded in his vision like he’d looked into the sun.

Simon sipped his coffee because there was nothing else to do.  He wanted to gag at the familiar blend.

Maddie had texted him, he caught her name on his phone screen lingering at the edges of his tunnel vision.  Maddie was texting me on the plane —Simon cringed and took another sip— Screw your head back on .  Simple instructions, really.  Lefty-loosey, righty-tighty and Wilhelm still couldn’t do it.  Instead, the man expected to lead a country had clapped his hands over his ears and twisted his head clean off.

Well, Wilhelm kissed him.  The result was the same.

Simon felt himself grow tense.  His fingers curled tighter around his mug and the tension in his eyebrows did nothing to help the headache.  It grew harder and harder, wavering between seething with anger and choking on self pity.  He had made a home in the numb and neutral middle ground.  Yes, Simon was angry—and yes, he was fucking sad—but neither extreme was winning the emotional tug of war, so he was content to sit still and sip his coffee and wait for his life to come find him again.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Simon jumped and spilled hot coffee all over his lap.

“Fucking— shit! ”

Half his thigh was soaked and a whole Rorschach inkblot stained the white suede couch.  He was gonna have to pay for that.  Probably.

Simon yanked his phone out before he could think, his eyes losing focus once he read the screen.

Wilhelm: Hi.

Simon stared as seconds went by.  The text bubble came and went erratically, popping up and down like whack-a-mole before lingering for so long Simon imagined Wilhelm fast asleep on his phone, cheek torturing Simon with a string of nonsense letters.

The blue on white gave way to the assaulting image of Wilhelm’s dripping wet face taking up his screen.  It was a photo from New York, when they’d gone night swimming.  Wilhelm had crawled out of the pool like a wet cat, shoulders hunched and shivering under a towel when Simon decided he wanted to remember it.

The picture taunted him now.

He slid his thumb in a slow line at the bottom of the screen, right under the sternum.

Silence.

A lot of fucking silence for someone who ducked out in the night after reducing Simon to a puddle of tears and brain full of static.

“Hello?” He broke the silence.  He couldn’t fucking take the deathly silence of the phone on top of the silence in room, none of it fit with the ringing in his ears.

“Hi.”

Fuck.  His voice, raw and quiet like he’d either been crying or screaming.

“Where—” Simon’s voice cracked.  Whatever.  He kissed the calm and collected facade goodbye last night sometime between the front door and the fireplace, “Where are you?”

More silence.  And then:

“The Palace.”

Simon was assaulted by a swirl of memories.  The palace, the rusty window, the neon lights, solo cups, glow sticks in his hair, glow sticks around Wille’s neck.  A hand over his mouth.

“I’m so sorry, Simon.”

You should be.

“Don’t be.”

You’ve been tearing me apart for eight years.  You were just starting to tape me back together…

“I’m sorry.”

Simon screwed his eyes shut.

“Why did you even come?” He tried to keep the desperation contained in his throat.  He didn’t succeed, “If you knew you had work to do there.  Why did you even…”

“I told you,” Wilhelm’s voice was grainy over the phone.  Cold, impersonal, “I wanted to see you.  I thought you needed company—”

“I needed your company!” Simon spat, “And you fucking knew that, like— God —it’s like you dangled that over my head!”

“That’s not—” The gust of air into the speaker was too loud, too assaulting, “I got ahead of myself, Simon, I’m sorry.  I thought I could do both, be there for you in Paris and back to my meetings today but…”

Simon entertained just hanging up now.  Putting an end to the circus show they’d become, but he was never good at letting go.

“But?”

The seconds crept in and wouldn’t leave.  The moments of silence dug holes in his brain just in preparation, just so they were set up to haunt him later when the hours grew dark.

“I can’t do both.  Not like this.”

Simon checked out.

“I can’t prepare to be King all day then catch a redeye to see you even though I fucking want to .”

The carpet was ugly, but Simon stared at it like it was the Mona Lisa.  There was something far more ugly happening over the phone.

“I know I can work this out, Simon, I know I can.  There’s just so much going on right now that I need to sort out, but I know it can work.”

“You know what can work?” Simon asked in a daze, focusing in on a particular fiber of red fabric where it should have been gold, “Us?  Our friendship or…whatever?  You think you can ‘work this out’ after you fucking kissed me?  After you left me in the middle of the night?  Not even a fucking note or anything, you think you’re gonna work that out?!”

“Simon.”

“You left,” It was time to hang up, the stinging behind his eyes told him as much, “You had the choice and you chose—”

“Simon, it’s not—”

“You made the same choice you did back then!” He tasted blood in his mouth, his voice wasn’t his own.  He didn’t remember his voice ever sounding so raspy, so desperate, “Don’t say it’s not the same because it fucking is.”

“Simon.”

He hated that tone.  Pitying.  Sedating.

“I’m sorry, I got carried away.  I thought—I don’t know.  After all that press stuff?  That picture?  I thought I could just get away for a night and give you some company.  I was wrong but—but that doesn’t change anything.  I am still your friend, however you want me to be.  I’m still here for you even when I have work, even when you’re all over the world doing your own thing.  I love you, Simon.  I just got you back.  Please don’t let one night ruin that.”

Simon hardly listened, the static in his ears grew to a deafening hum but still the words I Love You pierced the veil.  He so wished they didn’t.  Wilhelm wanted to be King, wanted to put in the work.  Good for him.  But they could not coexist.  The worst part was that Simon knew that .  They’d struggled through that realization together years ago so…what were they hoping for here?  Simon had been grasping so desperately for any trace of Wilhelm since they fell back together that he hadn’t stopped to consider it.

“There’s nothing to ruin, Wille.”

“Don’t say that.  It’s not true.”

“You made your choice.  Again.  There’s nothing else to—”

“We’re not sixteen, Simon!  It’s not black and white anymore.  We could do it right this time.  If we wanted to.”

“I don’t—” Simon’s voice cracked again.  He sounded pathetic.  He felt pathetic, “I don’t want to come second.”

Wilhelm sighed.  He sounded so sad and so tired.  Good , Simon thought, give him a taste of what he does to me .

“I don’t want all that work, all those years to go to waste.”

I want to make Erik proud.

I was unspoken between them, right where it belonged.

“I guess that’s it, then.”

They were out of places to run, exhausted all their dark corners to retreat into and pretend like they were kids in love and not planets falling in and out of each other’s orbit.

Wilhelm’s silence dragged on.  For a moment, Simon wasn’t sure he’d even give the courtesy of a goodbye.  Until the softest, youngest voice he’d heard from him in a while came hushed through the phone.

“I didn’t want it to be like this.”

Simon hung up the phone.