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The first thing that Wilhelm registers when he slowly drifts toward consciousness is warmth.
There’s warm reds dancing in his vision behind closed eyelids and a weight draped across his body. He feels hot, steady breaths fanning across the back of his neck. Every part of his senses is enveloped in a blanket of pure, encompassing warmth.
It’s a familiar kind of warmth, the kind that sends snapshots of memories from his childhood through his mind like a film tape in the midst of his dreamy haze. It’s the kind he felt as a child whenever he would wake up to the sound of curtains opening and the sun shining across his face, Erik’s singsong voice ringing throughout his bedroom: “Good morning, sleepyhead.” The kind he felt whenever Erik would chase him down the beaches of Öland until they were burnt red and breathless from joyful laughter, or whenever he would sit in the palace gardens and watch his favorite staff members tend to the assorted flora scattered about the grounds. It’s the kind he felt from stolen kisses while bathed in gold and giddy smiles shared across a classroom.
Wilhelm cracks his eyes open to the sunrise peeking through the curtains, the rays painting his room in a pleasant glow. The white silk of his bedsheets shine gold and the chandelier above his head sends a cascade of light across the polished hardwood floors and carpet of his palace bedroom. There’s a purple hoodie draped over the back of his desk chair.
His lips stretch into a soft smile, but before he can sink back into the mattress, an arm snakes around his waist from behind and lips are pressed into the side of his neck. Wilhelm shivers despite the weight of the luxury duvet pulled up to his chest.
He blinks his eyes open when he feels a hot breath against his ear. “God morgon,” Simon murmurs, voice low and raspy from residual sleep. Wille feels the rumble of his voice against his back, and he sighs, a small thrill running up his spine.
“God morgon,” he replies back.
“Sleep well?”
Wille hums in response. “You?”
“Mhm.” Another kiss. “Scared the shit out of me when you laughed in your sleep, though.”
Wille snorts. “I did not.”
He feels Simon’s smile against his skin. “You should’ve warned me earlier,” he laughs. “No one wants to wake up to that in the middle of the night.”
That draws a fit of chuckles out of Wille, who barely lets out a “fuck off” as Simon squeezes his middle and the room becomes filled with the sounds of their shared laughter. It subsides after a moment until the only noise that's heard is their breathing, Simon’s chest still pressed to Wille’s back. They laze in the bubble they have created, wrapped around each other.
Simon kisses a spot behind Wille’s ear and breaks the silence. “We should get ready. I don’t think it would look good for either of us to miss the opening ceremony.”
Wille trails his hand down Simon’s forearm and intertwines their fingers, trapping Simon’s hand against his chest. “Hmm. I think their lead soloist can take a day off.”
“Now that’s selfish.”
“Weren’t you the one saying we could skip classes not too long ago? Clearly you’re a bad influence on me,” he teases.
“Wille.”
“Simme.”
Simon’s attempts to wrench himself free from Wille’s grip. “Your mother will have my head.”
“I’ll protect you.”
“We have a half hour to be in our uniforms and out the door.”
“That’s plenty of time.”
Simon snorts and Wille can almost hear him rolling his eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“Mhm, love you too,” he retorts, smirking. He shifts slightly and sinks back into the bed, closing his eyes, the weight of Simon’s body and the warmth from the sun surrounding him in a safe cocoon.
The world remains still for about ten seconds before Wille feels lips press against his neck once again, this time at a spot below his ear. Simon starts leaving a trail of wet kisses down the side of his neck, light and tender. His breath catches.
He has an inkling of what Simon is trying to do, but he can’t muster the will to stop him when it feels this good. Every point where they are touching leaves him buzzing with electricity but he doesn’t dare move; his limbs are heavy and his mind is blank, occupied only by the sensation of the boy behind him blanketing his skin with affection and his hand fitting perfectly beneath Wille’s against his bare chest, like two tailored magnets.
Once Simon’s mouth reaches the space where his neck meets his shoulder, Wille feels his lips part and his tongue brush against his skin, and he gasps. Adrenaline rushes into his veins. His grip on Simon’s hand loosens.
Simon slowly drags his hand from Wille’s grasp and trails it down his torso, all the while pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses across the length of his shoulder. There are stars dancing in Wille’s vision and he feels drunk, even knowing he’s fully sober.
Simon’s hand travels towards Wille’s hip and stills just before the waistband of his pajama pants. There’s a brief, almost unnoticeable pause in Simon’s movements, before Wille feels Simon’s thumb and forefinger pinch the skin of his hip between both fingers.
He yelps and shoves a cackling Simon off of him, rolling onto his back and draping an arm over what he knows is a deep blush crawling onto his heated face.
“Asshole,” he huffs—his smile betraying any frustration behind the word—and playfully swats his hands at Simon’s attempts to pry his arm away from his face. Eventually, he gives in, and his arm is guided away from his face to rest on top of the sheets covering his torso. He slowly opens his eyes and meets the deep brown ones of his lover, crinkled at the corners as his laughter subsides into chuckles, for the first time that day. All embarrassment seems to leave his body.
Simon lays his arms across Wille’s chest, one hand placed on top of the other, and props his chin on top of them.
“I win,” he sings, the look of a spoiled child who just got their way playing across his features—raised eyebrows and a devilish smirk. The little shit.
Wille rolls his eyes and lightly shoves Simon’s face, who only chuckles again and rests his chin back on top of his hands. His skin glows in the morning light. His smile rivals the sun outside his window. Wille swears his heart almost explodes.
“Hi,” Simon says, dark eyes shining.
“Hi,” Wille echoes, and reaches a hand out to delicately brush a curl behind Simon’s ear. Simon leans into the touch, his eyes briefly fluttering shut. His fingers hover behind the shell of his ear before Simon suddenly detaches his hands from Wille’s chest, pushes himself up on his elbows, and connects their lips. Wille inhales sharply, frozen for only a moment before he melts, thawing under Simon’s touch. His hands come up to tangle in Simon’s curls at the back of his head.
The moment ends too soon when Simon abruptly pulls back, and Wille mourns the loss of contact. “Okay,” he says breathlessly, chuckling, “there’s your good morning kiss. Now get up, dumbass.” He tugs on Wille’s arm and moves to leave the bed.
“Wait… Simme—” Wille pleads, reluctant to break their little bubble so soon and moves a hand to the back of Simon’s neck to direct his eyes back to Wille’s. “Wait, hold on, just five more minutes?” His fingers play with the curls at the base of Simon’s skull in an attempt to get him to stay.
Simon sends him a warning look. “We’re gonna be late.”
Placing his other hand against Simon’s neck, Wille pulls his face closer until their noses brush. “Snälla,” he murmurs into the space between their lips, before reaching up and pressing a soft kiss against the corner of Simon’s mouth. He hears Simon’s breath catch, and leaves another against the opposite corner of his mouth, his cheekbones, his eyebrow, his nose, showering his face with light kisses until Simon stops him by pressing a hand over Wille’s mouth. Their foreheads brush against each other.
“Five more minutes,” Simon whispers.
Underneath Simon’s palm, Wille smiles, victorious. Simon drops his hand then, letting it rest against Wille’s ribcage, and closes the distance between them. Their lips move together slowly, until time catches up to them and fire ignites inside Wille’s chest. He drags one hand from Simon’s neck into his hair, threading his fingers through the messy curls, and the other across his bare shoulders, pressing him ever so closer. Simon lets out a soft moan at the action, before drawing his lips back and trailing them in a hot and eager path down his jaw, his neck, his throat. Wille lets his head drop back into the pillow and his mouth fall open, the sensation leaving him breathless.
“Wilhelm.”
He thinks he hears a faint knock at the door, but promptly ignores it as he feels Simon’s teeth scrape against his collarbone, and the rest of the world becomes white noise. There are fireworks exploding behind his closed eyelids. He grabs Simon’s face between his hands and guides him back to his own lips. Simon moves so that one of his legs slots in between both of Wille’s, hovering over him, forearms braced against either side of Wille’s head. He lowers himself and drops all of his weight on top of Wille, whose hands wander the length of Simon’s back before settling below his shoulder blades, pinning his heartbeat against Wille’s own. It’s already such a familiar song and dance, one he would so gladly lose himself in over and over and over again.
“Wilhelm.”
He wants nothing more than this for the rest of his life: his hands on Simon, Simon’s hands on him, the two of them learning and relearning each other in a haze of pure bliss. Their breaths mingle together and their bodies are intertwined from head to toe. He’s never felt so safe, so wanted, so in love, so—
“Crown Prince Wilhelm!”
A resounding knock.
Wilhelm’s eyes fly open, blinking rapidly in the muffled light from the clouded sky outside his window, and the first thing they focus on is his arm, outstretched across the other side of the bed, the sheets cold beneath his fingers. His brain clocks his labored breaths and the empty space beside him.
What the hell?
He runs his fingertips over the sheets, and feels nothing but cold, unwrinkled fabric . A shiver runs through his body. Not the pleasant kind.
Reality comes crashing in, then. The blissful haze vanishes, and instead his brain fills with reminders of the video and news headlines and whispers behind his back and the statement and I don't want to be anyone’s secret.
Right.
As his brain catches up with him, he loosely grips the sheet in a trembling hand, exhaling. “I…” he says hoarsely, clearing his throat. “I’m up.”
The voice responds from behind his bedroom door, both concerned and urgent, “Are you ill, sir?”
Wilhelm shakes his head, before realizing his bodyguard can’t see him. “I’m fine. Malin,” he replies. “Am I late?”
“Not quite yet, sir. Her Majesty has requested your presence at the palace entrance in 20 minutes to see you off to Hillerska. A car is waiting for you.”
He swallows roughly. “I’ll be there. Tack, Malin.”
“Tack.”
It’s only then that Wilhelm realizes his eyes are burning. Tears prick at the corners, and he swallows them down, listening to Malin’s receding footsteps fade out of the background.
Sniffling, he shifts so that he’s laying on his back, staring at the crystal chandelier above his bed, and brushes a hand over his face with a heavy sigh. He lowers his hand to rest over his heart, rubbing back and forth in an attempt to soothe his uneven breaths. He repeats the action for a minute. Two minutes. It’s only when Wilhelm realizes he’s surely testing his mother’s patience that he finally drags himself out of his bed.
The cool air hits his bare torso instantly and he shivers, arms coming up to rub at his shoulders as he pads slowly towards his desk. The burgundy blazer lays draped over the back of his desk chair, along with the rest of his uniform. He runs his hand over the cold, tailored fabric, remembering the last time he had worn it.
I love you.
Hope you have a nice Christmas.
His eyes burn again and he makes the mistake of glancing back towards his bed. The sheets are a dull gray. Only one side is unmade.
A shaky exhale. He fishes out his dress shirt from underneath the blazer.
About fifteen minutes later, dressed in his uniform and hair gelled back from his face, he stands in front of his nightstand. Erik’s watch stares back at him. He takes the object between his fingers and slips it over his wrist, latching it closed. The cool metal seeps into his skin and he stares at it, mirror-sheen glinting in the dull morning light.
The watch used to dangle off his wrist loosely, and he revered the extra space between his pulse point and the metal like silent prayer, like it was the last part of his brother’s presence that he could hold on to. His stomach twists at the way the watch now fits perfectly.
Wilhelm reaches for his coat from the bed and shrugs it on. As he moves to leave his bedroom, he spares one last glance toward the half-made bed, suppressing the urge to return to it and attempt to fall back into blissful ignorance.
The grand, lifeless room around him looks like it wants to swallow him whole, and he realizes for the first time, before he leaves it behind for the next several months, that he’s not going to miss it.
Wille huffs, shoulders rising and dropping with the action, and turns on his heel. The door closes behind him, and the sound echoes throughout the massive, endless hallways of Drottningholm.
He still feels the phantom sensation of Simon’s hands on him, and loathes to return to the version of their life where they pretend that nothing happened between them, instead of the version he conjured up in his head the night before. Wille has spent his whole life pretending, to the point where it feels natural, but that was when he still had Erik. When he still had Simon.
In a daze, he makes the rest of the walk towards the palace entrance, where his mother is waiting. He feels something vibrate against his thigh.
Cold, hard ice traps his heart in an iron grip, but when Wilhelm grabs his phone from his pocket and reads the message at the top of the screen, it thaws. Just barely. The corner of his mouth twitches up.
Simon:
Hope you had a nice Christmas, Wille <3