Archive of Our Own

Wille’s phone is going off. It’s going off loudly. 

He blinks awake, grabbing blindly for it in the dark. He can’t quite make out the numbers, bleary as he is, but he picks up, anyway.

He has learned to be grateful for the people that pick up in the middle of the night.

“Hello? Who is this?”

The voice on the other end of the line is loopy and fearful. “Wille? Er– Crown Prince Wilhelm? Of… Sweden? Is that you?” The person sounds vaguely familiar, but in his tired state, Wille can’t quite place it.

“Ah, yeah. Who is this?” He asks again.

“Ayub. Ayub, Simon’s friend.”

And suddenly, Wille is very awake.

It’s been a few days since he gave his impromptu speech at the jubilee, and although he and Simon are ‘deliriously happy in gay love’ as he would put it, Wille has still not managed to get back into Simon’s friends’ good graces. Which means, the only reason they’d be calling is if…

“What’s wrong?” Wille asks, feeling around for his shoes.

“We – uh, I mean, Simme texted me and asked if I wanted to get drunk, and then I came over, and we did shots or whatever, and then we went on a walk, and I went to go take a piss and when I came back, Simon was gone.”

Lots of things hit Wille at once. Firstly: Simon? Drunk? Second: Simon, gone. Third: I have to find him. 

It’s the first two things that take precedence for him. Wille only knows bits and pieces (and by bits and pieces, he means fuck all) of Simon’s relationship with his father and how that affects his interest in drinking, but he does know his boyfriend doesn’t just call his best friend out of the blue to find out if they want to get shitfaced.

The second thing: his heart rate’s picking up and images of Simon sprawled in a puddle of sick, unmoving, are flashing through his head at light speed.

He’s lacing his sneakers and throwing on the purple hoodie tossed over the back of his chair – he’d meant to bring it back to Simon, but right now, he just wants to have him close. Especially when–

There’s a noticeable tremor in Wille’s voice as he asks Ayub, “he’s missing, then?” 

He’s debating whether to call the police – but then, they aren’t on the best of terms since the whole fiasco with Sara and having to pretend it was a prank call the whole time.

Ayub stammers on the other end, “well, he’s not missing, per se, he just isn’t here. And he’s not answering my calls. His phone’s not off, though.”

He knows the third floorboard outside his door creaks, so Wille carefully sidesteps it so as not to alert the others in the hall where he’s going. “Did he say anything about going anywhere?” He asks. Simon is a very logical person. He wouldn’t disappear without telling anyone. “Or indicate the direction he was headed?

“No, man, but listen, he was getting pretty upset near the end, like, starting to cry and shit. I don’t think he’s in the greatest state of mind right now.”

This draws Wille up short. He thumbs through his memory, trying to remember the last time he’d seen Simon cry. When he realizes he can’t recall one, his worry increases. 

“He doesn’t do that often, I take it?” He asks, carefully. He doesn’t want to seem inattentive. 

But then – “ha, no. I think the last time I saw him cry was like, three years ago, when they ran out of Skittles at the drugstore down the road. And that was after he didn’t sleep for a good three days.”

Wille notices Ayub carefully does not mention the aftermath of finding out about Sara, and August, and everything that went with that. He wonders if Simon even cried around Ayub and Rosh at all, or if he called them after the fact. 

“Listen,” Wille says, shoving open the door of Forest Ridge house. “Where are you? I’m coming to help. Did you also call Rosh?”

Ayub sounds sheepish as he says, “ah, no. She doesn’t really approve of the whole… drinking thing. I’m, uh…” he trails off and Wille hears him mutter to himself before coming back to the phone. “Not sure. Nearby Hillerska.”

Wille had not been expecting this. “ How nearby?” He’d been working out bus fees and how quickly he could get an Uber to Bjarstad, but if Simon was just a few minutes away…

Sudden images of finding him in various states of distress, in holding him close and carding his fingers through Simon’s hair flash through Wille’s mind. 

“Close, like, I can literally see you right now.”

Wille stops walking. “Where are you?”

“Bottom of the hill.”

He looks down and sees a short figure waving at him. Wille hangs up and considers the walk down. The hill is somewhat steep and it would make more sense to go down the switchbacks carved into it, but Wille has no time to think about the dangers of erosion right now.

He gets to Ayub in a matter of moments, chest only sort of heaving. “Where did you last see him?” Wille asks, anxiety bleeding into his voice. Ayub looks around. “We were just sort of walking along this road, and I went to go pee over there,” he indicates a spot of trees, “and then when I turn around, poof! Gone.”

Wille makes a slow turn, surveying the terrain. Perhaps he’ll notice something Ayub did not, with his sober eyes. He does not, and the anxiety only mounts as he stuffs his hands into Simon’s hoodie’s pocket. Some evil part of his mind wonders if this is the last he’ll ever hear of Simon, if he’s gone missing and Wille will never see him again, if the hoodie is the only thing he’ll have to hold on to.

He shakes his head. They’ve worked entirely too hard on this for Simon to go and get kidnapped without Wille at least trying to find him.

He turns to Ayub. “Okay, you go that way,” he indicates north, “and I’ll go that way.” He points south. “If you find him, text me. And obviously, I’ll do the same. If the sun starts coming up and we still haven’t found him, we call Rosh. Deal?”

Even as Ayub nods in agreement, Wille wants to amend the deal. He wants to bring out the entire royal secret service to find Simon. He wants to call every connection he has. It is perhaps a little concerning how far he’s willing to go for this boy.

He sets off down the path, eyes roving over every bush and hiding place. He doesn’t know what he’s searching for, exactly – a telltale flash of brown curls (which will be invisible in the dark, he thinks, as he switches his phone’s flashlight on), a plaid button down hanging over a tree branch – anything that will give him anything. 

It must be half an hour later and two more loops around the campus (running into Ayub once) when Wille’s phone rings again. When the caller ID reads as Simon, he nearly drops the phone. 

“Simon?” He asks, frantic. “Simme, are you okay?”

“Wille,” comes the slurred response. “Wille, I missed you.” 

“Simon, where are you?”

There’s a small laugh. “You aren’t listening. Nobody does, though, so I guess it’s okay. I missed you. I missed you.”

Wille wrinkles his brow. “Simme, what are you talking about? Of course I’m listening, I’ll always listen to you. But you need to tell me where you are so I can find you.”

A smaller laugh. “The water is cold today. So you know. Are you listening? I miss you. I love you.” 

He hangs up and Wille is off like a shot.

The water is cold today. So you know. 

Of course, of course. Leaves crunch beneath his feet. He’s so fucking stupid. The scent of lake water, brackish and old, wafts around him. How could he have missed there?

Wille draws up short at the shoreline. He fumbles for his phone, flicks the flashlight on. And –

Curled in a puddle of moonlight is Simon. He’s rocking back and forth slowly, singing to himself and seemingly lost in his own head. 

“Simon!” Wille calls, dashing forward. His boyfriend’s head snaps up to lock eyes with him, and Wille feels something in him shatter at the clear and utter relief that forms there. 

“Wille!” Simon calls back. “You came!” He says, and Wille comes to rest on his knees at Simon’s side, his hands fluttering around Simon’s body, wanting to touch and hold and kiss but not knowing what’s allowed.

“Of course I did,” Wille says, softly. He notes the dried tear tracks on Simon’s face, the red rimming his eyes. 

Simon throws his arms around Wille, burying his face in his hoodie. “I’m so glad you came,” Simon says. “I’m so glad you listened.”

Wille’s torn between wanting to hold Simon for hours and wanting to look him in the eye. He settles for carefully extricating Simon’s arms from around his waist and taking his hands. 

“Simme,” he asks, softly, anxiously. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Even with Simon there in front of him, Wille can’t help but picture the worst. Linda, fallen ill. August, attacking Simon’s house. Simon’s father, come to call.

Somehow, what he says is worse.

“No one is listening anymore,” he says, almost cheerfully. “They stopped, and I don’t know what I did. Mama doesn’t listen when I tell her I don’t want to see Sara. Sara doesn’t listen when I tell her I can’t trust her anymore. Marcus didn’t listen when I asked to take it slow. Even–” Simon’s voice breaks, and tears well up in his eyes. “Even you don’t listen. You didn’t. I asked you to listen, I asked you to not keep me a secret, and then I asked you to stop loving me, and you didn’t do either of those things.”

The words fracture something in Wille’s heart. There’s dirt on his palms and smudging on Simon’s face. “Simme?”

“And it’s okay, now,” Simon says, pulling away and wrapping his arms around himself. Wille recognises the same self-soothing method he often employs and something in him aches even harder. 

“It’s okay, because it’s all over, and I’m happy, and you’re happy, and I love you and you love me, and it’s all okay, but I –” he sniffs, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I never got asked if I was okay,” he says, offering Wille a watery smile.

“Oh, Simme,” Wille says, moving closer. He starts to reach for him, and Simon seems to take that as an all-clear, because he suddenly has his arms full of curly-haired boyfriend. Wille’s hands almost on instinct come up to card through Simon’s hair. 

“Simme, I’m sorry,” he starts, and Simon laughs, small and wet. “I’m sorry no one’s listening. I’m sorry it took me this long.”

“It’s not your fault,” comes a feeble reply. Wille shushes him. 

“It is. It is, a bit. I wasn’t listening, and I didn’t let you be who you wanted to be, and even though it’s better now–” God, I hope it’s better now, Wille thinks. “Doesn’t make the past feel any different.” 

Simon is quiet in Wille’s arms, and Wille wants to stay there forever, muddy and cold as he is, but– 

“Hey, I need to get to my phone so I can text Ayub I found you, okay?”

Simon looks up, confused. “Why were you with Ayub? He doesn’t like you very much.”

Wille smiles softly as he unlocks his phone. “Yeah, I know, Simme. But you were missing and…” he trails off, considering his words. “He might not like me, but I think he knows how much you mean to me."

Simon hums, burying his face in Wille’s chest. “I love you,” he mutters, soft, like he doesn’t want it to be heard. Wille tucks his chin into Simon’s hair. 

“I love you, too.”

They pick themselves up and head back in the direction of Forest Ridge. Wille fires off a text to Ayub, letting him know that he’s taking Simon back to his dorm with him, asking if Ayub has a ride home.

He gets a response a few minutes later telling him Ayub is gonna catch the bus back to Bjarstad and requesting Wille slap Simon upside the head for wandering off. 

Wille doesn’t do so, but he does let Simon know that Ayub is heading home.

“Oh, shit,” Simon says, letting go of Wille not ten feet from the door to Forest Ridge. “I have to go home, mama must be worried–” He trips and falls to his knees. He looks so distraught at the thought of going home.

“Simme, Simme, Simme,” Wille says, going after him and pulling him back up. “Just stay with me tonight, okay? I want to keep an eye on you. I’ll text your mama.” Simon looks at him like he’s just told him the Queen of England died. 

“You will?”

He hadn’t entirely been planning on it, given what Simon had said about his mother pressuring him to make up with Sara earlier (Wille is a spiteful little bastard at heart), but he’s fairly certain that Simon could ask Wille to burn down the palace at Drottningholm and he would in a heartbeat. It’s some combination of guilt for all the lies and just being a lovesick fool.

“Yeah, Simme,” Wille says, softly as he pushes open the door (he’d gotten Maddie to get someone to forge him a key after the last time he’d been locked out). “I will.”

Simon relaxes as he hears Wille’s confirmation, leaning against Wille’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

They end up curled in Wille’s bed like a pair of quotation marks, the curtains drawn and Wille’s blankets covering them to their waists. Wille’s shoulders bracket Simon’s, his fingers slipping in between Simon’s and holding on tighter than a promise. He hooks his head over Simon’s shoulder and whispers, “I’ll listen to you.”

In the soft glow of Wille’s string lights, Simon, half-asleep, mutters, “it’d take hours.”

Wille hums, pressing his lips to Simon’s neck. “I’d listen to you for hours.”