Work Text:
For a moment, all he can hear is his pulse thrumming and the click, click, click of the cameras still aimed at him, behind him, at Simon. He looks up and sees his mother in the stands, her back straight, her face struggling to remain neutral. But he’s stared at that face so many times now, trying to figure out how to get it to smile at him, to laugh with him, to show him a morsel of affection, so he can see the tug of anger at the corner of her lips, the dark glint in her eye that used to instantly beat him into submission. The Wille from before Christmas would have lowered his head, tucked his tail between his legs, and given into whatever she’s about to demand of him––he’d be silent, he’d go without protest, let himself get locked in a tower and reprimanded for not being the perfect Crown Prince. This Wille, the Wille standing before his peers, family, and country, straightens his posture and lifts his chin up.
I want to be with you.
I love you.
He takes a deep breath, meets his mother’s gaze, and holds his head up high. He won’t let her sequester him to a room somewhere or take back his words. He was silent before––he won’t let it happen again.
It takes another few seconds before people are talking––some of them are clapping for him, some of them are whooping, some of them are whispering to their neighbors with narrowed eyes––and the noise all comes rushing onto him at once, knocking the breath from his lungs. It was a moment of bravery, adrenaline-fueled words spewing from his mouth, that is now wearing off and turning into a tightness in his throat, an itch on his neck where the tie is pressed against him. His hands are shaking, his breaths are coming too quick and too shallow. The world is getting blurry––is he crying?
“Wille,” someone is saying from behind him. It sounds like he’s underwater and he can’t register the voice itself, only that it’s saying his name. He thinks it might be Malin here to forcibly yank him away again like the day his snow globe broke, but the hand that wraps around his elbow is gentle and caring, not harsh like her grip had been that day.
He’s being pulled away from the podium, far from the crowd, down stone steps, and then everything is a blur of green until he’s gently pushed down onto a bench, his back hitting cold metal as he goes down. He’s gasping for breath, still unsure of his surroundings, still registering that there’s a voice in his ear.
God, he should have talked to Simon about this before he made that speech.
I want to be with you.
I love you.
He hadn’t even said it back––why hadn’t he said it back? What if Simon didn’t want to be public anymore? What if Wille has just ruined everything in a misguided attempt to fix what he had broken?
“Wille,” that voice says again, in front him now.
He blinks tears back from his eyes, his breathing still ragged, as he tries to focus on the shape in front of him.
“Breathe with me, okay?”
There’s a hand over his where he’s anxiously rubbing his chest, another hand swiftly undoing the knot on his tie and loosening his collar, dropping the tie to the ground. The eyes staring into his are brown and familiar, the unruly mess of curls are ones his fingers have run through before in dreams, in reality, in late night fantasies of what if, what if. His stomach is churning and bile is creeping up his throat, but the eyes in front of him are eyes he knows better than his own.
Simon.
“‘M gonna be sick,” Wille chokes, eyes closing as his stomach churns more violently than before. Simon nods and takes a step back so Wille can dry heave over the grass beside him. Nothing comes up––he was too nervous to eat before his speech.
The hand that was on his chest moves to his back, rubbing soothing circles there as he continues to heave. Simon sits next to him on the bench, just rubbing circles and waiting for Wille to be ready to be a functioning human again. Fuck, Simon was never supposed to see him like this––Simon was never supposed to know how Wille gets when all of the pressure becomes too much, when there are too many eyes on him, too many responsibilities pushing down on his chest until he can’t even manage to breathe.
“Keep breathing, Wille, that’s it,” Simon is saying, his voice patient and calm.
Do better, Wilhelm. Stop being dramatic, Wilhelm. Get a hold of yourself, Wilhelm.
His pushes his mother’s voice from his mind and focuses on Simon’s instead, focusing on the loving tone and the way his lips move around his name when it spills from his lips.
“There you go,” Simon says, his face coming more into focus now, his eyes blown wide and slightly panicked but still so fond that it makes Wille feel like he needs to look away.
“I’m sorry,” Wille manages, his breathing becoming more regular.
Simon is shaking his head before Wille even finishes his sentence. “Don’t––Wille, it’s okay. I promise.”
Wille nods, but speaking more than those two words feels impossible.
“Can I hold you?” Simon asks.
He nods again, collapsing against Simon’s chest the moment Simon’s arms open for him to slip into. Simon wraps his arms securely around Wille’s shaky frame, letting Wille bury his face into the crook of Simon’s neck and breathe him in.
He’s missed this. God, he’s missed this.
“I should…” he takes a deep breath. Starts again. “What did you think?”
“Of your speech?”
Wille nods and pulls back a bit, hoping that Simon’s face might reveal how he’s feeling about it. He’s expecting to see disappointment or anger across his features, or even the hurt he’s grown so accustomed to since Christmas, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips instead.
He hums thoughtfully and pushes some of Wille’s hair back. “I think you were really brave,” he says after a moment. “I think that your mom is gonna pissed, but I’m proud of you.” He considers for a moment. “I hope you didn’t…I know I told you I couldn’t be a secret before Christmas, but I meant what I said before your speech, you know? I never––I didn’t need you to come out for me.”
“I didn’t come out for you,” Wille whispers. Simon furrows his brow. Wille wants to smooth it out with his thumbs and, after a moment, he realizes that he can. “I came out because it was the right thing to do. Everything was fake, you know? I was fake. I just…I didn’t want to be fake anymore.”
“You’re not fake,” Simon assures him, smiling again, his hands coming up around Wille’s where they’re resting against Simon’s cheeks. “You’re real, Wille, and so are we. So is this. If you want it to be.”
Wille smiles back at him, still a bit shakily, but it feels good to smile like this. The weight is off his chest and, even though he still has to face his mother’s wrath sooner or later, he knows it’s worth it. “We’re real,” he echoes.
Simon continues to smile at him for a moment before pulling him into a soft, short kiss, their lips barely grazing as they refuse to stop smiling at each other. When he pulls back, there’s that mischievous glint in his eyes that Wille fell in love with all of those months ago and that he’s fallen in love with again and again every single day he’s been at Hillerska.
“What did you think of what I said?” Simon asks, smirking. “Before your speech?”
I love you.
Simon is a little shit, but Wille can be, too. “I…I hope you have a nice Christmas.”
Simon gapes at him for a moment before breaking into semi-deranged laughter, his head falling against Wille’s chest as they both chuckle together. He doesn’t know if they’re laughing at the pain they’ve both felt radiating through them these past three months or the absurdity of their situation, but it feels good to laugh with Simon like this: just the two of them, no prying eyes, no cameras, no August or Sara or Markus to tell them to stop. He could laugh forever with Simon, he thinks, and that thought used to terrify him, but all it does now is make him smile wider.
“Too soon?”
Simon shakes his head and knocks his shoulder playfully. “Way too fucking soon,” he stays, still grinning.
They’re silent for a moment, catching their breaths from their laughter, but their bodies are still pressed together. “I love you, too,” Wille tells him in a whisper.
Simon’s face softens, his eyes shining. “Yeah? Still?”
“Yeah,” Wille repeats, “always.”
When Simon pulls him into another kiss, Wille goes readily.
His mother will upset, the press will be overwhelming, and he’ll probably have to do another interview. August is still a threat with those pill bottles in his arsenal, Sara has quite a bit of explaining to do, and everything that comes after this moment will certainly be an uphill battle filled with more drama, more disappointment, more anxiety, and more frustration. But he and Simon are not fake, and Simon loves him back. So, even through all of that darkness, he knows there will be more moments like this––moments filled with laughter, dates at the pizzeria in Bjärstad, ridiculous Hillerska parties with Simon on his arm. He and Simon are not fake and that makes all the difference. Whatever comes next, whatever the Crown throws at him, he’ll be ready because he’ll always have Simon by his side.