Work Text:
Wille always thought that if he ever got the chance to sleep beside Simon again, it would be the most blissfully restful sleep of his life.
He had no basis for this assumption, of course; he’d barely been lucid the first time Simon somehow managed to frogmarch him into his bed, and after, in those precious few moments before they had to emerge into the day, he’d been too wonderstruck by the boy beside him to fall back asleep. And yet Wille felt so certain that he would be overcome with a sense of peace if they found their way back to each other, because that’s just how he always felt around Simon.
How naive, he thought now, watching the gentle rise and fall of Simon’s chest in the dark. How utterly ridiculous to think that I could ever have this.
The curtains had remained shut since the early afternoon; at the time, it felt a bit like taking back something that had been stolen from them, a small victory that was just theirs. Now, he wished that he at least had a bit of moonlight to better make out the details of Simon’s face. Not that he needed more light to see the face that’s been seared into his memory, but still. This might be his last opportunity to watch Simon as he slept, and he didn’t want to miss a single thing.
Despite his longing for a bit more light, Wille wouldn’t dare get out of bed to open the curtains even a crack. He didn’t want to risk waking Simon up, and he didn’t want to rupture the cocoon of safety that ensconced them both.
Wille’s watch was sitting on his desk, but he guessed that Simon had drifted off around an hour ago. In the time since, Wille had sifted through their time together with the precious care and detail of an archivist. This whole night felt like a goodbye—like a just one more time, because I love you too much to let you go without it—and if that was the case, Wille needed to find a way to move forward. He’d learned the hard way that it was unfair to them both for him to stew in this heartache.
So instead he was reaching into his new toolbox, equipped during his sessions with Boris. During one of their sessions, Wille was in a particularly painful bout of grief, and he could barely think for the thoughts of Erik swirling around his mind.
“How about this,” Boris had offered gently. “Why don’t you try thinking through these memories in chronological order? Maybe applying some order to the chaos will help settle your mind.”
And so he had; like skimming through the pages of a book, he sifted through memories from the first Christmas he could remember, the first state visit he was allowed to attend, the first time Erik pulled him up onto the broad back of his horse and trotted around the paddock. A senseless array before, but when put into Boris’ framework, he could tease out what he was really longing for: a time when he and Erik were both children, when they could goof off and play and tease, before Erik started to feel the weight of a nation on his shoulders.
It had brought Wille more comfort than he knew how to convey, and so he thought it couldn’t hurt to try again.
Wille thought about Simon’s solo on his very first day at Hillerska, and his sharp criticisms in Civics class. He thought about the feeling of Simon’s surprised, parted mouth under his palm, the unfamiliar gravity pulling him into the other boy’s space. He recalled shared smiles and stolen kisses and easy laughter.
And of course, the precious few mementos he had from their time together—a paltry folder of photos, a New York Opera t-shirt Simon forgot in the locker room one day after rowing practice. Wille meant to return it—perhaps even use it as an excuse to invite Simon back to his room—and then their lives fell apart, and that faint hint of Simon’s scent was the only thing that could make him even consider trying to sleep.
That was the cruelest part of all of this, if this really was the end of the road for them. Wille had so little to cling to that reminded him of Simon, of the brief, beautiful thing they shared. They had exchanged no gifts, no love letters in their too-short time together. Just a few photos, a few blissful moments, a handful of choir melodies in his head—one of which, apparently, was written for him.
Days behind us, years gone by
They say all wounds will heal with time
Hadn’t Simon written him a love letter, in his own way?
Wille could just barely map out Simon’s features in the dim light, but he could tell that the other boy’s face was smoothed serenely with sleep. In this moment of perfect stillness, he could believe that they would heal from this eventually. Simon’s love had made him happier, braver, and he would take that goodness forward with him, even if they couldn’t be together beyond tonight.
I got hurt, I lost myself
I was lost before I found my way
A bolt of guilt lanced through Wille’s chest. That was his doing, hurting Simon and leaving him to find his way on his own. Even if Simon couldn’t be his, even if he could only offer support from afar, Wille would do everything in his power to ensure that he never felt abandoned like that again. If Simon would even allow that, Wille mused miserably.
What we had and who we were
I can't forget all the good we shared
If you ask me about what stayed
The memories will never fade
At one point, Wille was so sure that he was alone in this excruciating heartbreak. If he’s moved on so soon, what did I mean to him? he had asked Felice indignantly, taunted by the mere presence of Marcus with them at the shooting range. How could Simon even stomach the prospect of going on a date with someone else, when the ashes of their love were still smoldering all around them?
But these lyrics told him another story; they let him peek behind Simon’s brave facade to see the fresh scarring over his heart, the barely calloused wound that matched his own. Wille had thought that he was alone at the edge of a great chasm of longing, and this song had lifted the fog from in front of his eyes, revealing Simon on the opposite bank, just as lonely in his heartbreak.
Wille’s throat tightened as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he swallowed the emotion down in thick gulps. The last thing he needed was to rouse Simon in the middle of the night because he was crying—he didn’t want Simon to comfort him, to change his mind about going to the police. He wanted Simon to be able to leave in the morning, comforted in the knowledge that at least they had one last perfect night together.
They may not have much to hold onto, but they’d always have this understanding—that what they had was rare, precious, irreplaceable. Maybe Simon would even jot down the lyrics to his song for him, as a parting gift.
***************************
One month later
Once again, Wille was lying awake long after he should’ve fallen asleep. It was strange to be back in this bed, in a room that had stopped feeling like home to him a long time ago. It was all too big, too grand, too much; he’d come to appreciate the simple comfort of his dorm room, of the twin bed that was just wide enough that he and Simon could fit in it but just narrow enough that there was hardly a place where they weren’t touching. Here, in this palatial bed, it felt like Simon could slip away if he so much as blinked.
But he hadn’t slipped away; Simon was flopped on his stomach, dozing softly, gentle snores escaping his parted lips. The curtains were drawn, allowing gossamer beams of moonlight to wash over them both. Up here on the third story of the palace, there was no need for the precaution of drapes; that was one thing this room had over his dorm at Hillerska, Wille conceded.
Wille shifted onto his side so he could take in Simon’s sleeping form more fully. He’d spent the better part of the last month sharing a bed with his boyfriend, but he still couldn’t get over the simple miracle of it. The sleepless nights still came, of course—set off by a painful stab of grief or a particularly heated conversation with his mother—but when the restlessness tugged at his edges, he could match his breathing to Simon’s until his mind finally emptied out.
Wille rested his palm on the bed in between them, imagining that he was holding Simon’s hand. He’d learned that Simon was a light sleeper, and he didn’t want to reach for him and risk waking him up. Still, even the suggestion of contact was enough to ease some of the tightly coiled tension in his chest.
On this particular night, the sleeplessness was brought on by a comment from his mother that had been playing in his head on a loop. They’d been on a break in between Simon’s etiquette and media training sessions, when Wille overheard a tense whisper from the adjacent hallway. He’d stepped closer to the door and caught a snippet of a phone call between his mother and someone else, probably Jan-Olof.
“—such a waste of resources,” she’d been saying. “How long will Simon even be a part of his life? Wille will move on, or Simon’s feelings will change, and this will have all been for nothing.”
Wille didn’t think Simon had heard, too preoccupied with his conversation with Minou about what to expect from media training. Wille hadn’t known how to tell him. He would, eventually—no more secrets between us, and all that—but he knew that Simon already felt out of his element here, and he didn’t want to make him feel even more unwelcome.
On some level, Wille knew that his mother couldn’t understand how much Wille loved Simon because they didn’t talk about stuff like that, feelings and aspirations and fears. Maybe, if he was more open with her, she wouldn’t be so dismissive of their relationship. She would see that Wille wasn’t like her—this wasn’t some unfortunate romance that he wanted to erase from the record, some shameful secret he wanted to hide under the rug. The luxury of secrets had been stolen from him, and anyway, he’d never been ashamed of his love for Simon. Confused and overwhelmed, at times, but never ashamed.
Wille felt so sure that there must be a way to get her to understand. They were cut from the same cloth after all; how could she not see that theirs was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of love? And yet, on nights like this, Wille couldn’t help but wonder what she knew that he didn’t, what she saw that he couldn’t. What if there was some crack in the foundation that Wille was too deliriously lovestruck to see?
Wille flopped onto his back, training his gaze on the chandelier above him that glittered faintly in the moonlight. He didn’t want these swirling uncertainties to tangle with the image of Simon sleeping serenely in his mind.
Doubts creeped up into his mind like vines, but Wille knew he could fight them; he had a month’s worth of memories he could slip into like a warm bath, an embarrassment of riches compared to the paltry collection he had squirreled away before his speech. A month’s worth of lingering embraces and sun-drenched afternoons, a month’s worth of I love you’s exchanged sleepily, exuberantly, casually, repeatedly. He had a month’s worth of photos, enough to fill countless volumes. What we were, no one can rewrite.
Wille swiped an arm out blindly, his hand closing around his phone where it was resting on the nightstand. When he flipped it open, he was greeted by his lock screen—a photo of him smiling goofily, Simon’s face scrunched up as he pressed a kiss to Wille’s cheek. He smiled at the memory, at this piece of proof that maybe what they had was bigger than any of his mother’s doubts.
Sleep wasn’t anywhere on the horizon, so he sat up against his headboard so that he could page through his photo library more comfortably. He thought he was moving quietly enough, but just as he settled into his new position, he heard a telltale sharp intake of breath and a soft, “Hmm?”
Fuck. “It’s nothing, Simon, go back to sleep,” Wille soothed, running a gentle hand through the boy’s curls. He could already tell that it was too late, though—Simon was shifting sluggishly, moving to lean against his side.
“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” Simon murmured against his collarbone.
Wille wound an arm around Simon’s shoulders, pulling him even closer.
“It’s just…something my mom said about us earlier,” Wille admitted after a moment. “About how she doesn’t think we’re gonna last. I want to believe that she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but sometimes she just gets in my head.”
“I get that,” Simon said sleepily, nuzzling his head into the crook of Wille’s neck. “She’s your mom it’s. ‘s normal to want her to be on your side.”
“Exactly,” Wille agreed. He pressed a kiss to the crown of Simon’s head, lingering to inhale the soft coconut scent that always clung to his curls. “I wish she didn’t underestimate us, but I don’t want to have to beg for her understanding, either.”
They say all wounds will heal with time.
Simon snorted, startling Wille out of his dour thoughts. “What?” Wille asked, laughing lightly in spite of himself.
“Just thinking that maybe she’d understand if Jan-Olof hadn’t swapped the song at the Jubilee ceremony.”
“Would've been a hell of a way to declare your intentions for her son.”
"Intentions?" Simon echoed. "You make it sound like I was courting you."
"Weren't you?" Wille countered playfully.
Simon laughed again, the warmth of it ghosting across Wille’s chest. It loosened the last knots of tension there, giving way to the exhaustion that had eluded him all night. Wille wriggled down until he was lying on his back again, pulling Simon to nestle against his side. As he matched his breathing to Simon’s, as he finally felt sleep rolling over him like a fog, he heard Simon’s voice, far away and dreamlike.
“We’ll convince her,” Simon murmured. “We’ll convince them all.”