Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wille hates pre-season matches in the States. It’s not the matches, playing with teams they normally don’t play against is almost fun. It’s the travel the tournament requires, the jet lag, the stadiums that are just a bit too different from what he’s used to, the overwhelming hugeness of everything that he’s come to equate with the United States.

It could be worse, he muses. At least the fans show up and seem to enjoy what they showcase after a month of not touching the ball once. Sloppy passes, haphazard defending, not quite being used to the new people in the team, everyone trying to find their places again. The fact that the matches are over at an hour that leaves them with plenty of time to unwind afterwards is a nice bonus too.

However, tonight they don’t get to unwind, instead they’re supposed to attend a PR event, a concert, the whole team together. Wille has been appointed as their spokesperson because for some reason the club thinks that just because he and the main act are both Swedish, it’ll make sense. The manager had dismissed his complaining and his “Henry is Swedish too, why don’t you make him our spokesperson” speech with a look that made it clear Wille was going to represent their club and do it with a smile on his face.

That’s how he ends up sitting in the front row in a concert hall, trading platitudes with a woman, who, Wille realizes, must be a big name in her own field for being able to pull off a venue like this, trying to sound like he is passionate about this particular cause. Charity work is weird, he thinks. Nothing else would bring together footballers from across the globe with a bunch of pop stars and expect them to talk about climate change or animal conservation or children in need as if they knew anything about those things.

“You must know Simon, he’s made quite a name for himself,” the woman says, eyeing Wille in a way that makes it look like he should be saying they’re best friends or something.

Wille wants to scoff, say something about how Sweden might be small, but not really that small. He hasn’t even lived in the country in seven years, only flying over for national team duty and once a year in the summer, when he has to.

But then, of course Wille knows Simon, his name at least. It’s been impossible to escape his face on the papers, Wille’s friends gushing about his new album. Wille is only vaguely aware of what kind of music he makes, knows Felice has played him a few songs, but he can’t say he’s actually paid attention.

“I’ve heard of him, of course, and everyone in Sweden is very proud of him,” is what he settles for. He has no idea if the latter part of his statement is true, but it feels like something he should be saying. He knows it can’t have been easy to get someone so popular to do a charity event held behind closed doors.

“Well, I do hope you enjoy the show,” the woman says, patting his arm and turning her attention to the person sitting on her other side.

The lights dim and suddenly the whole venue is plunged into darkness. Wille sits back in his seat, smoothing his dark blue suit jacket over his arm before bringing his nails to pick at the skin of his thumb. Only three more hours, and at least he won’t need to socialize for the next hour.

A song starts, the upbeat tempo pulling Wille from his thoughts. Dim lights turning on show dancers appear on the stage in front of him and he swears he hears someone behind him gasp when red lights come on and reveal a man standing on top of the stairs at the center of the stage. A man clad in tight black pants and in a shirt that looks like it’s made of silver metal.

For a second, before he remembers where he is, who he’s with and schools his face into a neutral expression, Wille gapes. He’s seen Simon before, in the papers and on the TV screen, but he’s never actually seen Simon. Not the way he moves his hips to the beat of the music, snapping them forward in a way that seems completely indecent for an event like this. Not the way he drops low and rolls his body like it’s the most normal thing in the world to do.

The perfectly tailored suit Wille is wearing feels too hot, and he knows he can’t blame just the stage lights and the people sitting around him. Because watching Simon Eriksson sing his heart out, perform like his life depends on it, all but make out with his guitarist on the stage is positively the hottest thing Wille has ever seen in his life. And all he can think is that he’s fucked, absolutely fucked. There is no way he’ll finish watching what is happening in front of him and go on to smile and talk about access to clean water or refugee centers or whatever the theme of tonight was.

After an hour Simon, his band and dancers, bow on the stage, thanking the audience that was probably nowhere near as lively as what they’re used to. Not that Wille would have any idea how any of his teammates or their staff have reacted to the show. He’s been too busy plastering what he hopes was an amicable smile on his face while gripping the armrests of his seat so hard his knuckles must have been white, the only way to make sure he wouldn’t lose his mind right there and then.

“Wille, let’s go, we’re supposed to meet Simon Eriksson and have you chat about our safe space project for the youth with him,” someone from the club’s PR team says, breaking his stupor. Right, that’s why they’re here tonight.

Slowly he gets up from the seat, smoothing his suit and adjusting the collar of his shirt. Following the man to a door leading to backstage Wille notices the club’s photographer is trailing them and oh, of course this is something that’s going to be all over their social media channels later. Getting Simon Eriksson to pose with the club’s jersey is going to boost the likes and follower numbers in a way that’s probably making the media team salivate.

“Simon, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to Wilhelm Andersson. He’s here to tell you about Islington FC’s project to provide local youth with opportunities for their future and how the club is working to build safe spaces in their community,” Wille hears the man who led him here say.

Wille is stunned silent for a beat too long, trying not to rake his gaze all over Simon and focusing on his face instead. Which, he realizes, might have been a mistake, because fuck. He’s met with intense dark eyes rimmed with black eyeliner and silver glitter, looking right into his own.

“I’d love to hear all about that,” Simon says, a playful smile on his lips, but sounding genuinely interested.

Wille clears his throat, and after taking a deep breath launches into a speech he’s given several times. Explaining how they’re tackling street violence, offering local youth training opportunities at the club, providing them with information and resources to make their dreams come true.

He watches as Simon nods along, humming under his breath and occasionally asking a question about the project. If Wille notices Simon fidget with the hem of his silver shirt (definitely made of some kind of metallic material, Wille can tell this up close) he doesn’t say anything. The other man must be exhausted after a show like the one they saw, the adrenaline rush of performing receding and giving way to tiredness, the way Wille knows he always feels after 90 minutes on the pitch when he’s forced to do post-match interviews without a proper breather.

“A couple of photos together before the rest of the team comes in too. Wille, here, could you hold this up with Simon,” the photographer asks, handing Wille one of the royal blue jerseys the team wears. Lifting up the shirt and handing it for Simon to hold he sees the ‘Eriksson 10’ printed on the back.

“Did they actually ask you which number you want or…” Wille asks Simon, in Swedish then, the first question of the night that isn’t at least partially scripted. Looking over he sees the man crack a wide smile and shake his head in a small motion, making sure it’s not noticeable in the photos.

“No, though I’m sure someone in my team was asked about it and they just said pick whichever number you want,” he answers and shrugs before continuing “I guess six wouldn’t have been as flashy.”

Wille must look curious, because Simon quirks an eyebrow before explaining. “My friend Rosh plays football, six was her number in her first semi-professional team.”

Before Wille can say anything, his teammates start to trickle into the room, eager to meet Simon as well and the moment is over. Wille slips back, allowing the other men to greet Simon. When he turns around he spots the table full of champagne glasses and knowing their final friendly match of the pre-season tournament isn’t in another two days decides he can get away with a glass or two.

Later, when he’s sneaking a third glass into his hand and looking for a quiet corner, worn down from talking to more people than he could count, a melodic voice speaking Swedish stops him in his tracks.

“I didn’t know you footballers were even allowed to drink,” Simon says with a smirk on his face, eyeing Wille’s hand holding the champagne flute before moving his eyes up to meet Wille’s. Wille can feel himself blush, like a child caught red handed with sweets he wasn’t supposed to be eating.

“Well, we, I mean… Technically we aren’t, not during the season, but the season hasn’t really begun yet and as long as we don’t show up to training hungover or allow it to affect our performance the manager kind of let’s us get away with it,” Wille knows he’s rambling and he nervously pushes his free hand through his hair, trying to ease the slight anxiety creeping through his body. It has nothing to do with being caught drinking and everything to do with the man standing next to him. Sometime between the photos and now Simon’s changed, the silver shirt replaced by a sheer black one, the top buttons left open and Wille is doing everything he can not to stare at the collarbone on display.

He can tell Simon notices his wandering gaze. Pushing back a dark curl that’s fallen on his forehead he opens his mouth and asks nonchalantly: “Does it though? Affect your performance?”

The way Simon’s eyes give him a once-over before setting back into his face stuns Wille into silence. Surely he can’t… surely there’s no way Simon is saying what Wille’s brain seems to think he is saying. Yet the devilish smirk on the other man’s face seems to suggest exactly what Wille’s slightly hazy brain thinks.

“No,” is all Wille can answer, his throat suddenly feeling very dry. This is a terrible idea, even flirting with the idea of doing something is terrible, even flirting full stop is such a terrible idea. He shouldn’t be doing any of this, he can’t be doing any of this, not here, not now, not ever.

And yet, he can’t tear his gaze away from Simon’s, suddenly feeling too hot in his suit again. Before he registers what he’s doing he sets down the glass he’s still been holding on the nearby table and steps closer, lifting his fingers to brush against Simon’s arm. Slowly moving his hand upwards, eventually ghosting his fingers over Simon’s cheek. The other man stands and watches in silence, letting Wille decide how far he’s willing to go, but leans, just slightly, into the hand cradled against his cheek.

The small movement snaps something inside Wille, pulling his focus back into the moment and his whereabouts. He exhales and pulls his hand back, running the fingers through his own hair instead.

“We can’t, I can’t… not here,” he shakes his head, realizing his voice is laced with a new kind of desperation he himself has never heard.

Stepping back, Simon holds out his hand and nods his head towards a door to their left. Hesitating for a second before grabbing Simon’s extended hand, Wille can hear the voices of his parents, his own voice, in his head telling he’s being reckless, that he’s going to ruin everything, throw away everything he’s worked for all his life, doom himself for the rest of his life, and he can all but say goodbye to his career after this.

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Wille lets Simon wordlessly guide through the door into a corridor. Trying to quiet the voices and tell himself this is going to be fine. Because he wants, dear lord, he’s spent the entire night wanting with every fiber of his body. Wanting the gorgeous man holding his hand, guiding him down a dimly lit corridor towards another door.

When they stop in front of another door Simon lets go of Wille’s hand and pulls a keycard to unlock the door. Holding the door open, Simon motions Wille to step in before slipping in behind him. As soon as the door clicks shut Wille finds himself grabbing Simon’s shoulders and hauling him against the door, his face hovering mere inches from the other man’s. Simon licks his lips, his darkened gaze boring into Wille’s and it’s all that Wille needs to finally give in.

Their lips meet in a crushing kiss, one of Wille’s hands sneaking down to Simon’s waist, the other finding its way to the dark curls Wille may have dreamt of half of the night. He feels Simon’s hands gently tug the hair at the nape of his neck and Wille all but moans. God, it’s been long, too long. He catches Simon’s lower lip between his teeth, pulling the tiniest bit and relishes in the way he feels the other man push his body closer.

Simon pulls back, dropping his hands from Wille’s neck to run them up and down his arms instead. Wille wants to whine and tries to catch Simon’s lips again when Simon suddenly grips his arms and flips their positions, pushing him against the door with a little more force than necessary.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” Simon rushes out when Wille winces on an exhale, making a move to pull back. Wille doesn’t let him, instead uses his grip on the man’s waist to pull him closer and up into another kiss. It’s sloppier, all tongues and what almost feels like battling for dominance. Before Wille can think too much of it (as if he can really think at all), Simon’s lips are grazing his jawline, moving down to his neck and he’s pushing Wille’s jacket off.

Tipping his head back to give Simon better access, Wille thinks he must be dreaming, that he’s hit his head during today’s match and is currently unconscious, because this can’t be really happening. Simon’s fingers working to open the buttons of his shirt and his tongue licking along his collarbone prove it otherwise and when Simon pushes his shirt open and runs his hands up his sides Wille makes a noise that sounds inhumane even to his own ears.

“Are you okay with this?” Simon asks, stopping his ministrations to search Wille’s eyes. It takes him a moment to focus, to meet the blown dark brown eyes intensely staring at him.

“Yes. I am so okay with this, my god,” Wille manages to utter while his shaking hands reach for Simon’s shirt and surprisingly quickly work to open the buttons that were still fastened.

“Not quite sure about that, but sure, you can call me a god if you want,” Simon speaks the words into Wille’s neck, his hot breath sending shivers all over Wille’s body and if he had any brain capacity left, he might be ashamed of the way he grinds his hips into Simon’s. The moan the movement elicits from the other reverberates on his skin and Wille thinks maybe Simon isn’t a god but the devil himself. Yet he doesn’t mind, would sell his soul right now just to feel more, to have Simon move his mouth on his body like this for a bit longer.

It’s as if Simon can read his mind. He drags his mouth down Wille’s chest, lowering himself on his knees in the process and when his hands pop the button and tear down the zipper of his pants Wille fears he might come there and then.

Putting his hand on Simon’s shoulder and pushing just a bit to catch his attention, he pants out “Give me a second, I… God, Simon, you can’t just…” Letting his head fall against the door he pushes the hair that’s fallen on his face out of his eyes and tries to steady his breathing. Feeling movement in front of him he opens his eyes and sees Simon starting to rise back to his feet, a guarded expression on his face. Wille’s not quite sure how to read the look, but he realizes Simon’s misunderstood him.

“No, look, I want…” he stumbles over his words. Taking a deep breath, Wille starts again. “I definitely want this. It’s just been… a while. And I’d rather not come in my pants before you’ve even had your hand on my dick.” He’s blushing, embarrassment blooming in his chest, but he holds Simon’s gaze to make sure the other understands how on board he is, how much he wants this.

“Okay. But we can stop if you—” Simon starts to say, before Wille cuts him off.

“No, no stopping. Please,” he all but begs and that’s all it takes for Simon to sink back on his knees and pull down Wille’s pants. Wille is suddenly very aware of his erection that’d been throbbing painfully in his pants. Simon’s hungry eyes move from his dick to his eyes.

“Good, because my hand wasn’t the only thing I’d planned on having on your dick,” he says, and Wille is fairly certain his brain short circuits, the thought of Simon’s mouth on his dick igniting all his synapses in a way he’s not sure he’s ever felt. Looking down, he sees Simon lick his lips, eyes dark and curls disheveled, his sheer shirt hanging off his shoulders and this, Wille decides, is the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life.

“Can I?” Simon asks, and all Wille can do is nod. “Say it out loud, Wilhelm.” Simon says while running a hand up and down his thigh and Wille’s not sure how much longer he can take this.

“Yes,” he chokes out, and because some part of his brain still seems to work, he continues. “Call me Wille. Only the staff at the club and my parents call me Wilhelm.”

“Wille. Okay,” is all Simon answers before wrapping a hand around Wille’s dick. Wille moans and prays to whatever god might be listening that there’s no one in the corridor hearing what they’re doing, hearing him.

When Simon brings his tongue to lick at the precome at the head of his cock Wille flies his own hand up to bite his wrist, to muffle out the sound escaping him. He more feels than hears Simon chuckle around the head of his dick and it’s almost too much.

“Simon, please, oh god, please,” he drops his hand and this time truly begs. Simon seems to sense his desperation and answers his pleas by wrapping his lips around Wille’s dick, taking him into the wet heat of his mouth. Wille feels his knees buckle and threads his fingers into Simon’s hair, his other hand gripping the door frame for support.

“Oh god, yes, Simon, fuck, oh fuck, yes,” his vocabulary reduced to just these few words Wille breathes out and tightens his grip in Simon’s hair when the man does something particularly amazing with his tongue, making Wille see stars dance behind his eyelids. Feeling Simon hollow his cheeks and open his throat to take even more of Wille into his mouth while his hand works the base of his cock sends sparks through Wille’s entire body.

“Simon, please, god… I’m, fuck… I’m close,” Wille whines, forcing his eyes open to look down at Simon working his mouth, his tongue over his length. Simon lifts his eyes to meet his, the dark gaze full of lust and so sinful.

“Come. Come for me,” Simon says hoarsely before wrapping his mouth back around Wille’s dick, sucking while his hand keeps pumping, never letting his eyes drop. It’s this obscene sight in front of him that makes Wille unfurl, the hot white pleasure shooting through his body and tipping him over the edge. He falls, falls and falls, his hand still tightly in Simon’s curls, feeling heavy and weightless at the same time.

Eventually he comes down from his orgasm to register Simon smoothing his hand gently over his thigh again, carefully watching his expression. Locking eyes with Wille, Simon’s lips pull into a smirk and he makes a show of swallowing what’s left of Wille’s seed in his mouth. And fuck, maybe that is the hottest thing he’s seen all night, seen in his entire life Wille thinks.

Slowly Simon rises to his feet, stretching his back and legs in the process, gently pulling up Wille’s pants. Swatting away his trembling hands, Simon closes the zipper and button and leans up to kiss Wille, more slowly and unsure than he’s been all night.

Wille doesn’t hesitate to deepen the kiss, sliding his tongue into Simon’s mouth to taste his own come on the other man’s tongue and it makes him moan. He can feel Simon smile against his lips. Snaking a hand on the small of his back, Wille pulls Simon in closer.

“If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll return the—” he begins to say in the barely existing space between their lips, when the vibrating motion of his phone somehow still in his pocket stops him. Wille pulls back, and with an apologetic look on his face fishes the phone out. ‘Aitor Izaguirre’ the flashing screen reads and Wille groans. Simon lifts his eyebrow in a questioning way, one of his hands still on Wille’s hip, the other drawing featherlight patterns into his collarbone.

“My manager. I’m sorry, I have to answer,” Wille sighs and swipes to take the call.

“Wilhelm, where the hell are you? We’re leaving in ten minutes and you’re expected to come thank the organizers and say goodbye to Eriksson and the rest of the performers,” the manager’s tinny voice rings in Wille’s ear.

“Sorry boss, I just needed some… some time alone. I’ll be right there,” he hears himself answer before disconnecting the call. Showing the phone back into this pocket, he drops his head against Simon’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” he mumbles into the man’s half-naked shoulder, smelling his perfume and resisting the urge to lick the flesh where his neck meets his shoulder. “Apparently I’m supposed to be saying goodbye to you in a few,” he half laughs while lifting his head to look at Simon again.

“Well, guess I need to get going too, then,” Simon hums, and Wille could swear he catches disappointment flash across the man’s face before the corners of his mouth curl up in a smile.

“I’m sorry, I really wanted to…” Wille can’t make himself say the words for some reason, instead vaguely waving his hand down towards Simon’s crotch where his erection is still obviously visible.

“Stop saying sorry. You can make sure to return the favor later,” Simon replies, stepping back to button up his shirt while gesturing to Wille to do the same.

With unsteady hands Wille manages to button his shirt and tuck it into his pants, lifting the jacket from the floor where it had been laying after Simon unceremoniously pushed it off his shoulders. Slipping it back on and smoothing his hands over his suit a few times Wille catches Simon’s glinting eyes pointedly looking at his hair. Oh, right.

Noticing a mirror behind Simon he steps to look into the reflection and well, damn. Running his fingers through his hair in a failing attempt to smooth it back he takes in the flush of his cheeks and the way his mouth looks like he’s spent the past hour kissing the man who is smirking at him when their eyes meet in the mirror.

“We probably shouldn’t go back together, unless you want everyone to know what we’ve been up to,” Simon says and his words make Wille’s breath catch in his throat. No, they definitely can’t go back together, no one can see them like this and put two and two together, his panicked mind supplies. Chewing on his thumbnail before dropping his hand to press against his chest Wille nods.

“Yeah, we…” he trails off, not really sure what he wants to say. Simon steps up to him, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before saying “Go, I’ll come back in there in a few minutes. Will be sorry I missed you and your teammates before you had to leave.” If Simon notices the anxious look on Wille’s face, he doesn’t say anything. Just like Wille doesn’t say anything about the way Simon’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes anymore, being replaced by a slightly sad look instead.

Wille opens the door to walk down the corridor, back into the room where he’d spent most of the night. Spotting the manager on the other side of the room, Wille lifts his hand to greet him, ignoring the way the man narrows his gaze. He joins his teammates to thank the woman who’d organized the event, offering her a smile he hopes doesn’t look entirely fake before filing out of the building behind Henry, not paying attention to what the man is rambling about.

When they finally get back to the hotel Wille shrugs off his jacket and sets it on the hanger in the closet. Avoiding looking into the mirror he flops on the bed, staring at the ugly beige ceiling for a long moment. A soft ding pulls him out of his thoughts and when he checks his phone, he sees a new notification.

@official_simon started following you

Wille smiles. He knows what he did tonight was stupid, dangerous even, but he doesn’t regret it. Maybe he should, but before those thoughts arise any further he swipes the notification to open Simon’s profile instead, clicks on the ‘follow’ button and opens the private message chat.

Chapter Text

The first match of the season always feels more special than any other. A fresh start, everyone starting with the same zero points on the league table. No frustration about missed chances, about decisions going against them, no what ifs and if onlys. Just hope, just excitement. That this season will be different, that this season they’ll finally make it again.

When the team lines up to stand in the tunnel leading to the pitch, Wille doesn’t look at the other team. Instead he stares at the club’s crest above the tunnel, the familiar sign he’d first seen on the wall of his brother’s room when he was four years old and started to understand what football actually was. He remembers the overwhelming mix of emotions he felt when signing a contract with the club, doing something Erik had always wanted and only got to enjoy for the briefest time.

A pat on his shoulder pulls Wille back to the present moment, Christian greeting them all on his way to the head of the line, ready to lead them on the pitch for the first time this season. When they emerge from the tunnel Wille takes in the sea of blue and white flags, more knows than hears what the supporters on the stands are singing.

“Damn, never gets old,” Henry whispers next to him when they pose for a photo after greeting their opponents of the day. Everyone around them is vibrating with the sort of nervous energy that only moments later will turn into adrenaline and carry them through the ninety minutes.

“No, it doesn’t,” Wille replies and it really doesn’t. The wall of sound created by the tens of thousands of people dedicating their Saturday afternoon for the eleven of them. It’s something he always wants to hear when they step on the pitch. However, not for the first time he wishes he could share it all with someone other than his teammates. With someone who’d understand what it feels like, what it means. To him, to all of them.

When he jogs to take his place on the field, he inhales a deep breath, adjusts his socks one more time and empties his mind. For the next hour and a half the purple and white ball is the only thing he lets himself think of. How to get it to his teammates, how to see it at the back of the net, behind the goalkeeper’s back.

While he sometimes thinks he might get tired of football, he’s never going to get tired of winning. The roars from the spectators, the ecstasy of his teammates, the hugs and the smiles they exchange before walking around the stadium thanking their fans. The late afternoon sun still warm on his skin, Wille thinks maybe it’s all worth it — the long hours at the gym, on the training ground, alone in the dark on the small field behind their house as a kid, in the freezing rain. To feel loved like this, to be wanted so much. To be someone who matters.

As they later make their way to the bus for the short ride back to the training centre he pulls out his phone from his bag where it’s been hidden away for most of the day. Wille’s made a habit of not looking at it before kick off, to make sure he doesn’t get distracted. Unlocking the phone he sees Simon had texted him earlier that day. Either the other man had been up early to make his way to yet another city on the west coast, or still in an afterparty mode, Wille guesses, calculating the time difference in his head. Or, maybe he woke up to wish you good luck, a tiny voice at the back of his head whispers.

“Who are you texting with?” Henry asks him, plopping down on the seat next to Wille. On instinct he pulls his phone closer to his chest and locks the screen, not wanting to risk the other man seeing his messages.

“Just, a… friend,” Wille tells him. They’ve known each other since they were sixteen, Wille would even go as far as say Henry is one of his best friends. But he’s not willing to share everything with him.

Henry gives him a disbelieving look while unlocking his own phone. “Is this friend by any chance the reason you’ve seemed happier ever since we got back from the States?”

“Maybe I’m just happy to be back home? To actually play matches that matter?” Wille returns, picking at the skin of his thumb when he feels his heart skip a beat because when did Henry suddenly become this perceptive. Looking out the window he counts the houses lining the street and hopes it’s enough to make Henry drop the subject.

“Sure. I know you don’t like the tour. But you’ve never been like this before, this… cheerful. Like your phone is the goddamn sun or something. I don’t believe this friend you’re texting is just some random new acquaintance, are they,” Henry grins before he focuses on his own phone, fingers flying over the screen to reply to whatever messages he’s received during the afternoon.

Wille glances sideways at the man next to him before turning his gaze back out the window. He wants to pretend he doesn’t know what Henry’s talking about, he does not look at his phone like it’s giving him his daily dose of serotonin. He tries to fight the smile forming on his lips but decides his reply to Simon can wait a bit longer, until he’s alone in his car, far from the prying eyes of his teammates.

***** 

“Did you have a ‘bring your pet to work’ day or something?” Simon asks him almost as soon as the call connects and Wille must be mirroring his slightly confused look because Simon continues. “That Golden Retriever in today’s posts?”

Wille chuckles when he understands what Simon is talking about, thinking back to the photoshoot they did at the training ground earlier that day. “No, she’s the club’s dog.”

“Your club… has a dog?” Simon cautiously asks while he shuffles to sit up against the headboard of what must be the bed in his hotel room. Wille can’t see it on the video call, but with the way the man is bathed in golden light, he must be next to a window.

“Yeah. The manager got her two years ago. To boost the team morale or something like that, I’m not sure anyone actually remembers the reason anymore. Now he brings her around every once in a while, when he thinks we need extra cheering or when he thinks we’ve done well enough to get to play with her after doing our drills.” Wille is quite fond of the dog, they all are, so maybe the manager was right when he first brought her in. Then Wille realises something that Simon didn’t say outright. “Wait, you check our social media posts?”

Simon just shrugs his shoulder, a small grin playing on his lips. “I like cute content on my feed. And you and that dog looked very cute together.”

Wille wants to bury his face in the pillow under his head, to hide from Simon’s eyes when he feels a blush rise to his cheeks. Simon calling him cute suddenly feels like too much to handle face to face. Or screen face to screen face. They’ve done video calls a couple of times now, when they both have the luxury of time off. Usually they just stick to sending each other a message here and there, having abandoned chatting via their official accounts almost instantly. Something about their staff being able to read the messages didn’t feel right.

“Do you have pets?” Wille asks, adjusting the light blue pillow his head is resting on so it’s not completely hiding his face and pulling himself up a bit on the bed. It’s getting late for him and he doesn’t want to fall asleep, not right now.

“I had some fish when I was younger. And now I have, well, I guess more like I had, a cat, Luna,” Simon says, looking a bit wistful. Wille watches as he rakes a hand through his curls and huffs out a little laugh at what must have been a sad look on Wille’s face. “She’s not dead or anything like that! It’s just that I’m away from home so much these days that she’s better off staying with my sister. So she’s basically Sara’s cat now. Though Sara does send me pictures whenever she does something stupid, so at least I still get to keep tabs on her even if I only see her whenever I’m home. I think she prefers Sara anyway.”

The way Simon says the last sentence makes Wille laugh, the mock-hurt evident in the other man’s voice. Simon tries to glare at him, failing miserably when he too dissolves into giggles.

“You don’t have pets then?” Simon continues after he’s calmed down a bit, and Wille shakes his head as much as he can while lying down on his own bed.

“No. We never had any when growing up because our parents were so busy with their work and then they wanted that Erik and I focus on football and I guess they thought a pet would have been a distraction from that,” Wille knows he sounds a bit bitter, because they’d begged for a pet when they were kids, more than once. Erik had even made a presentation to their parents about how they’d take care of a dog, complete with schedules for vet visits and who’d walk said dog on which day. “Now I’m just away from… away so much that trying to organize care for another living being would be too much of a hassle. Though I’m sure Felice would love to take care of any pet I had.”

Simon must notice the way Wille stalls a bit when talking about being out of London, because his gaze becomes more intent. Wille closes his eyes, hoping the other man doesn’t want to bring it up.

“Being away from home is hard,” is all Simon goes with, clearly giving Wille the opportunity to drop the subject if he wants to. To his own surprise Wille doesn’t, instead he finds himself wanting to talk about how he hasn’t really felt at home anywhere in the past decade.

“I… haven’t really felt at home in a long while. Anywhere. It’s more like, I’m away from the place I’m living at and with the way football is, I could be living in another city in six or ten months…” he trails off, slowly opening his eyes to meet Simon’s dark brown ones on the screen. Simon doesn’t say anything, only looks at him in an encouraging way, waiting for him to continue. Wille takes a deep breath and looks somewhere just above his phone.

“I think the last time I felt at home was when I was fifteen and Erik was still… Erik had just signed for Islington and we were all so happy, he’d made his dream come true and it hadn’t truly sunk in yet that he’d be moving to London, away from Stockholm and… then all of a sudden I was alone with my parents, they were always at work and then…” he feels tears start to burn in the corners of his eyes. It’s been almost ten years and it still hurts to say it out loud. After a shuddering breath he continues. “And then he died. I could no longer send him a text or call him when I felt lonely at home. I guess it made it easier for me to pack up and leave when I got offered a contract in Malmö, and then I’ve just been… moving from country to country and city to city ever since. This is the longest I’ve been in one place since I was nineteen, here in London.”

Wille wipes at his eyes, unable to hold back all the tears. He can’t make himself look at the screen just yet, instead staring at the darkened sky outside. His current flat might be the closest thing to a home he’s had since he was a child and his brother was still alive, but it still doesn’t really feel like one. Too impersonal with the white walls and half the furniture being something he didn’t even pick out himself.

“Wille, it’s okay. I’m sorry you felt like that, that you feel like that,” Simon’s voice is soft and heavy at the same time, as if he too is fighting against tears. “I can’t even imagine what it has been like to lose your brother, the pain you’ve felt because of that. I don’t know if I could ever get over losing Sara, don’t even want to think about it. So it’s okay.”

It’s okay to cry, to feel sad and grieve is what he doesn’t say but Wille can hear it anyway. Those things he never felt like he was able to do, allowed to do, when he was younger and his parents started to push him to play even more, even harder, even better after Erik was gone.

“Thank you,” his words come out watery and he’s not even completely sure what he’s thanking Simon for. For letting him talk, for letting him cry. Wille feels like he should be scared of how vulnerable he is allowing himself to be with Simon, but he isn’t. Finally he feels composed enough to look at the screen of his phone propped against the bedside table again. Simon is looking at him softly, his eyes full of compassion. Wille wants to hug him, to bury his face in Simon’s shoulder and this thought is what scares him a little.

“Did you always want to be a singer?” he changes the subject. It’s abrupt, but he hopes Simon doesn’t mind. He needs to shift the attention away from himself.

“Yes. Or well, I’ve always wanted to sing, I’m not sure I always wanted to be a global popstar,” Simon answers, chuckling a little. “Teenage me would’ve probably died if he’d see where I am now.”

Simon freezes a bit over his choice of words, biting his lip and toying with the corner of his white blanket to gauge Wille’s reaction.

“It’s okay, Simon,” he says in turn, because it is. A figure of speech, not something to send him spiralling. At least not right now. Not when he’s learning about the man on the other end of the video call, the conversation threading much deeper waters than he’d expected when they’d started.

“When I was studying, in university, I never really thought I’d be, I don’t know, someone who could make it big. Back then I would have been happy with a decent record deal and maybe a song or two that got enough streams and radio play for someone to know who I am,” Simon continues and somehow Wille has a hard time believing it. Simon seems like he was destined to be a star.

“When I sent my first demo to a couple of record labels I didn’t really think anything would come out of it. I mostly did it because the professor of my composition course thought I had written a good song. And then North Star Records picked it up and… it all kind of blew up,” the end of Simon’s sentence almost sounds like a question.

Wille watches as the other man lets his gaze wander around his room, as if taking in all that’s happened in the past few years. When Simon looks back at his phone, he shakes his head a little and then lets his head fall against the headboard of his bed again. His curls splay out a bit and Wille finds himself enjoying the way the angle exposes his neck.

“It’s kind of insane. All of this. I’m a poor kid from a small town, yet I’m now sleeping in five star hotels just because I know how to sing. Sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve any of this,” his hand makes a sweeping motion that Wille can’t really see with the way Simon’s propped up his phone.

“You do deserve it, you’ve worked hard for it,” Wille tells him. Maybe he didn’t know all that much about Simon and his career back when they first met, but Simon’s not the only one who’s spent some time looking at various social media accounts. Wille’s managed to piece together enough information to know Simon is talented, and truly has worked a lot to be where he is right now.

“Yeah, I know, it’s just… I have days when I look back to what my life used to be and wonder how this all happened. How I got so lucky,” Simon’s eyes lock with Wille’s, as if searching for some answer that Wille doesn’t have, doesn’t really know what he should be answering. Something about the moment feels charged before Simon looks away.

“We never had much growing up, my mama worked so much to keep us afloat and all I had was this old keyboard my dad had gotten me–” Simon stops mid-sentence, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly. Wille waits for him to continue, sensing they’re breaching a topic Simon is not entirely comfortable talking about. It’s the first time he’s ever mentioned his dad in any way, and Wille doesn’t want to rush him, doesn’t want him to feel like he needs to speak if he doesn’t want to.

“My dad got me into music. He’d play a bit around the house when Sara and I were young, his keyboard and let me sing these songs I’d made up. And it was so fun and nice and I loved performing whenever someone came over. But then his… he, uhh, he started to drink when things got worse with his illness and he couldn’t work anymore and my mama tried to make things work but in the end…” he swallows and plays with the collar of his purple t-shirt, trying to hide his nervousness. “They got divorced and I didn’t see him for years because Sara wanted nothing to do with him. And that old keyboard was all I got and I started writing songs, thinking I knew all about love and pain at the grand old age of fourteen.”

“Any chance we’d ever get to hear those songs?” Wille asks, trying to lighten the conversation while he bites at his thumbnail. He watches as Simon’s shoulders drop slightly, his demeanour changing just enough for Wille to decide he’s succeeded in making the other man feel a bit more at ease again.

“Oh god, no!” Simon exclaims and buries his face in his hands. “Those songs were horrible. I was so naive and I’m just glad no one ever downloaded them before I deleted them from my account.”

Wille laughs, thinking about a younger version of the man on his screen writing and singing about life and love and posting it online for all the world to see. He can’t help himself, if teasing makes Simon feel better, it’s something he’ll do. “What a shame, I would’ve loved to hear them.”

“Wille please,” Simon groans, but he’s smiling again and it in turn makes Wille smile. Burrowing his head into the pillow he tries to stifle a yawn, the long day starting to catch up on him. It’s been dark outside for a good while now, but he’s been too focused on the rays of sunshine he’s been able to catch through his phone screen to pay much mind to it.

“Oh shit, how late is it over there?” Simon asks, sounding the tiniest bit worried when he sees Wille yawn again.

“Like, quarter past eleven,” Wille answers after checking the alarm clock on his bedside table. “I’m sorry, it’s been kind of a long day.”

“You should get some sleep,” is all Simon says and Wille knows he’s right. They have a match in two days and tomorrow’s practice is going to focus on dismantling the other team’s defence and it’s going to be a lot of work.

“Where are you heading next?” he asks instead, not wanting to end his call with Simon just yet. His eyelids feel heavy as he watches Simon push himself up on the bed a bit, and in a futile attempt tries to mirror his movement.

“South America. Two more weeks and then I’m back home. Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love South America, it’s my favourite, but it’s been a long tour,” Simon replies, his eyes scanning Wille’s face. “Wille, seriously, I don’t want to keep you up.”

“You’re not keeping me up, I want to—” Wille starts when yet another yawn cuts him off and maybe it’s time for him to call it a defeat and crawl properly under the blanket he’s had wrapped around his legs for the past half an hour. “Okay, maybe I do need to get some sleep.”

He drops his head back on the pillow and lets out a small groan. Simon’s beautiful laugh rings in his ears and he sleepily thinks it’s a sound he’d like to hear every night before falling asleep.

“Good night Wille, sleep tight. Sweet dreams,” Simon says with a smile playing on his lips when he reaches for his phone, ready to end the call.

“G’night Simon,” Wille rushes out before the call cuts, catching the tender look on Simon’s face before all he can see is the pale yellow glow of the lamp on his bedside table. Reaching to turn out the light Wille pulls the light blue blanket over himself and flops on the mattress. If he dreams of California sunshine, no one needs to know.

Chapter Text

“The ref should have stopped play! If we could hear it, he could hear it too!” Christian all but shouts in the dressing room, to no one in particular, tearing his armband off in frustration. Wille sighs and drops on the bench next to him, the dark leather behind his back feeling cool when he leans into it.

“Well, he didn’t, so drop it Christian. It wasn’t personal, you know it wasn’t,” Aitor says before continuing. The two men stand in the middle of the room, furiously staring at each other and the other players watch their back and forth, as if they’re witnessing a tennis match. “I appreciate it that you’re passionate about the causes we support, but taking a yellow card over it was dumb. So keep it down and let that be the last one this season”

Wille stares at his feet, the white socks stained green and brown from the turf, the slides, the attempts to catch the ball first. There’s always something every year, but it feels in the past couple of years the shouts have gotten worse. The rival supporters getting more creative, finding new ways to get away with what they’re taunting the players with.

“It was our fucking home end,” Christian mutters while tossing his shirt aside and stomping to the showers.

Yes, Wille thinks, his hand trying to soothe the tightness in his chest in vain, it was the home end this time. Their own supporters. One of the people who come in every week, saying they love the club more than anything in the world. One of those people who are supposed to stick with them through thick and thin. This time it was one of them shouting those words. The hand rubbing circles over his heart does absolutely nothing to help him feel better.

“We’re issuing a statement, and the stewards are trying to find the person, but there isn’t really much more we can do,” hearing Aitor’s words feels like a déjà vu to Wille. Once a season they go through this farce, acting as if a few condemning words and feeble attempts to call the spectators to report abuse is going to change something. No one is ever going to report the person standing next to them every week, the supporters have each others’ backs just like the players do.

“All this over some goddamn rainbow coloured laces and armbands,” David huffs out under his breath, the words registering in Wille’s mind and pulling him out of his reverie. He realises he’s tuned out of the conversation, his teammates having moved on to argue about the penalty decision that almost made them lose the match.

Wille pulls himself to his feet, discarding his jersey and shorts to the floor before walking the short corridor into the shower. Stepping under the spray he feels the warm water start to relieve some of the tension in his sore muscles and he keeps wishing it would be as easy to calm his thoughts. It wasn’t personal, he repeats over and over in his mind, like a mantra, like he’ll believe it if he keeps saying it enough times. Because if it wasn’t personal, why did it feel like it?

Hours later, Wille’s sitting on the couch in the living room of his flat, the too large a room plunged into darkness because he couldn’t be bothered to turn on the lights after the sun had set. He’s twirling his phone in his hand, his dinner sitting on the low table largely untouched.

Taking in a deep breath and huffing out an exhale his thumb hovers over the Instagram icon. He’s made a habit out of liking all the club’s posts, and he knows the fans have noticed it too, his tendency to reply to the odd comment he’s been tagged on here and there as well. It’s just one post, it’s going to be at the top of your feed, it literally takes you less than five seconds, he tells himself. They’re going to notice if you don’t like it, and they’re going to ask questions, a small voice somewhere at the back of his mind whispers to him.

Pushing his free hand through his hair he grits his teeth and opens the app. And there, at the top of his feed sits the post from today. Celebrating their win and reminding their followers of the rainbow laces campaign, offering the manager’s words on how he feels about their start of the season, how proud he is of all his players. How important it is for the club to be inclusive and support all their LGBTQIA+ fans.

The first comment with an array of hearts catches WIlle’s eyes and hesitating for a moment he’s about to like it when he accidentally swipes open the entire comment section. Before he can think about what he’s doing, his eyes scan the first few and he feels bile rise to his throat.

“This is a joke, this is a football club not a social institution.”
”Forcing this stupidity on us will not win”
“Bunch of clowns”
”Don’t make me hate my lovely club, you are making it hard to support”
”Let’s encourage a club without absurdities.”
”Focus on football”
”Remove this ugly flag be normal, why do we need to celebrate this, why do those people think they should be praised for coming out, they think they are better for it”

He fights the urge to throw his phone across the room, instead closing the app and furiously wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, trying to blink back the tears. Never read the comments, his agent’s words from years ago ringing in his ears.

Before he realises what he’s doing, he’s opening his message app to Simon and his chat. The last message from the other man once again being a good luck wish for the match, something that’s become a habit in such a short time already. Wille feels a tiny smile tug at his lips but it quickly falls when he remembers the words he’s read just a moment before, as if they’re etched into his brain. Hoping that Simon is online, Wille types out a new message.

Wille
Thanks. We won, but I guess you might know that already, what with stalking our social media
Not the best match though
Can you talk?

He sees Simon has read the message and watches the little dots dance on the screen while the other man types his reply. Wille bites the skin of his thumb, tasting blood and it pulls his eyes away from the screen for a moment.

Simon
Sorry, full day of interviews before the last concert,
just have a five minute break now
Everything okay?

Wille hates how well Simon has learned to read his mood just from a few words. Not that he’s made it too difficult with the way he’s worded his messages. He rubs his face and starts to type his answer, typing and deleting everything because he’s not really sure what to say. Another message from Simon comes through before he manages to put anything into words.

Simon
Call you after the show tonight?

Wille
It’s fine, I’ll be on the plane to Sweden already by then
Have a good show, good luck with the interviews

Simon
Thank you
Sweet dreams, sleep tight

Stretching out on the couch Wille knows he won’t sleep well, if he sleeps at all. The events of the match still play over and over again in his mind, the social media comments popping up in between and he wishes he could just turn off his brain. While he is happy to get away from England for a while, going back to Sweden always makes him anxious. He generally likes playing for the national team, but the two upcoming matches are mostly meaningless. It doesn’t help that the national team matches come with the added weight of the captain’s armband – and playing alongside his cousin who he’d rather not see more than he absolutely has to.

*****

Somehow the national team matches are not as bad as he’d feared. Yes, they’re hectic and the only word he can think of to describe how they’ve played is sloppy, the players not having seen or played with each other since June, but they manage. They come back to the hotel with an uninspiring 1-0 win from the first match and they all know the coaches will be sitting them down with video clips to prepare for the second game before they’re flying out to the away match. Wille would grumble with the others if he didn’t know watching videos of their performance means easier practice and he’ll take it.

He’ll take it, because he’s tired. He hasn’t slept much since leaving London, mostly listening to Henry snore in the bed on the other side of the room. He knows it’s still too early to get any breakfast, but tossing and turning in his bed won’t do him any good, so Wille gets up and quietly pulls on his blue and yellow sweatpants and hoodie before slipping out the room.

The September air is chilly when he steps out the hotel door into the small courtyard. He spots a wooden bench in the corner and drops down on it, letting his head fall back to stare at the grey sky, the wind making him shiver. Three more days, one more game and then he'll be back on the plane to England.

“Fancy seeing you here this early,” Wille hears a voice behind him say and suppresses a groan.

“Morning, August,” he replies. He hopes that if he keeps his answers short enough his cousin won’t drag the conversation on too long.

“Ready for the practice today? Think it won’t be too hard since we’ve got all those hours on the plane ahead of us too. I know Tuesday is going to be big, we really need to win this” August sounds all too chipper for the early hour, too enthusiastic about playing what will no doubt be a brutal match in an industrial town in Bosnia of all places.

Wille hums a noncommittal sound, resolutely still staring at the sky and not looking at his cousin. He can feel August nearly bounce next to him, and it takes all the willpower he has not to snap at the other man.

“C’mon Wille, these matches are such a great opportunity to show what we’ve got, you should be more–” August starts but Wille doesn’t let him finish the sentence.

“August, it’s six in the morning,” he grits through his teeth. He knows August loves playing for Sweden more than he loves for his club, mostly because they both also know August’s club is stuck somewhere in the middle of the table even if it’s only been a few rounds. He’s dangerously close to snapping. “The only thing these games are really good for are for getting us an easier group at the next qualifiers. They are not a fucking job interview. They’re not what is getting you a better contract.”

From the corner of his eye Wille can see August’s face fall and he knows his words have hit a nerve. He knows August has always wanted to play for the best clubs, to be the one to lead the national team out on the pitch, to be the one in the spotlight. He also knows August resents him for getting to do those things, as if he hasn’t worked nearly all his life to be where he is. Sometimes he thinks he could let the other man do it all though. As much as Wille loves football, sometimes it just makes him exhausted. Like today.

“August, please,” Wille starts and he knows he needs to apologise if he wants to make it through the next couple of days without having to avoid his cousin. “I’m sorry. Let’s talk about this later, okay? I need to get some coffee before I’m ready to discuss any tactics.”

He watches August press his lips into a thin line before the man nods and turns towards the door. Sighing, Wille stands up from the bench and fishes out his phone from his pocket.

Wille
Morning. Sorry, I know it’s early, but I’ve already had to deal with my cousin before breakfast
Want to distract me?

Wille sends the messages to Simon without giving it a second thought, not expecting a reply any time soon. He expects the other man to be still sleeping. When the phone in his pocket buzzes some moments later he almost jumps in surprise and narrowly avoids spilling any hot liquid onto his feet.

Simon
No worries, I was awake anyway. Jet lag’s a bitch
Distract you how?

A small smile tugs at Wille’s lips when his fingers fly on the screen typing his reply to Simon. He tries not to snort out his coffee and ignores the questioning look August gives him from the other side of the breakfast table when Simon sends him meme after meme over the next hour. When the team boards the bus to depart for the airport Wille feels lighter and without noticing it his eyelids close and the steady ride lulls him to sleep.

*****

It always takes Wille a while to get back into the run of things after coming back from national team duty. The fact that they’re playing Ramsley today doesn’t exactly lift his mood, because it means he has to face August again and this time they’re not on the same side. It’s not the first time they play against each other, but it seems to get more and more competitive with each season.

When it’s ten minutes into the second half and he sprints after the ball to dodge a tackle from August, he feels his cleats catch on the turf the way they shouldn’t. It’s over in a flash. Wille finds himself on his knees on the pitch and a blinding white pain shoots through his body.

He tries to stand up, but his vision swims, dark spots clouding his eyes and he feels lightheaded, like if he doesn’t sit down he’ll pass out or throw up, or even worse, both. So that’s what he does, drops back to the pitch ungracefully and puts his head between his knees while willing back the nausea.

He counts the seconds it takes the medical team to jog to him, trying to focus on the footsteps getting closer instead of the pain that’s screaming through his lower body. Before long the team doctors are by his side, asking what happened, as if they didn’t see what happened on the field and couldn’t guess it already.

”Right ankle,” he grits through his teeth, the sounds of the stadium slowly registering in his ears again. It’s quieter than normally and he can feel all eyes on him.

One of the doctors rolls his hands towards the bench, indicating Wille needs to come out of the pitch. ”Come on, can you walk at all or do you want us to get the stretcher?” the other one asks, offering Wille his hand.

”I can… maybe hobble off with support,” he goes with, not entirely sure if even that is true. Slowly getting to his feet, mainly to his uninjured foot, with the help of the other men, he feels blood rush back to his head and tries to take a deep breath. It’s only a few metres, he can do this.

With the support of the medical team Wille eventually half-walks, half-hops off the pitch, hovering his right foot above the ground. Back in the dressing room, he unsteadily lifts himself on the physio table. When the doctor moves his ankle into different positions, asking him to push against his hand, knocking on the bones and ligaments, he grits his teeth again, trying not to hiss and only slightly curses under his breath.

”It doesn’t look that bad, but there is some swelling already which concerns me,” Wille hears the doctor say and he knows it, he’s been here before after all. The man continues. ”We want to get an MRI and an X-ray first thing tomorrow morning, to see how bad the damage is, to figure out your rehab.”

Wille nods, raising from the table to get the crutches that have already appeared next to him. God, how he wishes he didn’t know how this goes. Awkward shower trying to stand on one leg, getting dressed like he’s suddenly aged thirty years. He also knows he needs to figure out who’ll give him a ride home once they’re back at the training centre. Henry, probably, even if they don’t actually live that close to each other. He hates leaving his car at the centre, but driving it requires both of his feet and ankles to be functioning and he knows it’s a task he won’t survive tonight.

Twenty minutes later he’s sitting on his seat, right foot propped up on a stool someone’s brought out for him, dressed in sweatpants and a blue t-shirt. He gulps down one of the vile sports drinks the team dietician says is good for them and their recovery. All he hopes is that the painkillers will kick in soon, because the pain is worse than what he remembers it to be the last time this happened. His teammates start to trickle back into the room, smiles on their faces. A win then, at least, Wille deduces.

”How bad is it?” Henry asks him from the seat next to his, kicking off his boots and removing his shin pads from under the socks.

Wille shrugs. ”We’ll know tomorrow. All I know for now is that it fucking hurts.”

Henry gives him a sideway glance with a frown on his face and it makes Wille anxious. They’ve both had these injuries, they both know it’s painful for the first few hours, and again when the meds wear off.

”You need a ride?” he asks then, obviously avoiding bringing up how the injury happened. Wille sighs and rubs a hand over his face.

”Thanks, I’d appreciate that. Better than staying the night at the training centre,” is all Wille says, not having the energy for anything more. ”I’ll head for the bus already, it might take me a while to get on.”

He grabs the crutches and starts to make his way through the underground complex towards the parking garage entrance. Some members of the staff try to cheer him up, wishing him speedy recovery. Wille gives them a weak smile, because they know just as well as he does that it’ll be weeks before he’s back on the pitch.

*****

“I’m getting bored out of my mind,” Wille whines. He’s lying on his bed, his right foot raised on a stack of pillows. It’s early afternoon and he’s scrolled through all his social media feeds twice already.

“It’s been, what, three days and you’re already complaining about getting bored?” Simon’s voice has an amused edge. “What do you even do when you’re on vacation?”

“Vacation is different. I can actually move around and do things, even if all I want to do is sit by a pool. Do you have any idea how fast it gets to you when all you can do is stare at the walls when you’ve literally been forbidden from moving. I’m sure this is the kind of torture the Geneva Conventions were created for.” So Wille may be a little dramatic, but he’s also facing a week of what is basically bed rest before he’s even allowed to start trying to walk somewhat normally again.

“Wille, you are sitting in your multi-million flat in a very nice area of London with a minor injury, not in an active war zone,” Simon chides him and Wille guesses he deserves it. It’s not that bad, the doctors are saying it will take him less than two months to get back into the field. “Binge-watch some series or a couple of movies. Hell, you could even read a book.”

Wille scoffs. “What makes you think I haven’t already?”

“What, gone through your Netflix watchlist and decided you don’t actually want to watch any of the trash movies you have saved on it? Wille, you’ve literally texted me every single day to tell me there's nothing worth watching,” Simon laughs, the sound beautiful in Wille’s ears and honestly, he’ll rather listen to the other man mock him gently than pay attention to some movie he can guess the plot of five minutes in.

“But there really isn’t! Have you taken a look at what there is?” he asks Simon, knowing full well there are plenty of series and movies he could watch and even enjoy if he just focused long enough to try. Scooting up on the bed and adjusting the pillows under his ankle he continues without really thinking. “I wish you were here with me.”

Wille swears he can hear Simon’s breath hitch just for a millisecond and worries he’s crossed a line. Their… friendship didn’t really start with the most conventional of ways, and their texts and phone calls have bordered on flirting before, but suddenly something about the way Wille said what he did feels different.

“What would you do if I were there?” Simon’s question sounds just a touch breathy. Wille hears rustling and guesses Simon must be moving around on his bed or couch or wherever it is that he’s sitting on.

“I’d…” his mind is suddenly filled with images of what he’d like to do with Simon and he’s not entirely sure if any of them are appropriate to put into words in a situation like this. He draws in a deep inhale and counts to four before letting it out, his mind settling on one thing. “I’d return the favour I owe you.”

The words come out rushed and fuck, he’s definitely crossed the line now. They’ve never once talked about what happened the first time they met and Wille doesn’t know what made him bring it up now. “Look, I… that wasn’t… I’m sorry, it was inapp–”

“How’d you do it?” Simon cuts him off. Oh.

Wille’s brain doesn’t quite catch up with his mouth. “I’d kiss you first. Slow and deep, let my tongue slide into your mouth to taste you. I’d run my hands under your shirt, to the small of your back and to your waist. Fuck, your waist…”

“And I’d kiss you back. I’d kiss the side of your neck, the column of your throat, your pulse point under your jaw, hard enough for you and everyone else to see a bruise later,” Simon tells him and Wille throws his head back, his free hand slowly tracing a path of where he imagines, wishes, Simon’s lips were. “I’d let my hand run up and down your sides, pull off your shirt while at it so I could continue kissing down your neck.”

The mental image is doing things to Wille and he scrambles to pull his t-shirt over his head, throwing it somewhere beside him on the bed. It suddenly feels hot in his bedroom.

“Then I’d kiss your collarbone, savour the smell of your cologne, let my hands travel down on your chest, your abs,” Simon continues, his voice deeper than before. Wille finds his own hand caressing his chest and stomach and realises he should probably say something too.

“Uhh, I’d, uhh… I’d remove your shirt too so I could let my hands wander freely over your back and shoulders and I’d, uhh, I would run my thumb over your nipple.” There’s a blush creeping up his cheeks and chest as he speaks, the hand not holding the phone to his ear doing what he’s describing. He hears Simon suck in a sharp breath and smirks, only to let out a tiny moan himself when his fingers graze over his chest and his sensitive nipple.

It takes a while before either of them says anything again, just their slightly quickened breathings filling in the silence. It’s Simon who braves to open his mouth first to continue.

“I would kiss my way down your chest, giving some extra attention to all the moles dotting your stomach, to the waistband of your sweatpants. And then I’d look up to see your face, see how fucking gone you’d be.”

And fuck, Wille is so gone. He squeezes his cock through his grey sweatpants, panting a little. What he’d give to have Simon next to him, above him, really kissing his body and he gives in to the image his mind has conjured up. Palming himself again he moans and presses his eyes closed, listening to Simon’s breaths that somehow feel hot in his ear. As if he really was there with him.

“Wille?” He notes he might have been quiet a bit too long when Simon says his name. His voice is husky but also serious, genuine concern lacing his next words. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. We can stop. Just say it and we’ll stop.”

Wille’s eyes fly open and he nearly trips over his words when he rushes to answer Simon. “No. I mean, I want to. I…I started this, didn’t I. I just… might have been a bit too much gone already.” He’s ashamed to admit it, the effect Simon’s had on him. Simon chuckles, and it’s loud and boisterous and makes Wille bury his face in his arm.

“Just because you started it doesn’t mean you can’t end it too if it doesn’t feel right,” Simon says, his tone back to serious after the laughter.

“It feels so fucking right. I want this, I want… you,” Wille hesitates a little with his final words, but lets them out anyway. Because it’s the truth, it’s what he wants.

“Good. Because I’m so fucking turned on right now and I’d hate to hang up on you and go finish this alone before continuing discussing whatever it was we talked about before,” Simon responds, no trace of shame evident in his voice and it’s what makes Wille bring his hand back to the waistband of his pants. Simon picks up where he left off earlier. “So, I’d look up to see you so fucking gone already and then… then I’d make sure you’d be okay with my hand down your pants.”

It’s not what Wille expected, but something about the way Simon says it is very hot, turning him on even more and he nods his head, even though he knows Simon can’t see it. “So okay. Please, I need your hand on me.”

“Then I’d finally slip my hand inside your boxers, wrap my fingers around your cock and watch the pleasure on your face,” Simon sounds almost as gone as Wille feels, and his breathy voice sends shivers down Wille’s spine. “Are you touching yourself, Wille?”

With one hand still gripping the phone Wille shuffles to loosen the string of his pants and draw them down his thighs with his boxers. The position is a bit awkward with his foot still propped up, but he doesn’t care, he can make it work. When he wraps his fingers around himself he feels just how hard he is, notices how he’s already leaking precome. “Mmm, I am now. You?”

“Oh fuck yes,” Simon breathes out. “I’d now let my thumb run over your slit, along the vein under your cock, to feel how hard you are for me, how the flick of my wrist would make you moan.”

Wille does exactly as Simon is describing and it makes him shudder and keen at the back of his throat. Turning his head to muffle the sound with the pillow under his head he hears Simon huff out a strangled laugh. “No need to be quiet. Let me hear you.”

So Wille does. Pumping his hand up and down on his dick, spreading his precome to make the glide smoother and easier he lets the moans tumble from his lips. “Oh fuck Simon, yes. God, feels so good. You are so good.”

He only faintly registers that Simon’s stopped saying full, coherent sentences, and instead just hums and moans himself at the other end of the line, the unmistakable sound of his hand working his dick filling the few quiet moments.

“Simon, oh god, Simon,” Wille’s vocabulary is once again reduced to just a few words when he throws his head back and lets himself arch into his hand, feeling his orgasm creep closer and closer. Still trying to balance his ankle on the slightly crumbled stack of pillows he can feel the toes of his left foot curl and he works his hand even faster, twisting just a bit more. “Fuck, I’m… god, I’m close. Simon.”

“Come for me, let me hear you come,” Simon pants in his ear and it only takes Wille a few more tugs of his dick to crash over the edge, his pearly white come painting streaks all over his hand and stomach. Simon’s name spills from his lips, over and over again.

It takes Wille a good while to catch his breath again, his limbs feeling loose and heavy, his mind hazy. Jamming the phone between his ear and shoulder he blindly searches for the t-shirt he discarded earlier so he can clean himself. Once he deems he’s done good enough a job he pulls his boxers and sweatpants back up. Finally, when he pays attention to the call again he’s surprised to hear Simon moan and silently curse under his breath in Spanish.

“Simon?” he asks, not sure if the other man can actually hear him or clock in what he’s saying.

“Mmmh?” the mumble comes out like a question and fuck, the sound gives Wille a whole new mental image.

“You still hard? You didn’t come yet?” Wille waits for Simon to respond, patiently. Just listening to the other man, the whines and little moans falling from his lips while he works his cock is turning him on again.

“Nnngh, no,” is all that Simon manages to get out but it’s enough for Wille. Gripping his phone properly again he doesn’t think what to say, instead lets his instinct guide him.

“So good, so good for me Simon. I’d have my hand around the base of your cock, my other hand gently tracing patterns over your balls. And then I’d take you into my mouth. I’d swallow until your tip hit the back of my throat and then I’d try to take you in even further. I’d let my tongue taste you, suck you like my life depended on it. Depended on making you feel good, like you’ve never felt before,” he’s never said anything like this out loud before, but it feels so right to say it to Simon, to let him know how badly he wants the other man to fall apart under him. How badly he wants this to happen for real, how badly he wants to feel it, feel Simon. The sounds the other makes spur him on. “I’d work you with my hand where my mouth can’t reach, and when you hit your peak I’d swallow every drop you spill, I’d drink and taste you, like the finest nectar I’ve ever had.”

He admits to himself it’s a bit cringe, but it’s what he finds himself thinking. That he wants to taste Simon, all of him, get drunk on him. Before he can let his brain process the thoughts he’s having too much he hears Simon’s breath catch and a breathy “Wille” slip from his lips before his ear is filled with a series of heavy pants.

Moving up to lie against the headboard of his bed he listens to Simon come down from his high, his breathing filling in the silence between them. “Good?” he eventually checks in when he’s fairly certain Simon’s come back to his senses.

“So fucking good. Better than good,” is Simon’s reply and Wille is certain he can hear a smile in his sleepy voice. It ignites something warm inside him. “Was it good for you?”

“Oh god, yes,” Wille says without a moment’s hesitation because it really was. It was the best orgasm he’s had since, well, since the previous one Simon gave him. It stops what little thoughts he had on their tracks. He clears his throat, because somehow he can’t make himself say that out loud. “Definitely much better than watching some B-list movies.”

Simon chuckles and then makes a small disgusted noise. “Ugh, I’ve got come on my sheets,” he groans and Wille bursts out laughing.

“I’m sorry?” he makes a half-assed attempt at sounding apologetic but neither of them buys it. Simon’s snicker only spurs Wille on and soon they’re both laughing out loud, which seems much easier than potentially trying to discuss what they’ve just done. Maybe they don’t need to discuss it. Or maybe you do, because this has definitely crossed the line from friendship to something else, a barely there voice at the back of his mind tries to tell him.

“Nah, it’s fine, I’ll just change the sheets when I have the energy to get up again,” Simon replies eventually and Wille tries very hard not to imagine him laying on his bed, probably at least half-naked and hopefully looking blissfully fucked out of his mind. “Thank you though.”

“Thank you, though I feel like this wasn’t a very successful way to repay that favour…” Because that’s how they’d started and Wille feels like they got derailed, like he got more than he was asking for.

“Well, you can work on that next time we’re actually in the same country, in the same place again,” Simon offers him and it’s an offer Wille finds himself more than willing to take up on.

“You know, I’ll be in Stockholm again next month. The national team is… doing a little something to commemorate Erik. Since it’s…” he swallows around the lump in his throat. “Since it's been ten years since his death. And they want me there too, despite the fact that I can’t play. Because… Because...”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence when Simon hums an understanding sound. Unwilling to let the mood shift into a depressing one, not when he’s still feeling all warm and relaxed, Wille gathers his courage.

“Maybe we could meet up when I’m there?” he suggests, hoping he’s read Simon and what he’s been saying right and isn’t making a fool out of himself. He hasn’t even noticed he’s brought his thumb to his mouth until his teeth are gnawing at the nail.

“I’d love that,” the other man’s voice is soft and Wille feels a smile creep on his face, his hand dropping back to his lap. “Text me the details later so we can work something out?”

“I’ll do that,” he promises, not saying ‘it’s a date’ even though his mind attempts to imply it.

“Excellent. Now, Wille, I’m sorry, but I kind of really need to take a shower,” he hears Simon get up, the floorboards creaking under his steps.

Wille lets out a laugh, because he knows he should go take a shower as well. He doesn’t exactly feel sticky, but he’s also aware that he didn’t make that good of a job at cleaning himself up earlier. “It’s fine, I should do the same. Though it is kind of a pain when I can’t put my weight on more than one foot.”

“I’m sure you’ll survive. Feeling better?” Simon inquires, the warmness of his voice laced with care.

“Much. Thank you Simon,” Wille says and genuinely means it. His mood hasn’t been this great in days, and it’s all thanks to Simon. “Now go take that shower. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye Wille, talk to you later,” Simon signs off. Wille drops his phone next to him on the green sheets and lets himself bask in the moment for a little longer, not entirely sure what it is that’s making him so happy right now.

With a bit more effort than normally he gets to his feet and starts to limp towards the bathroom, before reaching back to unlock his phone and set himself a reminder to find out what his itinerary for Stockholm will be so he can send it over to Simon. It’s not going to be a date, he tells himself, but something about it feels a bit like it.

Chapter Text

Wille is running after the ball, just a few inches away from making the perfect pass to his teammate when he suddenly feels his right ankle give way under him. The feeling jolts him awake, as if what happened in his dream was real. It takes his brain a moment to catch up, to understand that he’s lying in bed, not running on the pitch, to process the all too real sensation of not being able to support his own weight. He groans in frustration, the dull ache in his stiff ankle reminding him he’s still injured, that it’ll be weeks before he’ll be allowed to run out to the field again.

He checks the alarm clock on the bedside table. It’s only been two hours since he went to bed and probably even less than since he fell asleep. His body feels heavy and sluggish, but his brain is awake now and he knows it’s impossible to fall asleep again any time soon. He stares at the ceiling in the dark, absentmindedly gnawing at his cuticle. In a few hours he’s meant to get up, make his way to the airport and board a plane to Sweden. To meet his parents, to sit through a dinner with Sweden’s football elite, to talk about Erik. He absolutely hates this time of the year, and it doesn’t seem to get any easier no matter how many times he does it.

After spending several minutes willing his brain to quiet down, trying to find a cool corner on his pillow, restlessly chasing sleep, Wille gives up. He concedes he’s not going to get any more sleep tonight and with a sigh he sits up. The floor is cold against his bare feet, the chill October night seeping into his bedroom. Carefully he pushes to his feet and picks up the black hoodie from the floor where he’d discarded it just a couple of hours earlier. Pulling the shirt on he makes his way to the kitchen, bumping his leg into the doorframe when his vision is blocked by the cotton garment.

It takes his weary brain a while to remember how to use the silver moka pot sitting on his stove. Felice had gotten it for him as a Christmas gift some years back after his teammate had nearly gotten a heart attack seeing him use the old battered coffee maker still stored somewhere in the cupboard to make coffee. It’s travelled with him from one country to another, keeping him more or less functioning after sleepless nights. Going through the motions on autopilot now he sets the pot on the stove and after picking out a mug from the drying rack, leans against the marble counter. Letting his eyes fall shut he listens to the low hiss of the pot, only realising a moment later he’s let it brew too long. Cursing, he reaches to pour the coffee into the mug, the first sip telling him it’s too bitter. At least it’ll keep me awake, he thinks, his thumb smoothing the rim of the cup.

He pads to the living room, and instinct tells him to turn on the TV, to watch an old match that one of the sports channels is bound to have on. To drown in the commentary and sounds of play, not care about the outcome. Not Islington, not even their own league he decides while flicking through the options, eventually settling for an El Clásico from years ago.

*****

Sometime after the first match he’d watched in the middle of the night Wille had fallen asleep again, only to be pulled from his slumber by his insistent alarm going off. Now, three and a half hours later he’s sitting on the plane next to Henry, doing his best to make himself comfortable in the small space.

“You know, he’s going to be captain at least on Saturday,” Henry says, nodding his head back towards August sitting a couple of rows behind them. “Anton isn’t cleared to play yet and you’re, well.”

“I know. It’s not like I asked him to, I’d almost rather share the duty with Vincent than him,” Wille answers, some part of his brain quipping in that his own last name is partly the reason for why he’s even carrying the armband. And August is family, so it looks good to have him stand in when Wille can’t. “Though he’s probably a hundred times better at the job than I am. He actually fucking loves it.”

Wille doesn’t hate being the captain of the national team. But sometimes he thinks playing without the added pressure would be easier. To not have everyone’s eyes on him, judging every call he makes on the pitch, to be forced to every single post-match interview no matter the result. He’s learned to do it, but he can’t help but think it’s something Erik was destined to do, already did at every junior team.

“He’s going to make all the trainings fucking brutal, he always does,” Wille gives Henry a sympathetic look at the statement, because they both know it’s true. For some reason August loves training just as much as he loves the actual games and when Wille and Anton aren’t there to step in, the coaches let him make everyone else work some extra.

“Anyway,” Henry continues, reclining his seat despite knowing he’ll be asked to put it back upright in a few minutes. Wille feels his eyes fixed on him. “Why are you flying out with us, you don’t actually need to be in Stockholm until two days from now.”

Wille stares out the window, watching the rain beat down on the runway. “Meeting family?” His reply sounds like a question and he closes his eyes, hoping Henry will drop the subject.

“Bullshit. You and I both know you don’t just spend time with your family. Especially not…” Henry doesn’t finish his sentence. And he’s right, of course he is, he’s known Wille long enough. He might be on cordial terms with his parents these days, but he’s not looking to spend time with them, listening to his mother go on about how Erik would have done this and achieved that.

“Fine. I’m having lunch with Simon tomorrow,” Wille decides going with the truth is easier. He leans back on his seat, gripping the armrest and feels Henry pull his own seat back up.

“Simon?” is all Henry says and opening his eyes to give the other man a quick sideways glance Wille sees his eyebrow raised in question.

“Eriksson,” he says, closing his eyes again. There is nothing bad about having lunch with a friend, so he doesn’t know why telling Henry about it is making him feel anxious. His fingers dig into the armrest a bit harder.

The red haired man lets out a low whistle and it makes Wille want to shrink in on himself. “Shut up,” he grits through his teeth.

“No, but how did that… Wait, you, you talked to him for like ten minutes at the charity event. And now you’re… friends?” Henry sounds incredulous and Wille can basically hear the cogs turning in his head, trying to make sense of the situation.

Wille hums in confirmation. “Yes, Henry, believe it or not, that can happen.”

“Oh, I believe it alright,” the tone of his voice makes Wille bristle. He doesn’t know how much Henry’s paid attention, how much he’s pieced together during all the years they’ve spent together at the national team and at the same club. He’s never asked and Henry’s never brought it up, but it makes him feel uneasy.

“Henry, please,” Wille says, his voice low with warning, his heart beating a slightly unsteady rhythm behind his ribcage. He turns to face the window, hoping it’ll be an indication enough for the other man to understand the conversation is over.

“Okay, okay, fine. I probably need to get some rest, August is going to make us run,” Henry replies with a huff and tugs in his headphones. Rest, Wille thinks, would do him good too. Staring out the window he puts in his own earphones, taps on his own playlist and tries to focus on the music instead of letting his mind dwell on the exchange he’s just had.

*****

He hasn’t been exactly counting hours until now, but finally meeting Simon for lunch in a small Korean restaurant tucked away on a sidestreet feels like a lifesaver on a stormy sea. Wille’s spent the past twenty four hours pacing the rooms of his childhood home, the vast space feeling like too much. Too quiet, too foreign, too much like something he’d left behind for a reason. The dinner with his parents the night before had been stilted, the three of them exchanging polite words with each other without actually saying anything.

So, when he rounds the corner from where he’s parked and spots a nondescript Volvo idling in front of the restaurant entrance, he breathes out an exhale he hadn’t even realized he was holding. Simon had texted him to say his sister was going to drop him off, and Wille assumes it was easier that way than taking a cab. He taps the side window and Simon’s head snaps to look at him so fast Wille’s afraid he’s going to give himself whiplash. Wille watches as the other man turns back to the woman on the driver’s seat and reaches over the centre console to give her a hug.

“Bye Sara, I’ll call you later,” Simon says while getting out of the car. Standing next to each other on the narrow sidewalk they watch as the car disappears up the street.

“Hungry?” Simon then asks, looking at Wille with questioning eyes. Wille just nods and steps closer to the entrance, holding the door open. The inside of the restaurant is dimly lit and it forces Wille to remove his sunglasses. Not shielding his vision from the pale October sunlight, but from the endless questions he’d get if anyone saw his tired eyes. If their waiter notices she doesn’t bring it up, seemingly unfazed by their presence when she leads them to a table hidden in a quiet corner.

Simon notices, Wille can tell, but he doesn’t bring it up either. He just watches Wille from across the table, worry painting lines over his face. He bites the inside of his lip and under different circumstances Wille would find it sexy.

“How are you?” Simon asks at last after they’ve placed their order, his voice hushed, eyes searching Wille’s without meeting them.

“Honestly? I’ve been better,” Wille answers, his fingers playing with the edge of the napkin in front of him. He sounds dejected even to his own ears and when he finally lifts his gaze to meet Simon’s, the compassion he sees makes something tighten in his chest and throat.

Simon reaches out his hand to let his fingers graze Wille’s, making him stop fidgeting. He watches Simon place his hand on the table, palm up in an invitation. He hesitates, his eyes flicking between Simon’s face and hand and just as the other man is about to pull his hand back, Wille intertwines their fingers. It feels too intimate, but the reassuring squeeze Simon gives him loosens the tight knot inside him a bit.

“It’s just… so much piling up right now,” he starts, desperate to break the silence stretching between them. It’s not uncomfortable, but he’s never been good with prolonged silence. “The injury, this time of the year. Having to— having to go out there and talk about Erik, to stand before all those people who didn’t even know him.”

“Would you tell me about him?” Simon suggests, their food arriving and making them break their hold. Wille nods, and as they dig into their bibimbap he tells Simon about his brother. About his best friend, the person who always stood up for him, made him feel like he could be anything he ever wanted when it came to football, who spent long evenings with him on the local football field even when he was already joining the ranks of high level teams. About the person who made sure they always sang the silly old song on his birthday, who comforted him when it felt like he’d never make it.

Simon smiles, his warm gaze steadily fixed on Wille’s, asking questions that make Wille go further down the memory lane. When he tells a particularly funny anecdote, Simon laughs, the sound sweet like honey. After what can’t have been longer than fifteen minutes Wille feels his shoulders slowly drop down, Simon’s presence making him relax.

“Your brother sounds like he was a wonderful person,” Simon concludes when Wille eventually stops.

“He was. He was the best person there was,” he replies and for the first time in what must be years thinking about Erik doesn’t make him entirely sad. “Thank you.”

Simon just gives a tiny nod and changes the subject. “How is the rehab going?”

“Ugh. I am so tired of the exercise bike and hydrotherapy. The best part about being here might be getting to avoid the pool for at least a couple of days,” Wille all but groans.

Rationally he knows the low impact training will help him maintain his fitness, but he could think of a dozen better ways to spend his days than driving out to the training centre to spend an hour in the pool or at the gym without being able to do much.

“So, let me get this straight. You’re telling me that you spend every day half-naked in the pool and no pictorial evidence of it makes it to social media?” Wille doesn’t miss the teasing tone of Simon’s voice and it makes him laugh.

“Well, yes. It’s not exactly the kind of photo material that our followers need to see,” Wille recites the club’s social media guidelines. He’s very happy it’s something only the trainers and his teammates might witness.

Simon scoffs, the affronted look he’s wearing mixed with playfulness. “Have you ever actually polled your followers to find out what they want to see?”

“I’m sure that’s not something they need to do,” Wille laughs, watching as Simon expertly manoeuvres his chopsticks to fish out rice and vegetables from his bowl. “Anyway, how are you settling back in Stockholm?”

Simon chews before answering, frowning a bit. “I mean, it’s nice to be back home and actually have all my stuff and my own space again. And to just be able to pop out for lunch without someone needing to schedule it in and not have to worry about being mobbed by fans every time I walk out the door.”

“But… I also left sort of in the middle of a breakup,” he sighs and Wille nods, waiting for Simon to continue. “It’s been nearly a year and I’ve popped in and out every once in a while, but now actually being here for longer than a couple of days again? There’s so much shit that reminds me of him that it’s kind of hard.”

“Not an amicable breakup then?” Wille asks, watching as Simon pinches the bridge of his nose, as if fighting a headache.

“That’s one way of putting it. I told him I never wanted anything serious, but when things got… messy and I left for tour he went to the fucking press,” Simon shakes his head, taking a sip of his water. Wille recalls hearing something about the headlines from Felice, back when it had happened. She’d been very upset about it, he remembers.

“I’m sorry to hear that. You don’t deserve something like that. No one does.”

“Yeah, well, it happened and I’ve moved on. He had his fifteen minutes of fame,” there is a bitter edge to Simon’s voice. “Really, I’m over it. Most of it wasn’t even true, not that I’m sure that makes it any better.”

It’s Wille’s turn to reach out his hand, to find Simon’s fingers and give them a reassuring squeeze.

“I’ve been spending some time in the studio, working on a couple of new songs. I’m not sure what they’ll turn into, but I’ve got a feeling about one, that it’ll be really good,” Simon’s eyes sparkle when he starts to talk about music and Wille finds it absolutely beautiful. He eats the last of his food while Simon goes on about working in the studio, going into technicalities Wille doesn’t understand but wants to hear nonetheless.

“Oh god, sorry, I tend to ramble when I get excited. You don’t want to hear all this,” he stops after a moment, nervously tucking a curl behind his ear, and Wille shakes his head.

“I do want to hear it. I can’t pretend I get half the things you’ve just told me, but there’s something special seeing people talk about the things they’re passionate about,” Wille assures him, and even in the low light of the restaurant he’s certain he can see Simon blush.

Wille implores Simon to tell about the tour he’s finished, happy to have the focus shifted away himself and even happier to see how talking about his work lights up something in Simon, even if he complains about the long distances and hotels that all start to look the same after a while. About the fans who go a bit too far, don’t always quite respect the boundaries Simon has tried to set.

“By now someone probably knows I’m here,” he says when they pay for the lunch and start to make it outside. Just as he’s predicted, a pair of girls start to make their way towards Simon as soon as they step out the door. He gives Wille a cautious look, but Wille just nods and steps aside, pulling his collar up against the cold wind.

“I’m sorry about that,” Simon apologises when he’s done chatting and taking a selfie with the girls.

“Really, for once it’s nice to be the one they don’t care about,” Wille shrugs, all too familiar with the supporters who stop him on the streets sometimes, asking for an autograph and a photo.

Simon’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out to check the message. “Oh, it’s my manager. The producer I’ve been wanting to work with is at the studio and…” He trails off, fingers flying to type a reply.

“Do you need a ride?” Wille asks him.

“It’s really out of your way, I don’t want you to have to drive down all the way—” Simon starts but Wille doesn’t let him finish.

“Really, it’s fine. I’ve got nothing to do today.”

“If you’re sure? I can just get a cab,” Simon doesn’t really fight it, the excitement making him all but vibrate. Wille nods his head towards the street and starts walking them to where he’s parked.

“Just give me the address so I can put it on the GPS,” he tells Simon. As he starts to steer the car on the main road he listens to Simon rattle on about who the producer has worked with, listens to the songs Simon plays him, listens to him point out the little details that make those songs stand out, what makes them so much better than anything else.

When they eventually pull up in front of the studio, Simon leans over to give him a hug before jumping out. “Thank you, Wille,” the man says and Wille feels a smile spread on his face. His mood is better than it’s been since before he landed in Stockholm and it’s thanks to Simon.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “Now, go have fun.”

*****

His improved mood lasts until the morning of the following day. He somehow manages to eat breakfast while staring at the date on the newspaper someone, probably his father, has left on the kitchen table. He somehow manages to spend an hour on the exercise bike, listening to a podcast without hearing a single word that’s being said, his mind running through memories of his brother.

He even somehow manages to put on the dark suit he’d packed before sitting down to go through the notes of his speech. He’s usually on the pitch, playing, whenever this day rolls around. Most of the time the actual day isn’t a matchday and whatever commemoration the federation wants to have is whenever they play. But this year, by some cruel twist of fate, the actual day of his brother’s passing is also a matchday and for the first time in years Wille isn’t playing.

Which is why his mother had asked him to make a speech with her. She’d sent over her notes, Wille’s notes, and told him to memorise it. And Wille hadn’t found the energy to fight her, to tell her he could say something he thought people would want to hear.

So he’s sitting in the bedroom, trying to make sense of the text on his phone screen. He’s read through his part more times than he can remember, but all of a sudden he can’t recall a single word of it. The letters on his screen blur together and the tie around his neck is starting to feel uncomfortable. He scrambles to loosen the knot, hoping it would help him fill his lungs properly.

You’re having a panic attack, a voice that sounds a lot like his old therapist whispers at the back of his mind. Unsteadily he gets to his feet and stumbles to the ensuite, grabbing the sink and hoping he doesn’t actually throw up when his stomach turns.

It takes him several tries to focus on breathing, counting to four in his head with each inhale and exhale. When he’s fairly certain he won’t throw up he slinks to the floor, the underfloor heating depriving him of the coolness he wished the tiles would give. He lets his head rest against the wall, staring at his socked feet, at his ankle and wishes for the millionth time he could just walk to the pitch with his kit on instead of having to do this.

By the time it’s late enough to head to the stadium he’s feeling marginally better. He still feels shaky at the core, his mind numb, but he’s spent fifteen minutes vehemently refusing to drive out with his parents. He needs the solitude of his - Erik’s - own car, before being surrounded by people he really doesn’t want to see. Once they start the drive, one black car after the other, Wille turns up the music to drown out the low rumble of the car, refusing to think about how it was another car much like the one he’s sitting in that took away his brother.

At the stadium he pops into the dressing room, greeting his teammates, wishing them a good match. He shakes hands with Henrik, does his best to thank the coach for accommodating the little memorial tonight. They both know it would happen whether the coach wanted it or not, but him allowing it to happen like this somehow makes it fractionally easier.

Standing on the pitch in a suit and a dark peacoat doesn’t feel right and Wille wants to peel off his skin. Instead he fixes his gaze above the camera trained on his face, listens to his mother thank the federation for a lovely memorial moment, to talk about what Erik would have achieved if he hadn’t been taken away from them so young. Wille speaks his part without remembering it later, trying to keep his emotions in check and only letting the tears spill once they’re inside their VIP suite. He ignores his mother’s pitying look, fiddling with a water bottle he’d grabbed from the table. He’s always thought having their own suite is extravagant, half the time no one even uses it, but right now he’s happy with the way it offers protection from prying eyes.

The game is ten minutes into the first half when he finally sits down next to his parents, his cheeks still displaying streaks of tears despite his best efforts to wash them away. He tries to focus on the game, tries to see the logic behind each pass and decision the players make. And for about five minutes he succeeds, before his brain starts to play him flashes of all the times he’d watched Erik on the pitch, even if it wasn’t this exact stadium, in the yellow and blue. How proud his brother had been, singing the national anthem on the top of his lungs, celebrating each goal like it’d won their country the World Cup.

He feels tears prickle behind his eyes again and before he even realises what he’s doing, he’s got his phone in hand and has typed out a message.

Wille

Are you free tonight?

Simon

I’m at the studio rn, but yeah, shouldn’t have anything later

Wille

Can we meet?

Today’s been kind of a lot and I really can’t sit through a dinner with any of these people

I can pick you up at the studio

Simon

Sure 

Text me when you’re leaving?

Wille

Yeah

Thank you

He ignores the scolding look his mother is giving him, staring at his screen for a few long seconds, like it’s a lifeline. When he finally lifts his gaze and attempts to concentrate on the game again, he sees they’re heading to half-time in a 2-0 lead and realises he’d been so stuck in his head he’d missed the stadium erupting in cheers twice.

*****

He fights to focus on the second half, even managing to every now and then. He groans in frustration with the rest of the crowd when they miss an easy goal and grumbles even louder when the referee rewards the opponents with a penalty. It almost feels normal, if watching a match from the stands instead of playing it ever really feels normal.

When the added time eventually ends and the referee blows his whistle, Wille gets to his feet.

“We have a reservation at the restaurant in half an hour,” his mother’s voice comes from behind his back and it stills his hand on the door handle. Wille drags in a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment before answering her.

“I know. I’m sorry, something came up, I can’t join you.”

“Wilhelm,” his mother’s tone is hard, a warning. Often it’s enough to make his skin crawl, to obey whatever wish she has. But tonight, tonight he’s decided he needs to be away from her, from his father, from anyone who wants to spend the next hours talking about Erik, about how he’d have been leading the team today if it weren’t for that one fateful day ten years ago.

“I’m sorry, I have to be somewhere” he repeats, not missing the desperate note of his own voice, and he truly needs to be somewhere, anywhere that isn’t surrounded by football right now. “And I have a flight to catch tomorrow, so I’ll just stay in the city.”

Wille hears his mother huff displeased but she doesn’t fight him. She must be just as drained by the day as he feels, Wille thinks, otherwise she’d never give in so easily. Before she can change her mind and talk him into staying, Wille slips through the door and makes his way to the car, dodging fans and people who think they know more about football than him, who think they are more important than Wille.

He’s already sat behind the wheel when he realises he doesn’t want to spend a minute longer in the suit he’s got on. He reaches to the backseat to grab the duffel bag he’d thrown there and supposes he can use the dressing room for getting changed. Being the captain must come with some privileges and if he can’t use that as an excuse today, then when.

Wille makes his way down to the dressing room, half the players still on the pitch greeting supporters. He nods to the ones who have already made their way in and locks himself into one of the bathrooms. It’s cramped and uncomfortable, but he doesn’t want to take someone’s seat. Digging through his bag he finds a pair of dark jeans and an orange sweater to throw over his white t-shirt. He knows the suit is going to be wrinkled by the time he gets back to London with the way he shoves it into the bag, but he can’t make himself care. It’s not the only suit he owns, it’ll be dry cleaned by the time he needs it again anyway.

When he exits the bathroom and is pulling on a black jacket, he bumps into August, who looks at him from head to toe.

“Heading to the dinner?” August asks, his eyebrows raised. He’s still wearing his match jersey and Wille thinks there is no way his cousin will make it on time, which in turn will make his mother displeased.

“Something else came up, I’m skipping it,” Wille answers and August’s eyebrows shoot even higher up. In the years that have passed he’s never missed the memorial dinner, an exception the coach has made for him and August, allowing them to join the rest of the team later after spending the evening with the family. Wille wants to get out of the dressing room, the stadium, now. “Have a good night, August.”

Without letting August get another word in, Wille is out of the room and speeding towards the car again. Only once he’s back behind the steering wheel he lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’s holding. Willing to stop his hands from shaking, he types out a message to let Simon know he’ll be at the studio in about half an hour.

Simon is already waiting for him outside when he pulls up, the night around them dark. Wille reaches over to open the door and Simon flops down on the seat.

“So, your place or mine?” the other man asks, obviously joking and Wille manages to get out a strangled laugh.

“I don’t actually have a place in Stockholm, you know,” he replies, staring out the side window behind Simon’s head, letting the engine idle.

“Oh,” is Simon’s first reaction and it takes him a while to continue, clearly trying to connect the dots. “You have a car here, but not a flat?”

“Yeah. I usually stay with my parents when I’m over, or at a hotel. Easier that way. And it’s not… actually my car, even if my name is on the insurance. It’s Erik’s,” Wille says. Because it’ll never truly be his car, he never really cared for these things while Erik was passionate about what he drove. “It’s just convenient to have something to drive while I’m here and not on national team duty.”

Simon watches him, his face flicking through several different emotions too fast for Wille to make sense of any of them. “My place then,” he decides, motioning Wille to put the gear in and drive.

“We don’t actually have to, we can just… drive around or something,” Wille knows he sounds unsure, but he does not want to impose. He knows this is already too much, asking Simon to meet him so late just because he can’t be surrounded by other people or alone with his thoughts.

“No, it’s fine. I don’t think you really want to spend the rest of the evening driving around. Take a left here, that’s a one way street,” Simon instructs and Wille does as he’s told, Simon’s melodic voice guiding their way the only sound above the low roar of the car. Soon he tells Wille to pull over in front of a yellow building. The area looks familiar and Wille realises it’s because August has a flat somewhere nearby, he’s been there once, for another painful family get-together.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have a parking permit so you have to pay,” Simon apologises and Wille shrugs, getting his phone out to check the parking app. It’s not going to make a big mark in his credit card bill, his accountant isn’t even going to mention it. When he reaches to open the door, Simon’s hand on his arm stops him.

“How are you doing?” he asks, concern in his voice and on his face and it’s enough to make Wille close his eyes. He doesn’t want pity, or sympathy.

“I’m fine,” he says, and knows he’s not fooling either of them. He turns to face Simon, his eyes pleading. “I’d really… appreciate it if we could talk about something else. Anything else.”

Simon nods and retracts his hand, turning to open the door. Wille exits too, making sure to lock the doors and pocketing the keys. He makes a mental note to text his agent in the morning to get someone meet him at the airport to get the keys and drive the car back to the garage.

Simon watches him before nodding his head, beckoning Wille towards the building door. While Simon is rummaging through his bag for his keys, Wille reads the names next to the buzzers. “No Eriksson on the list?” he notes.

“No. Sure, it’s a common enough name that people probably wouldn’t make the connection and bother me, but I feel better knowing it’s not there,” he explains, flashing a smile when he finally locates the keys.

Wille understands, he’s seen Simon with fans. He doesn’t want the supporters to know where his flat is either, though he supposes some of them know where he lives, have seen him around enough to figure it out. But they mostly leave him be, only the small kids sometimes running up to him to beg him to kick a ball with them. Simon doesn’t always seem to have the same luxury of privacy when out and about.

It’s this thought swirling through his head that makes him reach his arm out, gently touching Simon’s shoulder. The other man turns around from where he was about to open the door, a questioning look crossing his face. Before Simon has the opportunity to ask, Wille wraps his arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. Simon’s surprised look melts away almost immediately and he leans into the hug.

“Thank you,” Wille mumbles into Simon’s hair after what feels like minutes. The other man pulls back a little, his eyes searching Wille’s.

“For what?”

“For letting me come here. For being here,” the “for me” is left unsaid, but Wille hopes Simon somehow deduces what he’s trying to say. Simon’s dark eyes bore into his, and there is something surprisingly intense in his gaze. Wille glances down when he feels Simon’s thumb soothe his over his cheek, his hand warm against Wille’s neck.

The small touch is enough to make Wille lean further into Simon, Simon’s back making contact with the door. A tiny smile is tugging at the corners of Simon’s mouth and before Wille has time to register it, Simon pushes up, his lips finding Wille’s. The kiss is gentle, reassuring, and Wille finds himself melting into it. His hand finds its way to Simon’s curls, the other drawing up and down the small of his back. He feels Simon’s hands at the nape of his neck, pulling his hair just a bit.

It makes Wille lick into Simon’s mouth and swallow the broken moan escaping the other man’s lips. There’s more fire in the kiss now, and when they break apart they’re both slightly out of breath. Simon’s eyes are back to his, pupils blown and he looks absolutely gorgeous. Wille lifts his fingers to tip Simon’s chin up and lets his mouth follow, peppering Simon’s jawline with tiny kisses before moving his attention to his neck.

“Wille. Wille,” Simon gets out after a while, voice strangled, his head tipped back against the door. Wille only hums next to Simon’s ear. “Wille, stop. We’re basically in the middle of the street, let’s take this inside.”

It snaps Wille out of the bubble his head had entered. There isn’t anyone else on the street, but he hears a door close somewhere in the distance, so they really shouldn’t be doing this. Reluctantly he pulls back, and lets Simon turn to open the lock, pulling the door open for them. When they step into the elevator, Wille catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror and it makes him blush. Simon laughs brightly at his reaction, bringing his hand up to stroke Wille’s cheek again.

When they reach Simon’s floor after what feels like an eternity but can’t be longer than thirty seconds, Wille stares at the door while Simon works the lock open. The same number he sees every week, the number he’s been carrying since he was seventeen. It makes him smile.

Simon swings the door open, gesturing him to step in before pulling it closed behind them. Wille reaches down to untie his shoes, his ankle giving a small twitch as he toes them off next to Simon’s sneakers. He lets Simon take his jacket and hang it in the closet by the door.

Wille doesn’t know what he expected from Simon’s flat, but he thinks the place looks exactly like where he’d imagine Simon living. There’s a piano against one wall in the living room, gold and platinum records hung above it. A big sofa takes up most of the space, the coffee table in front of it is littered with papers and an empty coffee mug sits on top of a folder.

“Are you hungry? I probably have something in the fridge,” Simon asks while sneaking his arms around Wille’s middle, resting his chin on his shoulder. Wille shakes his head, not feeling hungry despite not having really eaten anything since breakfast. He turns in Simon’s arms, now facing the other man and brings his own arms to wrap around Simon’s waist.

Without saying a word he leans down to pull Simon into another kiss, starting slow but growing more urgent when he feels Simon’s tongue slip into his mouth. Before long his fingers are lifting the hem of Simon’s sweater, pushing it up and breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it off. He lets his hands roam Simon’s naked back, relishing in the warmth under his palms.

Simon’s hands are frantic, his nails raking over Wille’s back, gentle enough not to leave marks. Wille lifts his arms and lets Simon slip the sweater and t-shirt off him, dump them somewhere on the floor next to them. Their mouths meet again, almost desperate and Wille leans into Simon so hard it almost makes them tumble over. It makes both of them giggle.

“Bedroom?” Wille asks and Simon nods, taking his hand and dragging him down the hallway. They all but stumble into the room, hands reluctant to leave the other’s body for a second. Simon pushes Wille towards the bed, and he sits down on the edge, revelling in the hungry look Simon is sporting. The other man steps between Wille’s legs and brings his hands up his shoulders, shoving a little.

It’s not really enough to make Wille fall back, but he flops on the mattress anyway. He crawls up on the bed, propping his head on Simon’s pillow. Simon crawls up over him, nimble like a cat. When they’re face to face again, Simon’s gaze finds his and his previously hungry eyes have softened. He hovers over Wille, locking their eyes.

“I really like you, Wille Andersson,” he whispers in the space between them, something vulnerable flashing across his face.

“I really like you too, Simon Eriksson,” Wille replies, lifting his hand to stroke Simon’s cheek gently. Simon briefly closes his eyes and leans his head into the touch and Wille pulls him down for another kiss.

It’s like the kiss flips a switch, breaking the moment between them that Wille’s mind is still trying to make sense of. Something about it felt charged, his brain murmuring he needs to address this later. Right now, though, he wants to devour Simon and the way the other man grinds his hips down tells him the feeling is mutual.

Wille trails his hands down Simon’s sides, stopping when they reach the waistband of his jeans. He lets his fingers brush over the button. “Okay?” He inquires, wanting to be sure.

“Yes, okay,” Simon’s answer is breathy. It’s all that Wille needs to pop the button and open the zipper, pushing the jeans down Simon’s hips. The man shimmies out of them, kicking them off. When he’s down to just his boxers, he brackets Wille’s legs and waits for Wille to nod before working to open his jeans. Wille lifts his hips as much as he can, half-pinned down by Simon and lets the man pull them off him. Just like Simon, he kicks them off, discarding his socks in the process.

Wille then brings his hands to Simon’s hips, using his grip there to flip them so Simon is under him. The other man gives a surprised yelp, but only grins. Wille marvels at the way his curls splay out on the pillow, almost forming a halo and it’s a beautiful sight. As is the debauched look on Simon’s face, his cheeks flushed and pupils blown wide.

Wille slots a leg between Simon’s thighs, gently nudging him to spread his legs. When Simon complies, Wille trails his hands down his stomach and over his hips, leaving them hovering at the waistband of his boxers. With a little manoeuvring he makes his way between Simon’s legs and smiles when he sees Simon’s eyes widen.

“What do you want?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper but Simon catches it anyway.

“You”, comes the answer instantly and it stokes the fire raging inside Wille. It’s not what he was after though, so he searches Simon’s eyes, waiting for him to continue.

“I… fuck, can you, can you get your hand on me,” Simon finally stammers out, his arousal evident through the thin material of the boxers. Wille nods, that is something he can do.

He scoots backwards to pull off Simon’s boxers before making his way back between his legs and carefully watches Simon’s face when he reaches out to wrap his fingers around the other man’s cock. Simon’s hips buck up, a silent moan escaping his lips. Wille leans forward to be closer, propping himself up on his elbow, his fingers slowly working Simon’s cock.

“Anything you don’t want right now?” Wille says, his tone serious, his eyes firmly fixed on Simon’s. The question seems to startle Simon, his hips stilling and eyes suddenly staring at Wille like no one’s ever asked him this before. Wille just gives him a tiny nod, indicating that he truly wants an answer, wants to know everything Simon is willing to tell, wants to learn everything about the other man.

It takes Simon a long while to answer, a mix of emotions flickering across his face, his foot coming up to stroke Wille’s calf. It sends a shiver through Wille and he tightens his grip just a bit, enjoying the way Simon responds to it. He lifts his free hand to caress Simon’s cheek and neck, keeping the touch featherlight.

“Can you… I…” Simon starts, shaking his head a little and panting out short breaths. “I want you here, to stay like this.” He finally says, his hands firmly planted on Wille’s back, one drawing small circles into his shoulder blade. Wille nods his head again, not exactly the answer he was after, but accepting it’s the only one he’s going to get. He lifts himself up a bit to speed up the leisurely pace his hand had been keeping.

Simon moves his hips involuntarily again and throws his head back on the pillow, exposing his neck. Wille instinctively angles his head down to kiss it, leaving a little more bruising kiss at the curve where Simon’s neck meets his shoulder.

“Fuck, oh god, Wille, please,” Simon whimpers under him, his leg hooking over Wille’s thigh to pull him closer. It makes Wille lose his rhythm for a moment, but he recovers soon, running his thumb over the head of Simon’s cock. It brings out a litany of curse words Wille doesn’t fully understand, Simon’s hands gripping the back of his neck to tug him even closer.

They are so close to each other now, the position a bit awkward but Wille does his best to keep up a steady pace with his hand, flicking his wrist in a way that paints Simon’s face with even more pleasure. He feels his own cock strain almost painfully in his boxers, resisting the urge to grind down for any sort of friction. He wants this, right now, to be about Simon, about making him feel good.

“Kiss me,” Simon begs, the first coherent words in a long while, his hands pulling Wille’s head down so there is barely a breath of space between them. A deliciously broken moan tumbles from Simon’s lips and Wille covers them with his, the urgency of the kiss matching the speed of his hand.

Simon bucks his hips, once, twice, and screws his eyes shut, kissing with bruising intensity before breaking apart when he comes. Wille works Simon through his orgasm, his grip on the other man’s cock becoming more tender as come spills over his fingers. Eventually Simon’s grip on him starts to loosen, his leg coming down from where it had been holding Wille in place, hands dropping down to his sides. Wille shifts back to kneel between Simon’s legs, his eyes travelling over Simon’s body before settling to his face. Fuck, he’s never seen anything as gorgeous as this blissed out man in front of him, he thinks.

Slowly, Simon opens his eyes, his gaze still a little glazed over. The smile on his face grows wider when he sees Wille, and the previously raging fire inside of Wille settles into steady warmth, spreading through his entire body. Simon fixes his gaze down on Wille’s lap, and he knows there is a wet patch on his boxers, he’s so hard and so close to coming it wouldn’t take much for him to be spilling his seed too. But something in him wants to draw out this moment, to keep watching Simon before him like this.

“Do you want me to…” Simon’s voice is hoarse when he lifts his chin and motions his head towards Wille’s cock. Wille swallows and nods, allowing Simon to scoot up on the bed and reach a hand to Wille’s arm again, pulling him up next to him. When he’s made sure Wille is comfortable, Simon pushes his boxers down. Feeling his cock against his stomach nearly makes Wille cry out and without thinking, he wraps his own hand around his length. Simon’s come hasn’t yet quite dried on it and feeling it against his own cock makes Wille keen.

The sensation had made him close his eyes, but they fly open when he feels Simon’s fingers around his hand, picking up the speed. Dark brown eyes are boring into his, Simon’s hot breath sending shivers down his spine, their hands working in unison to bring Wille closer and closer to the edge. He feels something tighten inside of him and when Simon’s fingers brush over the tip of his cock, Wille comes.

“Yes, yes, Simon, god yes,” he mutters while his mind goes hazy, pleasure coursing through his veins and rendering him boneless. When his cock starts to soften Simon pulls his hand away. Wille feels movement next to him, then hears steps and faintly registers Simon’s gotten up, but when he finally has regained his senses enough to focus his eyes, the mattress dips and Simon is back next to him.

“Here, let me,” he says, taking Wille’s hand and gently cleaning away the come from his fingers and palm with a damp washcloth before running it over his stomach. The softness of the action makes Wille choke up, and he moves his gaze to stare at the ceiling, furiously blinking away tears starting to form at the corners of his eyes.

Simon lays down next to him after placing the washcloth on the bedside table, his thumb coming up to brush away a stray tear that had managed to escape. The look on his face is peaceful, but Wille doesn’t miss the hint of worry shining in his eyes. “Hey, is everything okay?” Simon asks while his index finger lightly traces Wille’s collarbone.

“Yes, everything’s okay,” he whispers and sneaks an arm under Simon, pulling him closer to feel his skin against his own. They stay like that, Simon tracing patterns into Wille’s chest, above his heart, Wille’s face half buried into Simon’s hair, breathing in his scent, for a good while until Simon unsuccessfully tries to stifle a yawn.

“Tired?” Wille murmurs into Simon’s ear, feeling the other man nod in response. Wille is starting to feel the exhaustion of the day take over him too, and lets go of Simon long enough for them to shimmy under the covers. Simon resumes his position, slinging an arm around Wille’s stomach to bring him in closer and pressing a kiss to his pec. Wille brings his hand to Simon’s head, his fingers threading through his curls and slowly the steady rhythm of Simon’s breath lulls him to sleep.

*****

Weak October light is streaming through the window when Wille wakes up. Simon is still curled up next to him, his leg intertwined with Wille’s, his deep breathing indicating he’s fast asleep. Wille brings his arm up to squint at his watch, his brain unwillingly registering the time.

He gently moves Simon, making sure not to wake him up and gets up. Rationally he knows he should take a shower, but argues with himself that if he does that, he’ll be late for the airport. Picking up the jeans from the floor where they’d ended up last night, he quietly retraces their path to the living room to fetch the rest of his clothes and gets dressed.

Simon’s kitchen is nothing like his own, it’s more colourful and warmer, and Wille thinks he’s opened half the cupboards before he finds everything he’s after. There isn’t much in Simon’s fridge, but he manages to put together a decent looking sandwich and peel a couple of tangerines before staring at Simon’s coffee maker. He’s seen similar ones, sees the beans, can figure out where the water goes, but guessing which button is the right one to push proves to be too much.

“G’morning,” he hears Simon’s sleepy voice behind him and turns to face the other man leaning against the doorframe, his arms loosely crossed. He’s wearing sweatpants and a black band t-shirt that to Wille looks incredibly comfortable. “I thought you’d left.”

“I do need to head to the airport soon, but I wanted to make you breakfast first. I know it’s not much but—” Wille says when Simon crosses the room to stand next to him, his hand coming to rest lightly on Wille’s hip.

“It’s perfect,” Simon murmurs and reaches up to give him a kiss. It’s sweet, and short, and before Wille can properly react, Simon's turned to the coffee maker, adding water and pushing the button that makes the machine come alive.

“How soon is soon?” Simon asks then, setting a steaming mug of coffee on the counter and giving Wille a sideways glance. Wille lets out a deep sigh.

“If I don’t leave in five minutes, no amount of ‘don’t you know who I am’ is going to get me on the plane,” he says, actively hating his agent for booking such an early flight when he really has no reason to be back in London so soon. “Not that I’d ever say something like that,” he hastens to add. Simon gives him a weary chuckle before reaching to open one of the cupboards and pulls out a thermos mug.

“Promise me you’ll eat something at the airport, or on the flight,” he says to Wille, before handing him the mug. Wille nods, feeling a lump in his throat as he tries to swallow a sip of coffee.

He hands the mug back to Simon while he pulls on his jacket and puts on his shoes, his ankle only minutely protesting when he does up the laces. As soon as he’s done, Simon passes the mug back to him and rises to his tiptoes to give Wille another kiss. This time Wille kisses him back, the hand not holding the mug finding its way to Simon’s waist. All too soon he feels Simon pull back.

“Bye Wille. Have a safe trip,” he says, reaching past Wille to open the door for him. With one last quick hug Wille shuffles into the hallway and watches Simon until the elevator doors open.

“Thank you,” he quietly says before stepping in, Simon only nodding in response. He spends the ride to the airport in quietness, sipping the coffee and feeling lighter than he has in weeks. But a part of him also feels a new kind of sadness, something that wasn’t there before.

Chapter Text

Wille stands in front of a mirror in his hallway, trying to attach the red poppy to his coat lapel without pricking himself with the safety pin. He keeps hoping this weekend will be better than the last, that this match will finally make the club climb up on the table, away from the fourth place they seem to be stuck in. With a final look in the mirror he deems the flower looking decent enough and he’s about to grab the keys from the cabinet next to the mirror when his phone rings.

Gingerly he pulls it out of his pocket, knowing if he’ll take much longer to leave he’s going to be late. ‘August’ reads the screen and Wille’s finger hovers over the decline button. However, he knows August is nothing but persistent, so with a sigh he swipes to answer the call.

“August,” he greets. He has no idea why his cousin is calling him, as far as he knows August should be playing later today.

“Wille, my favourite cousin,” August’s voice comes in through the speaker. Your only cousin now, Wille thinks bitterly. “I know you’re probably busy just like I am, so I’m going to be quick with this.”

Wille hums in agreement, the less he has to spend time talking to August, the better. He fiddles with his keys, slipping his house keys into the pocket and leaving his car key dangling from one finger. It makes him ready to bolt out the door as soon as the call is over.

“I’m going to get straight to the point. I heard there’s been some interest in me from your part of town and I’d really appreciate it if you could put in a good word or two for me,” August says and this definitely wasn’t what Wille expected. Sure, he knows August is desperate to get away from Birmingham, to get away from Ramsley who have slipped to the lower half of the table. But this, this is new to Wille.

“Interest from my part of town?” he asks, trying to make sense of the situation. There are more than one club in the ten mile radius, but Wille knows August isn’t really interested in all of them.

“Yes, my agent says there are some London clubs showing interest in the next transfer window and with a little probing he brought up Islington,” August explains.

Wille shakes his head. It doesn’t make sense. As far as he knows, they have no need for another forward. They might need another defender, depending on how bad Jeremiah’s injury is, but they have enough players who can make the difference in the box.

“Look, August, I’m not sure what your agent is telling you is true. I haven’t heard anything about us preparing to get someone new,” Wille says, choosing his words carefully.

“Maybe you just haven’t been kept in the loop so much now that you’re injured,” August retorts. Something about his tone makes Wille’s blood start to boil. He might be injured, but he spends almost every day at the training centre, sees his teammates, knows where they’re doing well and where they might need reinforcements. “Or are you that unwilling to have me on the same team with you? You know you could do with someone like me.” August continues.

Wille grits his teeth so hard he fears they might actually shatter. He knows August is a good player, but he also knows he wouldn’t last a season in the same club with him. They aren’t fighting for the same position, but August doesn’t make it easy for anyone playing with him, Wille’s seen it in the national team and has heard it from players who have played in the same clubs with his cousin.

“If, and that’s a big if, someone asks me about you, what you’d be like as a player, I’ll tell them. Honestly though, I don’t think Islington’s style would suit you,” Wille finally says, hoping he sounds cordial enough for August to let it go.

“Because Islington’s style is all about you, right.” Wille doesn’t miss the bitterness in August’s voice. Islington had been Erik’s dream, so it had become August’s dream too, but ultimately it was Wille who got to live it. Wille wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse.

“August, please. You’re a good player, there’s going to be a club that’ll be thrilled to have you and your talent if you decide to leave Ramsley.” Wille knows he sounds exasperated. Glancing at his watch he curses inwardly. If he doesn’t leave now, he’s not going to make it on time.

“I have to go, we have a match today and I need to be there. Good luck for tonight,” he wishes his cousin.

“Thanks. We don’t need it,” August says surely before hanging up. Wille groans and pockets his phone before making it out the door and to the garage.

Half an hour later he’s sitting down next to Jeremiah on the stands. “Do you know if we’re thinking of getting someone new in January?” he says in lieu of greeting. Jeremiah lifts his eyebrow and gives Wille a suspicious look.

“Hello to you too, Wilhelm. I’m doing fine, thank you for asking. Surgery scheduled for Monday, not all of us get away with an injury as easy as yours,” Jeremiah says, pointing to the crutches next to him.

“Shit, ACL?” Wille grimaces and Jeremiah nods his head.

“Yeah. Anyway, what’s with the question? Like, yeah, we probably need someone to cover for me at least for the rest of the season, unless they pull someone from the academy. But do I look like the sporting director to you, go talk to Vijay,” Jeremiah says, his eyes going from Wille to the pitch where their teammates are emerging from the tunnel.

“August called, said his agent thinks we might be interested in him,” Wille answers, not needing to explain the strained relationship he has with his cousin. He nods to Daniel who sits down next to him.

“A forward? Highly unlikely,” Daniel quips, obviously having listened in to their conversation. “Finsbury on the other hand could do with some…”

“Now that would be truly something,” Jeremiah agrees and Wille shakes his head. They’re not going to talk about their worst rivals and who they might benefit from, not when they - well, their teammates who aren’t sitting on the stands injured - are actually facing them next week.

“How’s Louise?” Wille changes the subject and turns to Daniel, seeing the man glowing.

“She’s great. Tired, and we still have two months to go, but she’s been getting the nursery ready and she’s so excited to meet the little one. We both are,” Daniel says, his voice soft when he talks about his expanding family. Wille feels a pang of something in his chest, a feeling he’s trying not to name.

“How about you though? Henry said you might have something, or someone—” Jeremiah starts but Wille cuts him off before he can finish the sentence.

“Henry should mind his own damn business and stop gossiping,” his voice sounds strangled to his own ears, but he hopes the other two don’t notice.

“So there is something going on,” Daniel’s face lights up, sounding gleeful.

“Focus on the match, guys,” Wille orders sternly just as the crowd groans in unison when a shot goes wide of the goal. When his heart finally stops trying to beat its way out of his chest, Jeremiah and Daniel are discussing tactics over his head and Wille is doing his best to keep up with their conversation. Islington barely manages to hang on to the game and the 0-0 result does nothing to improve his mood.

*****

Wille’s lying on his couch, rain beating down on his windows, trying to focus on the animated film playing on his TV screen, an old woman talking to a little flame. He’d put it on in an attempt to distract himself, to stop thinking about the match’s result. 3-1 to Finsbury. He doesn’t know what’s worse, having to be on the pitch for something that humiliating or having to sit at home, watching his teammates hang their heads in shame while he can do nothing about it. He’s basically counting down the days to the match he has booked with the academy boys, to be played behind closed doors but still - a football match all the same.

He hears a ping and reaches over to the coffee table to grab his phone, knocking a pillow to the floor in the process. It hasn’t even been an hour since the referee blew the whistle, why is Henry texting him?

Henry
Have you seen this?

Wille frowns, looking at this phone screen. All he sees is a link to a The Sun article and stops reading further as soon as the site’s name registers. Nothing particularly shocking happened at the match, unless you look at the end result and sites like that rarely do, so he can’t think of any reason Henry would want him to read something the tabloid has posted. Shaking his head, he lies back down on the couch and types a reply.

Wille
What the fuck
I’m not going to click that
You know better than to read that trash

Henry
It was the first one I saw
Okay, here’s another
It’s basically on every site now

Henry’s message comes with a link to something Aftonbladet has posted and Wille’s frown deepens. What could be so interesting that both the British and Swedish tabloids are posting about it? He clicks on the link and sees the red stripe at the top of the page before his eyes land on the headline: “Simon’s wild night - who is the superstar smooching”

Wille blinks and involuntarily skims the next words. “In a video first posted exclusively by the English newspaper The Sun, Sweden’s biggest popstar is seen making out with a mystery man…” The video below the lead paragraph starts playing automatically and Wille’s heart stops.

It’s them. Understanding sets in slowly first, and then what he’s seeing hits him with full force. It’s Simon and him. That night a few weeks ago in Stockholm, in front of Simon’s building. When they’d gotten carried away. Wille stares at the video in horror, watches Simon’s hands and face, painted with pleasure, watches his own hands and back, head bowed down to trail Simon’s neck with kisses. All clearly visible on the footage that must have been filmed from across the street judging by the way the cars on the side of the street block most of their lower bodies from the view. The cars, one of which is his, he recognises.

The video ends when his head comes up and Simon looks at him. It’s maybe a minute long, he can’t really tell, but it feels like an eternity. With a shaking hand he scrolls down the page, trying to make sense of what the text is saying, summarising the video’s contents. When he scrolls back up the video starts playing again and Wille can’t make himself look away.

An incoming call snaps him out of the horrifying trance he’s fallen into, his mother’s name popping on the screen. The shrill sound drowns out the violent rain outside but to Wille’s ears the noise is muffled, as if his phone was suddenly underwater. He drops it to the couch and it bounces to the floor. He sits up and tries to pick the phone up, but his hands shake so badly he can’t grab onto anything.

Wille closes his eyes, all of a sudden feeling dizzy, and digs his fingers into the edge of the couch, hoping it’ll make them stop shaking. The material is rough against his palms but he can’t really feel it. He senses tears burn behind his eyelids and it makes him gasp for air. Again, and again, and again, he tries to inhale but it’s as if his lungs have collapsed, something heavy and tight settling on his chest. He bends down forward, but the movement makes him feel like what little breath was left is forcibly being pulled out of him.

He can’t breathe. It’s the only thought racing through his mind, matching the erratic beat of his heart. He’s being smothered, unable to ever breathe in again. He feels tears flowing down his cheeks, tastes the salt when they reach his mouth, desperately gasping for air. He wants to wipe them away, but he can’t lift his hands from where they seem to be fused with the couch.

Wille doesn’t know how long he sits, crouches, on the couch, all the sounds around him dully echoing like they’re coming from through layers and layers of cotton. It’s a short piano melody that starts to pull him together, to give his brain something to latch onto. Unsteadily he draws in a breath, then another, a little deeper, a little surer.

His heart is still trying to escape right through his chest, attempting to shatter his ribcage, but little by little he gets his breathing under control. Carefully he uncurls his fingers away from the edge of the couch, all the colour having escaped them. Pressing one hand against his sternum he welcomes the familiar weight, warm and comforting instead of suffocating. He presses down a little harder.

When he finally opens his eyes he finds himself staring at the pattern of his carpet, the usually so sharp lines blurred by the tears clouding his vision. Cautiously he starts to lift up from his hunched position, everything around him swaying slightly as he settles back against the backrest, his head still dizzy.

His phone rings again, or maybe it’s been ringing this whole time and he hasn’t just noticed. It’s somewhere by his feet on the floor, but he makes no move to pick it up. If he doesn’t see the device, he won’t see what is on the screen, he can pretend at least a bit longer that it doesn’t exist. That there isn’t a video of Simon and him, on every possible page on the internet, for all the world to see and gawk at.

He lets the phone ring, the occasional silence punctuated by ping after ping signalling all the incoming messages. He reaches over to the coffee table, picks up the remote control and turns off the TV, the movie’s end credits having rolled a long time ago. An insistent voice at the back of his mind yells at him to call Simon, right now, but he’s exhausted. Physically, like he’d played two full matches in one day, mentally, the chaos of thoughts replaced by white static, emotionally, dread and anger and concern all mixed together.

Wille does the only thing he can think of. He grabs the blue blanket slung over the backrest and wraps it around himself, burying himself in it. He curls into a ball, and stares at the wall to his left, hoping that if he stays like that long enough the outside world will disappear, that none of this evening will have happened.

He lets the phone ring until the battery dies and the only sound he can hear is the rain beating down on his windowsill.

*****

Wille must have fallen asleep at some point, because he startles awake drenched in cold sweat. He doesn’t remember what he dreamt of, if anything, but as soon as he opens his eyes and sees his living room everything comes back to him, crashes into his consciousness life a freight train. What he saw last night wasn’t a bad dream, it was real, a nightmare he can’t wake up from.

Slowly he sits up, unwrapping the blanket around himself. The action makes him shiver when the cool air in the room hits his skin. It’s still dark and he barely makes out the hands on his watch, 5:20 being hours away from sunrise. It’s also too early to call anyone, to call Simon, even with the time difference.

With all the energy he can muster, Wille pads to the bathroom, the bright overhead light blinding him momentarily. When his eyes adjust, he lifts his head to stare at his reflection in the mirror. He knew he’d look like a mess, but part of him hoped it wouldn’t be quite this bad. Trying to meet his own eyes proves to be the hardest, the soft amber rimmed by red and dark circles, traces of tears still visible at the top of his cheeks. He wants to break the mirror so he never has to see himself again.

Instead he strips out of his sweaty clothes, drops them in the hamper and steps into the shower. He turns the water into scalding hot, letting it wash over him until his skin is red and raw. When he no longer can justify wasting the water, he grabs a towel from the rack and dries himself off on the way to the bedroom. Without paying attention to which clothes he’s grabbing from the closet, he puts them on, grimacing when his ankle winces as he pulls on a sock.

Knowing he can no longer delay facing the inevitable, he walks back to the living room and locates his phone on the floor. WIlle stares at the black screen, and with a feeling of dread he plugs it into the charger on his kitchen island. He sits down on the high chair, the pounding headache he’d managed to ignore so far suddenly making him feel nauseous. Wille watches as the phone powers back on, hesitating for a long while before reaching over to punch in his PIN code.

The screen comes alive, notifications flashing in one after another, the number of missed calls higher he can even think of. It’s still early, both in London and in Stockholm, but he can’t put this off any longer. Swallowing around the lump in his throat Wille navigates to his contacts and presses the video call button next to Simon’s name.

The call rings once, twice and then connects. Simon looks as exhausted as Wille feels, his brown eyes tired and skin lacking the glow it normally has. He must have been running his hand through his curls more than a few times with the way they’re sticking out. Wille swallows again, realising he has no idea what he wants to say.

“Hi,” he settles for and it comes out weak, his voice small.

“Hi,” Simon replies, hoarse, as if he’s been screaming for hours. And maybe he has been, Wille doesn’t know. For a moment all they do is look at each other, sad eyes roaming over each other’s faces.

“How are you?” Wille manages to ask at last, and it makes Simon run a hand over his face before shrugging in response.

“I don’t know, feeling like shit. I haven’t slept all night, so I guess that isn’t so unexpected,” Simon responds and Wille’s heart plummets to the floor, feeling guilty he did sleep, at least for a little while. “Wille, what the fuck happened?”

Wille doesn’t know what to answer to that. That someone invaded their privacy and turned it into a media spectacle? That they weren’t – that Wille wasn’t – careful enough? That they did something they shouldn’t have and are now paying the price for it?

“I don’t know,” is all he can say and it’s not enough, he knows it. He doesn’t want to say any of the things crossing his mind.

“I’ve had people camping outside my building since the moment the video went online and they figured out the location, trying to get my neighbours to let them in, asking them which flat is mine,” Simon sounds dejected and Wille remembers what he said about meeting his fans, about the boundaries they’re pushing.

“Are you home now?” Wille inquires, though it’s not exactly the question he wants to ask. But what he does want to ask feels like too much, too invasive somehow.

“No. My neighbour messaged me while I was in the studio and…” he doesn’t finish the sentence, like he doesn’t want Wille to know what happened, where he is now. Simon takes a deep breath. “I’m with Sara now, but I can’t stay here. I can’t stay in Stockholm right now.”

Wille isn’t sure he understands, can’t imagine how bad the situation must be for Simon to want to flee the city. “Do you have somewhere else to go?” He asks.

“Gothenburg. We have some family there. My friend Ayub is driving over to pick me up, I’ll stay with him for… for how long it takes,” Simon doesn’t say ‘for how long it takes to feel safe at home again’ but Wille can complete the sentence himself.

“What are we going to do about this?” Simon asks Wille after a moment of silence and Wille doesn’t know what to say to that either.

“You could ask people to respect your privacy and leave you alone?” Wille suggests and as soon as the words leave his mouth he knows it’s not what he was supposed to say. Simon frowns, his brows knitting together, confirming Wille’s thoughts, and the video shakes when Simon moves his phone, to maybe sit up or to hold it in his other hand.

“Wille, you know that’s not going to help. And it’s not what I asked,” Simon replies, the frown still visible on his face. “Have you seen the fucking comments? The entire world is discussing who I’m making out with in public. And not all the words they use are pretty. My management is furious. Something something bad for the image, I stopped listening after that.”

Wille hasn’t seen the comments, knows that if he reads one then he’s going to read every single one he can find, scanning the names thrown around. Before he can let this train of thought get any further, Simon continues.

“If it weren’t so bad, it’d almost be hilarious, the names they’ve brought up,” his tone is humourless, contradicting his words. “Your name hasn’t come up, at least not yet.”

Relief washes over Wille in a huge wave, and it immediately makes him feel ashamed. He shouldn’t be relieved, not when Simon has been harassed out of his own home, not when people are saying god knows what about him, when he is once again faced with the media writing things about him against his will.

“We could just let it be, hope the interest dies down soon?” Wille proposes, but he knows it’s not actually a viable option, not with how famous Simon is, not with how everyone wants a piece of him, not with the way his fans are probably at this very moment dissecting the video from all possible angles, trying to find something that identifies Wille.

Simon doesn’t bother answering, just scoffs and it makes Wille wish for the hundredth time they wouldn’t need to be having this conversation. He looks away from the screen, stares at the plant on the corner of his living room and tries to count its leaves.

When the silence between them stretches uncomfortably, it’s Simon who opens his mouth first again. “We haven’t done anything wrong, Wille. We have all the right to ask people to stop sharing the video and leave us alone.” It’s nearly the same thing Wille said earlier, but he doesn’t miss the way Simon’s worded it.

“Simon, we… I, I can’t—” Wille stutters, trying to find a way to say what’s been on his mind since Simon said no one’s recognised him. He feels like a coward, trying to find an easy way out. “I can’t say I’m on the video.”

Simon blinks, obviously trying to make sense of what Wille’s said. “What?”

“Simon, I’m not out. I can’t go and say ‘hey, by the way, I’m on that video you all have seen’. It would end my career, I’d have nothing left if I did that,” his voice is pleading, he knows it. Wille hates himself for what he’s just said.

The look on Simon’s face changes, Wille’s words sinking in and draining any colour that was left on Simon’s face. When he speaks again, his voice is harsher and it makes Wille flinch.

“You… you are seriously going to leave me deal with this all on my own?”

Simon’s eyes have gotten darker despite the light outside growing, his mouth set in a tight line as he looks at Wille. Wille feels like someone has taken a sledgehammer to his heart and smashed it to a million pieces.

“No, I just…” he starts, but doesn’t actually know how to end his sentence.

“Because that’s exactly what it sounds like to me right now,” Simon’s words come out hard, like he wants to punish Wille for his cowardice and Wille can’t find it in himself to blame Simon.

“Simon, please,” Wille is begging, wanting Simon to understand his position.

“Please what, Wille?” the reply comes before Wille has barely finished saying the words.

“I’m not out,” he repeats. “No one in football is. You just… just can’t. It’s not possible.”

It’s a terrible explanation, he knows it himself, but it’s what he’s heard ever since he was a teenager, it’s what everyone around him is always saying. No reasons, just a statement, a fact everyone agrees with. You can’t be a man and queer and a professional football player, it’s an equation that doesn’t work, the statistics, the dressing room talk backing everyone on that.

Simon laughs. The hollow sound rings in Wille’s ears, devoid of all the beauty and melody it usually has. “There are at least three openly queer women in our national team. You can’t fucking tell me no one in your sport is out.”

“It’s different for them,” Wille tries to rationalise feebly, and it’s true, because it’s different for women playing football.

“Why?” Simon presses on.

“Because it just is, okay!” Wille’s frustrated, so very close to snapping, tired of having to have this discussion once again.

“You’re unbelievable,” Simon says, shaking his head. Then, as quickly as the anger appeared, it seems to drain out of him and Wille watches him slump against the pillows he’s been leaning on.

“I’m sorry,” Wille tells Simon, not even sure of all the things he’s apologising for. He feels horrible, and wishes he could give Simon a hug - though he’s not sure the other man would accept it at the moment.

Simon sighs out, loud enough to make Wille snap out of his thoughts and the look on his eyes is even sadder than before.

“What are we—” Simon starts to ask, but seems to change his mind mid-sentence. “What am I to you, Wille?”

Wille doesn’t know what to reply, thousand and one answers crossing through his mind. All of them too big or not big enough to encompass what he would like to say. So he doesn’t say anything, desperately shaking his head, hoping it would help him find the right words.

“A booty call? Someone you wanted to have a bit of fun with and then ditch when it gets too difficult, too complicated to fit into your precious image?” There is venom dripping in Simon’s voice that wasn’t there before, his frustration towards Wille’s silence evident.

“No, nothing like that…” Wille whispers, at a loss for words to say more. There is so much more he wants to say, needs to say, but the words won’t come out. He can feel tears start forming again and when he looks at Simon, really looks at him for the first time in a while, he can see the other man is silently crying as well.

“Sara was right,” what Simon is saying is barely audible, like he’s saying it more to himself than to Wille.

“About what?” Wille asks, not sure he wants to hear the answer. He wipes at his eyes, his throat constricting.

“Nothing. Everything,” Simon replies. It doesn’t really explain anything, Wille doesn’t know Simon’s sister, has never talked to her, but somehow he can guess what she’s been telling Simon. And it hurts Wille, that someone he doesn’t even know might be right.

They stay silent after that for what feels like a lifetime, but in reality it isn’t more than a minute or two. Wille watches as Simon dries his tears, watches him pull up some invisible guards that weren’t there before, like he’s steeling himself for a battle he’s not sure he is going to win. Simon pointedly ignores Wille’s gaze, looking everywhere around his screen but directly into Wille’s eyes. Wille feels the remnants of his heart get ground to dust, knows he deserves the way Simon is choosing to treat him right now.

“Simon,” Wille says hesitantly, his voice thick, unsure how to continue. “I’m sorry, I just—”

“Please, don’t. Whatever it is you’re going to say, please don’t,” Simon all but begs, his voice breaking at the end.

“I have to go, Ayub is going to be here soon and I need to get ready,” Simon continues, sounding like he’s still swallowing back tears Wille can’t see.

Wille nods. He knows this call didn’t go as he had hoped, how either of them had hoped. Dragging it out isn’t going to do either of them any good, even if Wille wishes he could stay on the line with Simon forever, wishes none of this ever happened, wishes he hadn’t hurt Simon the way he did.

“Can I call you later? Or tomorrow?” Wille asks, letting a sliver of hope creep into his voice. He watches as Simon pauses and closes his eyes, turning to press his face against the lilac pillow behind his head. Then he turns to look at Wille again before shaking his head, the movement so tiny Wille almost misses it.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” comes Simon’s answer and Wille wants to scream, beg, tell Simon he’ll do anything the other man wants. Anything but. But Simon’s eyes, dark brown and full of sorrow, plead with him, ask him not to say anything to make things harder than they already are.

“Okay,” Wille concedes, the four letters coming out in a strangled cry, knocking the air out of his lungs on their way. Without his better judgement he can’t help but add: “Will you call me later?”

“Please,” Simon sounds desperate, exactly like Wille feels. Wille scrambles to push his hair out of his face, wanting to make sure he can see Simon before the other man goes.

“Bye, Wilhelm,” Simon finally says, trying to lift the corners of his mouth to form a tiny smile but fails, the broken expression on his face refusing to budge. Wille thinks he’d do anything to make Simon smile again, wishing to see the radiant look he’d gotten so used to in the past few months.

Simon ends the video call, leaving Wille to stare at the darkened screen, to stare at the slightly warped reflection of himself. He only notices his fingers shaking when he lets go of the phone.

He wants to turn back time, go back to an hour ago when things were still better. Wants to say all the things he didn’t say, wants to make sure Simon knows, understands. The thought makes him tear out his hair, the pain it shoots through his body the only thing he can feel. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this numb, not even when he found out his brother had died.

He pushes himself up from the chair he’d been sitting on, his palms flat against the marble counter of the island to keep him upright. Wille doesn’t know where he’s going, where he even wants to go, and the lack of destination makes him stumble against the leg of the chair and crash on the floor. He sits down, collapses into himself. He pushes his back against the island and lets his head fall against it with a little more force than necessary.

As Wille pulls his legs up to wrap his arms around them a sob escapes his lips, and before he can do anything to stop it, another wracks through his body. He sits on the floor, his body trembling, tears making their way down his cheeks once again and keeps hoping his phone would ring, that Simon would call him and they’d talk, that they would somehow end up with a different outcome.

After the onslaught of calls and messages the night before, his phone stays silent the entire day.

Chapter Text

It’s his third match back. Fourth, if you count the game that he played behind closed doors with the academy boys, more of a friendly match than something real to Wille. Playing with the teens was fun, and many of them have so much potential, but it also forced Wille to step into the role of a captain again and while he does it with the national team, he’s never done it at the club. He isn’t quite sure how he felt about it.

The first two league matches he’d started on the bench, and while he’s not going to complain about that, he does feel that coming in ten minutes before the final whistle really didn’t do much to help. Not him, nor the team, are getting back into the swing of things. They drew both of those games, dropping points that they’ll surely regret missing come spring.

This third match, however. He’d been told to start warming up at half time and he’s been running by the sideline for a while now. Watching as the pitch turns a bit more soggy, a bit more slippery as the rain that had started as soon as the match kicked off continues to relentlessly beat down on them. Wille knows that if he isn’t soon substituted on, the warmup would’ve been pointless.

When the assistant coach motions his way, Wille jogs up to the bench again, opening the zipper of his jacket and tossing it to the vacant seat. He listens to the instructions he’s given while pulling on his jersey, how they’re going to change the formation, how they want him to play a bit lower than usual, to defend the lead they have. He nods, it’s all something he’s done hundreds of times.

As he finally steps on the pitch he hears the travelling fans chant his name, chant “return of the King”, just as they’ve done in the previous matches. He hates the nickname, how it ties so much to his family, the role especially his mother has managed to take in the football community back in Sweden, how it’s somehow his legacy to be a damn king in his family. He knows it started as a joke, the supporters saying they first had an Andersson prince in his brother and now a king in him, fully fitting with the team’s nickname.

So he does his best to ignore the noises from the stands, instead focusing on what is happening on the pitch. When he sees the ball coming his way he starts to run, but the rain-soaked grass under his cleats gives way and he stumbles, and for a second all he can think of is how he’s going to twist his ankle again and not be able to play ever again. He misses the ball and it goes over the sideline. He gives a thumbs up to his teammate, but his heart is beating loud in his ears.

Wille shakes his head and briefly presses his hand to his sternum. He doesn’t know what happened. He’s been injured before, this isn’t the first time he’s coming back after a lengthy absence. He jogs up towards the centre of the pitch, trying to pick up speed. He was fine before, so he can’t understand why suddenly he is afraid of running the way he’s done basically every day of his life.

He drops down, keeping track of the player he’s marking and somehow makes it through the half an hour on the pitch. He doesn’t sprint after the ball, choosing to aim his passes and crosses so that he doesn’t need to. It’s not a good, or a beautiful, way to play, but it gets the job done. When he makes his way to the dressing room later, soaked and wishing for nothing but a warm shower, Aitor stops him.

“Wille, I get it that it’s the first time in weeks you’re really playing properly, but I expect you to do better next time,” he says, eyeing Wille with concern. Wille just nods, letting the manager know he’s heard his words and will work to improve his performance. How, he isn’t sure.

*****
The Islington FC Christmas Ball is an event that Wille normally likes. Seeing the results from their charity work, meeting the supporters who have been invited that year, listening to them tell what the team and the club mean to them has always been one of his favourite things. He doesn’t care so much about putting on the suit and listening to the board talk about the past year, but he knows it’s part of the job and does it.

This year his heart isn’t in it. He’s shown interest, but can’t really remember anything anyone has told him tonight. The chair of the board has been talking for the past fifteen minutes and Wille knows he should pay attention, should at least look like he cares about what the man is saying. But he’s finished his dinner, his teammates around him are chatting quietly among themselves and he’s pretty certain even the chair knows by now that no one’s really listening to him.

He knows he should wait until the speech is finished, but he’s getting antsy, and before he can stop himself, he’s sneaking his phone out from his pocket. Hiding it in his lap Wille swipes to open Instagram on instinct, like he’s done so many times before. It’s the post on the top of his feed that makes his breath hitch, his heart skip a beat and he looks around to make sure none of the people sitting next to him have noticed.

Simon has posted a photo. It’s the first public - or private - post since he’d made a story asking people to stop showing up at his door, to stop speculating on the video, to give him some privacy. The photo shows Simon in a studio, wearing sequined reindeer antlers instead of headphones. The caption jokes about him planning an album of Christmas songs for next year, wishing everyone a happy holiday season. It’s nothing special, obviously a bit of fun, but it makes everything inside Wille ache, noticing how Simon’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

The polite clapping around him pulls Wille out of his thoughts and in his haste to join the others he almost drops his phone to the floor. The woman sitting next to him, one of the people working for the charity, reaches her hand out and catches Wille’s phone before he can make a move to grab it himself. She hands it to him and he accepts it with a tired smile. The woman’s smile grows wider when she notices what’s still visible on the screen.

“Oh, you like Simon too? He’s amazing, my daughter loves him and we’re surprising her with tickets to his show in February,” she says, excitement clear in her voice.

Wille simply nods, feels like it’s all he does these days. Acknowledges people that he’s heard them, but can’t make himself say anything. What would he even say? That yes, he too likes Simon. Has liked the man since meeting him nearly six months ago, that all the world has seen just how much he likes him.

“Excuse me,” he says instead, getting to his feet and briskly making his way to the hallway outside the room they’ve been sitting in for the past three hours.

Wille leans against the wall, staring at the phone he’s gripping in his hand so hard his knuckles are turning white. He unlocks the phone and looks at the photo again, tapping to like it out of habit. Then he swipes to open his messages to Simon, something he’s been doing every day for the past few weeks. Sees all the messages he’s sent, read but unanswered. He ignores the way his fingers slightly shake when he types another one.

Wille
Simon, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. I hope you’re alright

It’s a variation of all the messages he’s sent before. He knows it’s not enough, but something in him keeps wanting to try, desperately hoping one day Simon will reply to him. Something, anything. So when he sees that Simon’s read the message and is typing, Wille’s heart leaps to his throat and he lets himself hope.

Simon
I hope you have a nice Christmas Wilhelm

The message punches the air out of Wille’s lungs. It’s perfectly polite, it’s a reply he’s so desperately waited for ever since the video call ended. But it’s not what he had hoped for. It almost feels worse than getting no response at all. For a moment he just stares at the words on the screen, willing them to turn into something else.

Wille
You too, Simon 🖤

He regrets adding the heart almost as soon as he’s sent the message, but Simon has already seen it. Wille lets his head knock against the wall with a small thud, and when he finally looks back at his phone, he sees there is no further reply. He isn’t sure how long he’s stood in the hallway, but when he looks away from the device in his hand, people are slowly starting to trickle out the door to his right.

Pushing away from the wall he rakes a hand through his hair, trying to stop his bangs from falling to his face. He plasters on a smile he hopes looks friendly enough when a couple of the supporters wave to him on their way out. He supposes the event must be over and joins the people heading to the coat check, deciding that if he gets told off for not greeting the board and coaching staff before leaving it’s something he can deal with later.

*****

Wille is trying to make himself comfortable on Felice’s couch among the countless red pillows she’s thrown on it. He’s been banished from the kitchen, Felice claiming he’s doing more harm than helping and maybe she’s right, Christmas dishes aren’t exactly his specialty. He gnaws at a gingerbread cookie and stares at the Christmas tree’s twinkling lights. He’s never been a huge fan of the holiday, even when he was a kid it felt too stiff, too choreographed, doing the same things in the exact same way every year, the way his mother wanted.

“Come on Wille, it’s almost three,” Felice’s voice comes from the kitchen area and suppressing a sigh Wille reaches for her laptop on the coffee table. Felice loves traditions and Wille isn’t going to fight her, knowing he’d lose.

Leo lifts his gaze from the book he’s been reading and laughs at Wille’s exasperated look. Wille doesn’t know how Felice’s partner deals with her Christmas enthusiasm, but he suspects Leo just enjoys seeing her happy and excited about something for weeks. Smiling weakly at the man, Wille finds the right tab already open on Felice’s laptop and presses play when Felice sits down next to him.

They watch as the warm voice starts to narrate the first of the animated film clips, both of them knowing the whole program by heart. Wille fiddles with his watch, nostalgia and sadness washing over him. They’d watched this with Erik, laughing at the different parts, knowing they’d get to open their presents when the program ended. Felice takes his hand and gives it a squeeze.

As they later sit on the couch again, full from the dinner Felice had spent hours preparing Leo retreats to his office to call his relatives. Wille suspects it’s also to give them a moment to catch up. Felice has been busy with her work on top of all the holiday preparations and they haven’t seen each other in months despite living in the same city.

“So, what’s up with you?” she asks right away and Wille just shrugs, pretending he doesn’t know what she’s really asking. “Wille please. You’ve been even more quiet than usual. Like you’re physically here but your head is on some other planet.”

“Just, Christmas, you know how it is,” he tries, because Felice does know, they’ve spent the holiday together ever since Wille moved to the UK.

“Yes, but there’s something else this year, I can tell. What is it?” Felice presses on, popping a piece of chocolate in her mouth. Wille buries himself in the pile of pillows he’s leaning against, avoiding her intent gaze.

“I’m worried about the match,” he settles for, hoping it explains his sullen mood.

“Sure. You’ve just come back, it takes a while to get back into it,” Felice answers. Of course she’s kept tabs on him even if she refuses a seat at the stadium every time Wille suggests it. Something about being too busy to spend half a day there.

“But I know that’s not it. At least not the whole of it,” she continues, nudging his foot gently and Wille curses inwardly. They’ve known each other since they were kids, there’s no way she wouldn’t be able to pick apart his different moods. He sighs and fixes his gaze on the star on top of the Christmas tree.

“So, you know that video of Simon that…” he starts but can’t make himself describe the contents of said video. Felice hums, indicating she knows what Wille is talking about. “You know how everyone has been trying to find out who the…” the words get stuck in his throat and he shifts his eyes to his hands, his nails picking at the skin next to his thumb. Felice stays quiet, but Wille can sense her eyes on him. “It’s me.” His voice is barely above a whisper. He doesn’t know why admitting it to Felice is so hard, she knows him better than anyone else.

“I know, Wille. I know,” she says and his eyes snap up to stare at her. He feels a surge of panic course through him and apparently Felice can see it too, because she puts her hand on his arm and traces the seam of his sleeve in a soothing motion.

“What do you mean, you know,” Wille croaks out, his chest tight. His eyes dart to the door of the room where he knows Leo is currently sitting.

“Relax. Leo doesn’t know, I haven’t told him, he doesn’t really care. I only know it’s you because I’ve known you for, what, twenty years? It didn’t take that long to recognise you. Besides, your car is right there,” Felice explains and Wille deflates, slumping forward to cradle his head in his hands. Felice moves her hand to his back, the warmth of it a small comfort. “So, do you want to talk about it?”

Wille doesn’t know. He knows Felice won’t judge him, but at the same time talking about the video makes it even more real. For some reason his mind feeds him with the thought that someone else must have recognised his car too. It’s not flashy, but it looks different enough to stand out, even in Stockholm.

“How long have you known? Why haven’t you said anything?” he finally utters, keeping his head down.

“I wanted to wait until we’re together, because you haven’t said anything.” Her tone isn’t accusing, she’s merely stating a fact. Wille’s ‘yeah’ is barely audible. “So, what happened?”

Wille takes in a deep breath and slowly starts to tell Felice everything that has happened in the past few months. He leaves out some details he thinks she doesn’t need to know, figures she can fill in the blanks herself if she wants to. When he finishes, she leans over to give him a hug.

“Oh Wille,” she sighs and squeezes him tighter. Wille lets her, welcomes the comfort he didn’t even know he’d been craving.

“Now what?” Felice asks after letting him go and all Wille can do is shrug a little.

“I don’t know. Apart from that one message I haven’t heard from him since November. And I get it, he has every right to be hurt and hate me, what I did was…” he lets the sentence trail off, unable to find a word that fits.

“Yeah, it was,” Felice says, not exactly completing his sentence but getting the idea of what he was trying to say. “I don’t think he gets to hate you though. And I don’t think he does. He’s probably angry, and disappointed, the publicity hasn’t been exactly gentle with that video.”

Wille nods, he’s seen the headlines and he knows how Simon has had to spend who knows how long on the other side of the country until the worst of it has died down.

“But. Wille. Have you actually tried to talk to him? Properly talk?” she inquires and Wille shakes his head. “You should. Apologise to him. A few texts isn’t really enough.” She says, lifting her finger when Wille tries to argue that he has been apologising several times.

“To me it sounds like you really care about him and that it wasn’t just some casual fling between the two of you. That if you explained then he’d understand,” Felice says and looks at Wille in a way that makes him want to shrink, wishing the floor under the couch would open up and swallow him. Wille feels suddenly uncomfortable with how well Felice knows him, how she can put into words things he’s been trying to make sense of for weeks.

When Wille doesn’t say anything she continues. “I’m not saying you need to come out and go to the press saying you’re in the video.” The words make a chill run through Wille and Felice gives him a small hug. “It’d probably do both of you more harm than good right now anyway. But Wille, you can’t go on like this forever either.”

She’s always been supportive. A shoulder to cry on since he came out to her as a teenager and after every failed relationship he’s had, going as far as making sure none of the people he’d been involved with would ever talk to the media about him. But Wille knows what she means. That he’s the reason why his relationships have failed, why he’s spent the majority of his adult years alone. Felice would never say it out loud, she knows the pressure he’s constantly under, but he’s pretty sure that’s what she thinks.

“I know,” Wille’s said the same thing many times, but this time it feels different, like an admission. He lies back against the pillows and accepts the chocolate Felice offers him, the mix of bitter and sweet melting on his tongue. They stay sitting on the couch in silence until Leo joins them and puts on a Christmas movie they’ve all seen countless times, obviously sensing the shift in the mood. When Wille starts to leave home later in the evening, thanking Felice and Leo for hosting him, she just gives him a big hug and a nod.

*****

The Boxing Day match rolls around and Wille is relieved to find himself starting it. It’s the first time in two years they get to play the match at home and it feels special, and it’ll be the first time he’s starting a match since that day in September that left him injured. The supporters are choosing to spend part of their Christmas holidays with them, cheering for them despite the late hour and the chilly weather. Decidedly not freezing, because while the wet and cold air is beyond unpleasant, it’s not the same kind of cold Wille grew up with, the kind that would make breathing difficult and his entire face go numb. The kind of cold that always greeted Erik and him when they were finally allowed to play again after the Christmas festivities. He almost finds himself missing the freezing cold.

He pulls the royal blue jersey over the long sleeved shirt, watches his teammates lace up their boots, adjust their socks, waiting for the manager to give his last pep talk before they go out.

“Okay guys, you know what I expect from you tonight,” Aitor starts and looks around the dressing room, the half circle they’re sitting in. “Passion. Those people out there could be sitting at home, eating their pigs in blankets and mince pies, but they have chosen to come here. They have chosen you. So go out there and show them passion. Show them why you play for this club. Why you play for them.”

Wille claps along with his teammates, excitement creeping in even if he wishes he too had someone in the stands who’d chosen him, just him. As they file out of the tunnel he sees the familiar sea of flags and hears the chants, the “come on you royals” echoing around the stadium. He soaks it all in, trying to make it soothe the ache inside him. To replace the feeling he should not be having, the feeling that is almost close to fear now, slowly taking over the excitement he felt just moments ago.

The game is a good twenty minutes into the first half when Wille finds himself jogging near the sideline, watching as Temi sprints towards the goal. The cross from Santiago is perfect, Temi catching it like he always does, one beautiful touch and the ball is at the back of the net. Except this time it isn’t, instead Temi is laying on the pitch, clutching his leg as the Middleport defender walks away.

Surely it’s a red card, or a yellow the least, a tackle like that could send someone right to the infirmary - or worse, but Wille doesn’t let himself think about it. Wille watches as the referee seems to listen to whatever someone is saying in his earpiece, but moments later all he does is award Islington with a free kick. Wille can’t believe what he’s seeing. His teammate has a bleeding cut in his leg, and the referee won’t even ask to see what the VAR room could show him, doesn’t even card the defender.

Wille jogs to where Christian and Santiago are murmuring about the free kick, but Christian just shakes his head to Wille. Sure, his aim has been a bit off in the weeks he’s been back, but this has always been his territory. This distance, he knows what to do and how to do it. The voice in his head tells him not to contest the captain’s decision, not now when his playing is still unsure, so Wille simply stands back and watches as Santiago takes the shot - and it goes above the goal, the way Wille could see it going the second the ball went up.

It frustrates him, the referee frustrates him, the weird thought of not being able to run without getting hurt at the back of his mind frustrates him. Everything about the match is starting to feel like it’s not going to go their way, his way. So, if he goes a bit rough into the challenges, if his fouls lean a bit on the unprofessional side, well, who can blame him. When there is a pause in the play and he sees the fourth official lift the board to signal a substitution, seeing his own number up there is the last thing he expects. He blinks, once, twice, and it isn’t until Oliver nudges him towards the bench that his brain registers what is happening.

He’s being substituted out. In the first half. It has never happened before. He walks towards the bench, giving Emmanuel a half-hearted hug as the man runs to the pitch. Someone hands him a coat, but all he can do is stare at Aitor.

“What the fuck, Aitor,” his voice is just short of a shout and he knows the microphones by the sideline must have picked it up. The manager turns to look at him from where he is standing near the edge of the technical area.

“Not now Wille,” he says, his face stern, eyes dark. “We’ll talk later. Go sit down.”

Wille might be furious, his blood boiling with humiliation, but he knows better than to cause a scene that’ll put them on the front page of every newspaper in the country, on every social media site. The thought twists something inside him, a little monster gnawing at his mind reminding him what happened last time he was on a video that went viral.

He wraps himself in the long coat, welcoming the warmth it offers and slumps down on the bench next to his teammates. There’s a little over five minutes left, Aitor could have given him at least those five minutes he thinks as he watches Middleport pass the ball between their players, the game almost at a standstill. When the referee blows his whistle to indicate half-time Wille is the first one to make his way to the dressing room.

“I have standards. We have standards. And right now, you are not meeting them,” Aitor shouts a moment later when they’re all sitting in the half circle again, his voice already hoarse. “You are not good enough. You are not committed. You are not passionate. You have five minutes to get your shit together and show up with the passion I know you have in the second half.” The manager points broadly towards the players and if Wille wasn’t so angry at being dropped to the bench so early in the match, he’d agree. They’ve been sloppy, all over the place, not just him but everyone else too and it’s a small miracle the result is still 0-0.

Wille sulks through the second half, he knows he probably looks like a petulant child but can’t make himself care. He cheers when Islington score, but somehow it doesn’t feel the way it usually does.

After the final whistle he makes his way around the stadium with the rest of the players, thanking the supporters. When they make it back to the dressing room he spots Aitor and before he realises what he’s doing, he steps in front of the manager.

“What the fuck, Aitor, what was the substitution for? You can’t just—” Wille blurts out, crossing his arms across his chest.

“I am the manager and I choose who plays,” Aitor states matter-of-factly before the look on his face changes to a slightly more questioning one. “And do you really need to ask? You were one reckless tackle away from a straight red Wille. It’s not like you.”

Wille tries to argue, tries to say that his playing wasn’t that out of control, he was just frustrated at the way Temi was treated. That he hasn’t played in a way that warrants a red card in years, that he’s matured out of that.

But he knows Aitor is right and it makes him drop his defence. When he lets himself think of his actions on the pitch he can tell he wasn’t himself, hasn’t been since coming back from the injury, hasn’t paid the same attention and care he normally does. Wille sighs and rubs a hand across his face.

“Look, I know I wasn’t at my best tonight, but I promise I’ll do better when we travel to Manchester later this week,” Wille says, trying to interpret the suddenly neutral face Aitor is sporting.

“No, Wille. You are not travelling with us,” Aitor then says and it knocks the wind out of Wille.

“What?” is all he manages to say, hearing the words but his brain incapable of understanding their meaning.

“You are not coming to Manchester with us,” Aitor repeats and Wille thinks he must be hearing wrong.

“You can’t just… just drop me, I’ve just gotten back,” he’s raised his voice, he knows it and from the way the noises from the dressing room have died down a little he knows his teammates are listening to their exchange.

“I can, and I just did,” Aitor states, before pulling Wille closer to himself and lowering his voice. “I don’t know what is going on with you, what is bothering you, but it clearly is affecting your playing. I need you to sort it out before I can let you back on the pitch. I need you there one hundred percent, I need you to give it your all, and you are not doing it. You do not respect me, playing like this, you don’t respect the guys over there.” Aitor motions towards the dressing room and Wille is too stunned to speak.

“Talk to Boris, this is an order. You are out of the squad list until you get yourself together. You have until the first Cup match in January,” Aitor’s words sound like an ultimatum, the mention of January looming over Wille’s head like a dark cloud. “I care about you Wille, I love you, the team needs you. But right now you, with the way you’re playing, you are no use to us.”

Aitor gives him a short hug, one that Wille doesn’t manage to respond to, before heading to the dressing room to thank the other players for the way they stepped up in the second half, for the three points they’ve secured tonight.

Wille stares at the words and pictures on the wall opposite him, not really seeing any of them. He replays the conversation over and over in his head, unable to believe Aitor is choosing to leave him out of one of the biggest matches of the season. Not on the bench, but out of the entire squad. For the first time since he started playing professionally a decade ago, for the first time for something that isn’t an injury. Wille feels embarrassment and rage mix inside him. How did he fuck this up, the one thing he’s ever been good at.

You know how, you know why, the voice in his head tells him.

*****

The following morning Wille finds himself sitting in Boris’ office, nursing a cup of tea, wondering what strings Aitor has had to pull to get Boris to come in early so soon after the match. His gaze keeps flitting from the white walls to a red poinsettia next to him on the table. His leg bounces nervously and he does nothing to stop it.

“I have a rough idea of why you’re here, Aitor told me you’d be coming. But Wihelm, I want you to tell me yourself why you are here today,” Boris says, watching Wille over the rim of his glasses.

Wille takes a sip of his tea, trying to buy himself some time. “I’m here because I’m playing like shit,” he eventually settles for, because it’s the truth.

“And why is that?” Boris asks.

“It’s… I’ve been injured and… It’s difficult to get back into it in the middle of the season,” Wille knows his explanation isn’t very good.

“What’s making it difficult? This isn’t the first time you’ve been injured, not even during your time at Islington.” Of course Boris knows his history, everyone in the medical team knows what kind of injuries he’s suffered during the years, they know all the knocks he’s picked up along the way. There is probably even a chart with every single bruise he’s had in the past two and a half years he’s been in London.

“I just feel that… that if I get injured again, I’ll lose everything I have left. That I’m one bad tackle away from having everything taken from me,” Wille hates how watery his voice sounds, hates that such a minor injury has landed him here.

“Why does it feel like that, that football is everything you have left?” Boris’ question takes Wille by surprise, even if he should have expected it. This isn’t the first time they’ve talked about football.

“Because it is,” Wille knows his short answers aren’t what Boris is after, but he doesn’t know how to verbalise the things twisted in his mind.

“What’s changed? I know football has always been important to you, but you’ve always been one of the few who have stayed quite far from it in your free time when you’ve been with us. What makes it feel like the only thing you have left?” Boris is looking at him, Wille knows it, but he can’t make himself meet the man’s gaze. Instead he chooses to play with the string of his teabag, running it between his fingers. “You know everything you say here stays between the two of us. All Aitor or anyone else gets to know is that you’ve been here.”

Wille sighs. Before his brain catches up with his mouth, he’s opened the floodgates and nearly stumbles over his words when he mumbles his response. “I met someone, some time ago, and I really like them. But then something happened and I hurt them and now they want nothing to do with me. So now football is the only meaningful thing left in my life and if I get injured again, or just can’t get my fucking head straight again and play like I know I can, I’m going to lose it too, and then I’m just going to be another has-been with nothing left.”

“Let me summarise,” Boris starts after a moment and Wille nods, not even sure why. “You hurt someone you care about and—”

“Yes, and I don’t know if they’d ever forgive me,” Wille doesn’t even notice he’s cut Boris off mid-sentence.

“What makes you think so? Have you apologised to them?” Boris only asks.

“I, yes, I’ve … what I did was selfish and I did it because I’m scared…” Wille’s voice is quiet, and he doesn’t know why he’s saying all this out loud. He’s barely managed to admit it to himself.

“Scared of what?” is Boris’ next question. Wille wipes at the corners of his eyes, ashamed of the tears that have started to form there.

Scared that everything would change. That if Simon did forgive him and Wille would admit it is him in the video, that if he did come out then everyone would turn against him, make playing a living hell because people like him have no place in football and then he’d lose everything he’s worked for all his life anyway and then he’d have nothing. He says none of it out loud.

“That… that people would no longer accept me because of what I did, because of what I am,” he knows it’s vague, dodging the actual question, a non-answer at best. That what he’s saying is just taking them around in circles.

“Being scared is normal, Wilhelm. Especially when you’re a public figure, everyone watching what you do week in and week out. It’s human to feel that way. But it’s also important to be true to yourself. I know our community, our supporters, and you know them too. They love you, not just as a player but as a person. I firmly believe they’d stand by you no matter what - unless, of course, you’re going to move to Finsbury, in which case they would have every right to be mad with you.” Boris’ final sentence gets a chuckle out of Wille and the other man smiles at him warmly.

“Yeah, not going to happen,” he says with the corners of his mouth tugging upwards a bit, the mere thought of a transfer like that making him shudder.

“I’m not going to tell you what to do, but maybe you should try speaking with the person you hurt. Explain to them why you’re scared. Because I think what you’re not actually telling me is a big part of why your performance on the pitch isn’t what it could be,” Boris has noticed Wille hasn’t actually told him much, but Wille’s grateful he isn’t prodding more to make him talk.

Wille downs the rest of his tea, bitter and cold now, and gives Boris a tiny nod. He knows it’s what he should do, even if it changes nothing.

*****

It’s barely noon when Wille sets down the book he’s been trying to read, one he’d picked up in the summer and let sit on the living room table untouched until now. He’d thought ice hockey would be similar but different enough to be enjoyable to read about, but he finds the other themes in the novel have been hitting a bit too close to home. He groans, fingers nervously tapping his thigh. It’s not really different from when he’d been injured, except now he could be training, could be preparing for the match but isn’t allowed to.

More out of habit than any need, Wille unlocks his phone and studies the icons on the screen. Unread emails that can wait until later, various social media applications showing numerous notifications. The one app he hopes had new messages shows none. Still, he swipes to open it, to read once again the message he’d received a few days before Christmas. He closes his eyes, the eight words etched on the insides of his eyelids. Boris and Felice’s words ring in his ears.

Opening his eyes he navigates to his contacts and waits for the call to connect. He’s let it ring several times before a rushed voice comes in on the other end.

“Hi Wille,” Jordan, his agent, answers.

“Book me on the first possible flight to Stockholm,” Wille says without a greeting, the words coming out before he can stop himself.

“What,” Jordan nearly screeches and Wille can imagine the raised eyebrows and the distressed look the man must be sporting.

“I need to do something and I need to do it now,” Wille explains.

“In Stockholm? Wille, you have a match in three days, you can’t just hop on a plane to another country,” Jordan tells him, clearly taken by surprise by his request.

“No, I don’t. Aitor dropped me,” Wille responds, unable to keep the hurt from creeping into his voice.

“What?!” Jordan sounds distressed. Wille can hear him mutter something and hears footsteps, Jordan probably trying to find a quieter place to continue the conversation. “Wille, what happened?”

“I’ve been playing like shit and Aitor isn’t happy with it so he’s not putting me on the Manchester squad. I’m not happy about it, so I need to go to Stockholm to try to fix something before it’s too late,” Wille says with a sigh. He stands up and walks to the window.

“Did something happen with you parents, with your mother, again?” Jordan’s question is cautious.

“No. It has nothing to do with them, it’s something else,” Wille answers. He knows he’s being cryptic, but Jordan doesn’t need to know every single detail about his life right now. It’s enough that he knows everything about the professional aspects of it.

Wille hears a deep sigh on the other end of the line and then the sound of a keyboard clacking. He bites his thumbnail, before playing with a candle on the windowsill.

“Well?” he asks a moment later, impatience starting to make him lose his resolve.

“It’s the holiday season Wille. Everything’s booked, the first flight I can get you on is tomorrow,” Jordan says after a while. “It lands you in Stockholm at quarter past eight in the evening.”

Wille wants to protest, say there must be an earlier one. “Seriously Wille, this is the only one. I’m not getting you a damn private jet when you won’t even tell me why exactly you suddenly want to go to Sweden when you try to get out of going unless it’s national team duty.”

“Fine, book it. Send me the details when you’re done,” Wille says, about to hang up when Jordan stops him.

“Are you sure I’m not going to get a call from Aitor or Vijay in a day or two, asking where you’ve fucked off? You do realise I’m trying to work on your contract extension,” Jordan demands.

“I’m sure,” Wille assures him, even though he actually isn’t. He isn’t entirely certain what the terms of his sudden time off are, if there are any. But Aitor told him to get his act together.

“Wille, if you want to leave London you have to tell me. I can’t read your mind. If you for some reason want to go back to Italy or try it out in Spain, you need to tell me so I can start to work on things,” his agent says, slipping back into all-business mode.

“I don’t want to leave London, I like it at Islington—” Wille starts to say when Jordan interrupts him.

“Like it at Islington? You need to be more convincing than that, you’re starting to worry me Wille. This is what you’ve always told me you want,” Jordan responds.

“Jordan. I want to stay here, I really do. If it were up to me I would never leave. But right now I need to go to Stockholm to apologise to Simon and—” Wille clamps a hand over his mouth when he realises what he’s just said.

“Wille,” is all Jordan says, the ‘what’ very apparent in his voice but left unsaid, trying to make sense of the information Wille’s let slip.

“Look, I fucked up, okay, big time. And I’m trying to make things right but I can’t do it from here. Don’t ask me more,” Wille pleads. He’s worked with Jordan for years, long enough to know the man should know when to stop asking questions, to know when Wille will stop answering.

“Okay. The flight’s booked, you need to be at Heathrow at three the latest,” Jordan replies and Wille lets out a breath he was holding.

“Can you come and drop me keys to a car as well? Any of yours will do,” Wille asks, almost an afterthought.

“Wille, it’s the holiday season. I’m up north with Elin and the kids,” he answers. Wille thinks he can hear Jordan grit his teeth and makes a mental note to get him a nice holiday somewhere in the summer. “Maja should be in the city. I’ll call her and see if she can arrange it.”

“Thank you Jordan, really. I know this isn’t something you’d want to deal with,” Wille says and hears Jordan laugh, a weary noise that tells Wille he’s right.

“Yeah, you’re right. But I’ve dealt with you for so many years I don’t know why anything surprises me anymore,” the agent laughs and a smile tugs at the corners of Wille’s mouth. Jordan can be a hard business person when he wants to, but Wille knows he cares about him, about all his clients. He did save Wille after a disastrous year in Italy without saying ‘I told you so’ after all.

“Thank you,” Wille says again, and means it. “Go enjoy your vacation. I won’t bother you again any time soon. And when I said it, I meant it. I do want to stay in London and at Islington. I really, really do. As long as possible.”

*****

It’s two hours into the flight when Wille realises he doesn’t even know if Simon is in Stockholm. The photo of him in a studio had made him assume so, but Gothenburg must have recording studios too. It makes him spend the rest of the flight growing more and more anxious, wondering if it’s all for nothing.

He’s greeted by Maja, Jordan’s assistant, when he steps into the arrivals terminal. All of a sudden he’s glad of the late hour, very few people around despite the plane being full. He knows more than a handful of people have spotted him and must be wondering what he’s doing in Sweden, but no one’s been brave enough to ask.

“Hi Wille,” Maja greets him, handing him the car keys. “I’ll show you where I’ve parked. You’re paying.”

He nods. “Sorry you had to come here tonight, I guess I could’ve just rented a car…”

“No you couldn’t have, and you know it. Besides, you’ve just given me two hours away from my family and as much as I love them, this is very welcome,” she chuckles and Wille thinks she really means it.

They walk to the parking lot after Wille’s paid the fee and Maja gives him a quick hug. “How are you getting back to the city?” he asks.

“You do know there’s a train, right?” is all she says and with a smile she waves at him. “Go do whatever it is you’re here to do. Jordan wouldn’t tell me, because apparently you didn’t tell him?”

Wille gives her a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and gets into the car. He navigates the familiar roads, not paying attention to what the radio is playing, only keeping it on as a distraction from all the thoughts fighting for space in his head. It’s only when he starts to near the city and weave through the streets to where Simon lives that he can’t ignore everything on his mind any longer.

He pulls up in front of Simon’s building, miraculously finding a vacant parking spot not too far from the door he’s seen on the video more times than is healthy. Sitting in the quiet and dark for a long while he takes deep breaths, counts four in and four out before finally getting out of the car and walking up to the door. He notices all the names next to the buzzers have been removed and something twinges inside of him as he presses the one he knows is Simon’s.

Wille waits, hopes Simon is home because he has no idea what to do if he isn’t. After a moment the intercom crackles and Wille nearly jumps when he hears Simon’s voice.

“Yeah?” the other man sounds hesitant, like he’s had to do this too many times in the past weeks. Answer an intercom call he doesn’t want to.

“Simon,” Wille starts and clears his voice when it sounds like he’s swallowed sand.

“Wille?” Simon says, sounding clearly puzzled.

“Simon, please, let me in. Give me ten minutes, please,” he’s begging already, definitely not wanting to spend more time standing on the street. The mere thought is making his anxiety rear its head. He hears a buzz and the door unlocks.

Letting out a sigh Wille yanks the door open and starts making his way up the stairs, not wanting to wait for the elevator. When he reaches Simon’s floor he sees the man stand in the doorway with his arms crossed, an unreadable expression on his face.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his tone hard.

“I…” Wille stutters and Simon just stares at him. “Fuck. Please, Simon, give me ten minutes to explain and then you’ll never have to see me again if you don’t want to.” Wille feels his throat constrict when he says the words.

Simon doesn’t say anything, but he steps aside to make space for Wille to walk across the threshold into his flat. Wille pretends he doesn’t notice the way the other man makes sure they won’t even brush each other when Wille walks past him.

Simon closes the door behind them and makes his way to the living room, not checking to see if Wille is following him. Wille toes off his shoes and walks to where Simon is sitting, taking a seat at the other end of the couch, making sure there is space between them. Simon just sits without saying a word, playing with the little too long sleeves of his striped sweater, clearly waiting for Wille to talk.

“I’m sorry. I know I’ve said that probably a million times, but I need to say it again. I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened. It’s all my fault,” Wille starts, searching for Simon’s eyes. “I’m not sorry I kissed you like that, I’m just sorry I did it where someone, well, everyone could have seen it.”

Simon scoffs, his eyes still bearing a hard look that makes Wille swallow. He’s spent so much time trying to ignore his thoughts that now he doesn’t know how to say what he wants to say.

“I don’t know who took the video and I wish it didn’t exist. Not because I regret making out with you, it’s just… fuck,” Wille drops his head into his hands, pulling his hair a bit before lifting his gaze to meet Simon’s again.

“Football has been my life since I was about four years old. It’s pretty much all I know, it’s one of the very few things I’ve ever been good at in my life. I love it, so much. It’s given me more than I could have ever asked for,” Wille takes a deep breath before continuing. “It’s also taken more from me than is fair. I’m not even talking about my brother, I’m talking about myself. I’ve known I… wasn’t like the other boys around me since I was 16. When I first… had feelings for another boy. There are maybe a dozen people in the world who know too, and apart from two, every single one of them has always told me that if I want to be a professional footballer, play in the top leagues in Europe, I have to keep it a secret. That I have to hide myself, who I am, because there is no place for someone like me in football. And I’ve always thought they were right, because there hasn’t been anyone, not a single active top level player who’s out. It’s gotten a bit better as I’ve gotten older, the dressing room jokes aren’t funny to anyone anymore, so most people have stopped telling them. But it all lies there still, unsaid. That football is a serious, masculine sport, that everything a pro like me would want from the world is a beautiful woman at my arm because that’s how it’s always been. That there is no place for anything else. For anyone else. No matter how many campaigns the club or the league or the goddamn federations do, the perception won’t change. That the status quo must remain as it is, because the last thing anyone associated with this sport wants is change.”

Wille’s rambling, he knows he is, his explanation anything but clear and well-articulated. Simon’s still fiddling with the sleeves of his sweater, but his mouth isn’t set into a hard line anymore.

“It’s no excuse for how I treated you or what I said to you when… But I’m scared. I’m sick and tired of it all, but I’m also so fucking scared. Scared to be the one to take the first step, when I’ve heard the shouts from the stands, when I’ve read the comments on social media, when I know those people don’t see someone like me, don’t see me, as a human being,” Wille’s voice cracks and he needs to close his eyes to fight back the tears that are threatening to form at his lash line. His eyes snap open when he feels Simon’s hand gently brush his knee.

“I’m sorry it’s like that. It sucks,” Simon says, and Wille wants to laugh at the understatement. “It doesn’t change the fact that the way you left me to deal with everything was a shitty thing to do and you have no idea how much it’s… just taken everything out of me. Like, you have no idea what it’s like to leave your own home because you don’t feel safe there anymore. To see the people mobbing down on the street, to hear the comments...” Simon’s voice is small, but he’s keeping his eyes locked on Wille’s.

“I know, and I’ve spent every day for the past weeks regretting I didn’t get on the first plane here and I don’t even know, ask you to come to London or something,” Wille responds.

“But you couldn’t because it would have hurt your image, would have raised questions you don’t want to answer.” Simon’s words sting. Wille shakes his head, starting to feel too hot in the coat he’s still wearing.

“No. Well, yes, but I should have realised then what I know now. That I didn’t do it because I’m a coward,” he says, the admission feeling like a poison pill on his tongue. “But I’m so tired of being one. I’m so fucking tired of hiding and keeping secrets and pretending and putting on an act to be someone I’m not.”

He shifts on the couch, turning to face Simon properly. “All I’ve wanted to do since I’ve gotten to know you is tell the whole world I’m finally happy. Properly, genuinely happy. Because there’s someone who makes me happy, who makes me feel something I’ve never felt before. You.”

Wille hears Simon’s breath catch and watches the other man’s eyes widen. Hesitating for a moment he reaches out to take Simon’s hand in his and breathes out a little sigh when Simon lets him. He strokes his thumb over Simon’s knuckles before speaking again, watching their joined hands.

“Everything. When you asked me what you are to me. It feels scary and too big and too much and too soon, but the answer to that question is everything. I didn’t expect it, didn’t ever think it would happen, but…” Wille trails off for a moment before lifting his gaze to meet Simon’s, seeing unshed tears shine in his eyes. “But I fell in love with you. And then I ruined it all by being a stupid coward and if you don’t want to be my friend anymore or if you never want to see me again then I’m going to respect that. But I just need you to know that the past few months have been the best of my life because you were there and made me happy and made me feel so much, even at a distance. Because I’m in love with you and it’s been the best feeling I’ve ever experienced. I’m sorry I was scared to say it before and I’m truly so sorry I hurt you. I’ve probably used my ten minutes now so I’m just going to…” Wille pulls his hand free and motions towards the hallway, starting to lift up from the couch, knowing by now it’s been much longer than ten minutes. Before he manages to move, Simon pulls him back down, linking their fingers again.

“You goddamn fool,” he says, voice sounding like he’s doing everything he can to hold back the tears. Wille’s taken aback by the words, raising his eyebrows and giving Simon a confused look. Simon just laughs, wiping his eyes and the sweetness of it sends a shiver down Wille’s spine.

“I knew athletes aren’t always the sharpest tools in the shed but oh my god,” Simon manages through his laughter and Wille is torn between laughing too and scowling at the other man because did he just insult Wille?

“It’s not too much or too big or whatever, because I love you too. Why do you think it hurt me so much, the way you instantly said you can’t admit being on the video?” Simon asks him and Wille shakes his head, trying to understand Simon’s words. “Because I wanted to face it together. Because I’ve been in love with you for months and I wanted to stand up against whatever was coming our way together and when you wouldn’t do it I thought I’d had it all wrong, misjudged you or what I thought you felt for me.”

Simon’s voice grows more quiet towards the end of his sentence and he lowers his eyes, looking at their hands, fingers still intertwined, both of Wille’s hands now covering his.

“You didn’t,” is all Wille manages to say, thousand and one emotions coursing through his body. He gives Simon’s hand a squeeze.

“Yeah, apparently” Simon responds, and it makes them both chuckle. Simon raises his head to meet Wille’s gaze again and the look, the shine in his eyes makes Wille’s heart skip a beat. He’s never seen anything more beautiful. For a moment they do nothing but watch each other, eyes roaming over each other’s faces. Then Simon leans forward and captures Wille’s lips with his own, gently and Wille melts into the kiss. Into Simon, into the hand that’s found its way into his hair, into the other hand brushing against his cheek. His own hand sneaks its way into the back of Simon’s neck and it’s only when he feels Simon falter slightly that he brings his free hand to steady the man.

Wille smiles into the kiss and feels Simon mirror his movement before pulling away to catch his breath. Wille leans his forehead against Simon’s and looks into the man’s dark brown eyes. “Hi,” he says and Simon laughs, the sound sweet like honey.

Simon pushes at his coat and Wille had forgotten he was still wearing it. Waiting for Simon to move back he gets up long enough to take the coat off and drop it on the floor. Simon scoots up next to him and Wille wraps an arm around him.

“I’m still so sorry,” Wille can’t help but say and Simon looks up at him.

“I know. I love you anyway,” Simon responds and Wille feels his heart swell, the words making something warm bloom inside him. “And I forgive you. Just, never let me down like that again. I don’t think I could deal with it again…”

“I won’t, I promise,” Wille says immediately, because the last thing he wants to do is hurt Simon again. He feels Simon hum in approval. “And you know, I do want to— I do want to come out.”

Simon leans back to see Wille’s face properly and lifts his hand to caress Wille’s cheek. “I don’t want to, I would never— I mean, I don’t want to keep this a secret forever, we both know it’s not even possible if we… stay together long enough. But I’m not going to make you come out if you aren’t ready or comfortable with it.” Simon says, motioning between them and Wille notices the slight hurt that’s crept into his voice.

“You aren’t. I want to do it, I need to do it. For my own sake. I’m so tired of hiding and lying,” Wille assures him. He can feel the tension of the day starting to catch up on him, exhaustion seeping into his bones. “I’m scared of it, but I don’t think being in the closet has done me any good. I always thought I’d maybe do it after my career’s over and no one would care that much, but… Now I don’t know how or when I’m going to do it, but I need to… I probably need to plan and discuss it first but it’s about time someone did it. Even if I’ll be out of a job by the end of it.”

The thought frightens him, more than he’s willing to admit, because he has no idea who he’d be without football. But at the same time he knows he has to do it. Felice was right, has been all these years.

“I’ll be there for you, however you decide to do it. I’ll always want to be there for you,” Simon tells him, snuggling closer to his chest and Wille hugs him a little tighter. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this, deserve Simon, his love, but he knows he doesn’t ever want to lose it again.

“Thank you,” he whispers into Simon’s hair. “I want to be there for you too, always.”

Simon’s body is warm against his and he lets out a small yawn, starting to feel sleep take over him. Simon hugs him even tighter before pulling away.

“We should probably get some sleep, it’s late and I don’t know about you, but tonight’s been kind of a lot,” he says and clambers to his feet, extending his hand out to Wille. A silent invitation to spend the night together.

Wille nods and takes his hand, getting up from the couch, letting Simon guide him to the bedroom. He remembers what happened last time he was there, and while he finds himself hoping for a repeat, he knows he’s too tired for it. Still, he pulls Simon in for a kiss when they come to stand at the foot of his bed.

“Wille, I…” Simon says when they break apart, too soon for Wille’s liking. “I do want to, but not tonight, okay?” Simon whispers, searching Wille’s gaze. Wille nods.

“Yeah. It’s okay, I just wanted to kiss you,” he answers, running his hands up and down Simon’s arms. Simon gives a content sigh and Wille can feel him shiver under his touch.

“Um, I probably don’t have anything that would fit you to wear,” Simon apologises when he turns towards the bed, pulling off his own sweater. Wille shrugs, removing his sweatshirt and working on the button and zipper of his jeans. He smiles when he notices Simon’s eyes follow his fingers.

“I can just sleep in my t-shirt and boxers, it’s fine,” Wille says, discarding his clothes and turning to Simon. Simon nods before climbing to his bed, offering his hand to Wille again. Wille takes it and allows Simon to pull him in, with a little too much force so that Wille ends up nearly on top of Simon. Wille lets out a breathless laugh before rolling over next to him.

Simon nestles in next to him, slinging an arm over Wille’s waist. Wille pulls him closer, burying his face in Simon’s curls and breathing in his scent before dropping a gentle kiss to the crown of his head. Simon huffs a little, Wille can feel his warm breath against his chest even through the shirt he’s wearing. He feels the emotions of the day turn into exhaustion, sleep not too far anymore now that he’s tucked into bed.

“I love you,” Wille tells Simon and he thinks he’s never going to get tired of saying it. He feels himself starting to drift to sleep, but not before he can hear the most beautiful words he can imagine. The words he thought he’d never get to hear.

“I love you too,” Simon replies.

*****

Wille doesn’t know what time it is when he wakes up, the room is dark except for the small fairy lights twinkling above Simon’s window. Sometime during the night they’ve drifted apart, Simon now lying on his stomach next to him, arm under his pillow. Wille turns to his side and props himself up on one elbow.

The dim light makes Simon’s skin glow gorgeously golden and Wille feels like he should pinch himself, to make sure what happened last night was actually real. Instead he hovers his hand over Simon’s shoulder, his fingertips tracing a featherlight path when they move down the man’s arm. He feels Simon stir and smiles when the other man opens his eyes, face half-buried in the pillow squished between his arm and head.

“Good morning,” Wille says, his finger still drawing little patterns into Simon’s skin.

“Good morning,” Simon replies, turning to his side to properly face Wille. For a moment neither of them moves, Wille’s hand resting on Simon’s forearm, eyes silently reading each other’s faces. When Simon’s eyes drop down to Wille’s lips, he moves his hand to cradle Simon’s neck and pull him into a kiss.

It starts out slow, almost tentative with the way their mouths move to taste one another. Wille lets his tongue slide over Simon’s lower lip and he feels himself smile with the way Simon breathes out a low moan before parting his lips to let Wille taste his mouth. It doesn’t take long for the kiss to turn into a deeper, more heated one.

Wille pulls Simon closer and soon the smaller man is half on top of him, one hand pressing into Wille’s shoulder while the other is caressing the side of his neck. Wille thinks it’s what heaven must be like, getting to feel like this. Judging by the way Simon’s erection is pressing into his thigh, the other man must be feeling something similar.

Wille moves his hands to Simon’s waist and with some effort manages to flip them so that Simon is lying on his back. Wille pulls back to catch his breath and to marvel at the sight before him, Simon panting slightly under him, his lips deep red and eyes shining. When he ducks back down to kiss Simon again, he lets his hands sneak under his t-shirt, hooking his thumbs to the hem to slowly push it up. Simon lets out another moan while lifting his arms up, only breaking the kiss long enough to let Wille pull the shirt off.

Feeling Simon’s skin under his hands Wille moves his head, smiling when Simon lets out a little whine that turns into a moan when Wille’s mouth works its way down his neck. Wille feels Simon arch into the touch and it makes shivers run through him.

“You okay with me leaving a mark on your neck?” Wille asks, lifting up enough to see Simon’s face, to see the way in which the man nods, not managing to say more than a breathy ‘yeah’. It makes Wille’s smile grow even bigger before he latches his mouth back into the side of Simon’s neck, grazing it with his teeth just a bit before sucking enough to know it leaves a mark. When he lifts his head again he sees a little bruise starting to bloom and he licks over it. Simon trembles under his touch.

“Wille, oh god, please,” Simon breathes out when Wille moves lower to run his tongue over Simon’s collarbones. The sound makes Wille prop himself up on his hands, waiting for Simon to open his eyes, drinking in the sight of the man pressed against the purple pillows.

“What do you want?” he asks Simon, hovering over him and whispering close to his ear.

“You, ahhh, I want you to…” Simon starts and Wille waits for him to form a coherent sentence, feeling the man’s shallow breath fan over his cheek.

“Fuck, I want you inside of me,” Simon finally says and Wille pushes to sit on his haunches between Simon’s legs, the words taking him by surprise. Simon scrambles to push himself up against the pillows. “If you want that, if you’d be okay with that.” He rushes to add, eyes blown and searching for Wille’s.

“Oh god, fuck, yes,” Wille manages to say, feeling his brain must have blacked out for a moment from the image his mind had conjured up. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing loose strands away from his face. “I want that so much.”

Simon smiles, and Wille thinks he looks a little shy. He leans back down, pushing Simon against the stack of pillows, and threads his hand through his curls. “How do you want—” he starts, his voice catching in his throat when he feels Simon’s foot brush up his leg. “How do you want to do this?”

“Like this?” Simon’s words sound like a question. Wille nods, though it only answers part of his own question.

“Can I… open you up? Or do you want to—” he asks Simon, wanting to learn everything about the man under him, wanting to learn all the ways that make him tick.

“Fuck, oh god, yes, yes,” Simon answers, his hips bucking upwards to grind against Wille’s. The movement makes Wille whine, too many layers of clothing still between them. He lets his hands travel down to the waistband of Simon’s sweatpants and moving back on the bed he pulls them down with Simon’s boxers, unceremoniously throwing them to the floor.

“Impatient much?” Simon teases, a bit more back to his senses than some time earlier.

Wille lets his eyes rove over Simon’s now naked body, biting his lower lip between his teeth before releasing it to speak. “Yeah, I mean, have you seen yourself, you look so fucking hot.” His voice is hoarse, and he feels a blush rising to his cheeks and Simon grinning while he spreads his legs a bit wider makes Wille’s cock twitch in his boxers.

Simon pushes himself up to tug at Wille’s t-shirt, feigning offence at the way he’s still dressed. Wille giggles at the look on his face when he pulls the garment off, dropping it somewhere behind himself. “These too,” Simon says, his hands brushing over Wille’s boxers, his cock, and the sensation makes him drop his head back. It takes him several seconds to recover enough to stand up and strip away the last piece of cotton between their bodies.

When they’re both finally naked, Wille crawls back on the bed and catches Simon’s lips into another searing kiss. Their cocks brush and the sensation sends sparks through Wille’s entire body, lighting him aflame.

“Where do you keep everything?” he manages to pant out and Simon shoves him to make space to roll to his side and reach for the bedside table drawer. The angle is awkward but Simon manages to get the drawer open and pulls out lube and a condom. He then flops back to lie on the mattress and reaches a hand to brush a strand of hair behind Wille’s ear. Something about the gesture makes his heart race, something tug deep inside him. Wille closes his eyes and tries to get his breathing back under control.

“Hey, you okay? We don’t have to…” Simon asks him, his voice gentle, hand still carding through Wille’s hair.

“Yeah, better than okay. It’s just…” Wille answers, feeling like his cheeks must be burning red. He takes a deep breath. “It’s just been a while and I don’t want to hurt you, again.” He admits, lowering his eyes, loading more meaning into the words than he maybe intended.

“It’s okay. Wille. Look at me,” Simon’s demand is soft and he uses his index finger to lift Wille’s chin back up so their eyes meet. “You’re not going to hurt me. If something feels uncomfortable, I’ll tell you.”

“Promise?” Wille can’t help but ask, hating how insecure he suddenly feels. It’s far from the first time he’s doing this, but he can’t bear the thought of doing something that would make Simon hurt. Physically or emotionally.

“Promise,” Simon assures him, running his hands up and down Wille’s sides before kissing him again, his touch electric and gentle at the same time.

The kiss makes him relax, or maybe it’s the way Simon moves underneath him, because soon they’re grinding into each other. Wille more feels than hears Simon pant into his mouth and suddenly he’s pushing Wille back, a firm hand on his shoulder.

“You keep doing that,” he gasps, chest heaving. ”And I’m not gonna last. And I really need to feel you inside me.”

The words, the way Simon says them, make Wille move. He reaches for the lube and squeezes a generous amount into his hand, warming it up between his fingers. Simon watches him, eyes dark and full of lust and when Wille moves closer again, he grabs a pillow behind his head and shoves it under his hips.

Wille moans at the sight, Simon spread out before him like that. He looks at the man’s face, trust and certainty evident in his eyes and slowly brings his hand down to Simon’s ass, gently massaging the ring of muscle there. Simon simply gives him a tiny nod, and it’s enough to make Wille push a finger inside, slowly and carefully. Simon throws his head back, screwing his eyes shut when his face scrunches up and he squirms a bit.

“It’s good, don’t, just… just need a second” Simon breathes out when Wille starts to pull his finger out, sensing Simon’s discomfort, his hand clasping Wille’s wrist. Wille doesn’t move a single muscle as he watches Simon puff out a few breaths and then let go of his wrist. “Okay.”

The one word, the way he says it, assures Wille Simon is fine, that he wants Wille to do this, and he starts to move his finger, slowly pulling it out and pushing back in. He watches Simon’s eyelids flutter and his hands grasp at the sheet, what he’s looking at making his cock twitch and he feels precome against his skin.

For a while the only sounds in the room are their quickened breathing and the slick sound of Wille’s hand working to make Simon loosen up, the rhythm broken by Simon’s gasp when Wille pushes a second finger in. He gives Simon a moment to adjust before he starts his ministrations again, making sure to register every sound the man makes, all the ways he moves under him, against his fingers.

“Oh, oh fuck,” Simon keens when Wille curls his fingers, his body arching up to the touch. Wille does it again and is rewarded with the most beautiful sight he’s seen, pleasure painted across Simon’s face when Spanish words tumble from his lips. He takes his own cock, painfully hard, into his free hand, giving it a few strokes.

“Do you… want a third?” he asks Simon, though he’s not entirely sure the man’s heard him, a mix of pants and words he can’t understand spilling from his lips when he pushes down against Wille’s fingers.

“Ahh, yea— yeah,” Simon finally manages to utter when Wille stills his fingers and rubs his other hand over Simon’s hip. He opens his eyes and raises his head enough to peek at Wille and then lets it drop back into the pillow. “My god, you look so fucking hot.”

Wille laughs. “No, you do. You have no idea how incredible you look right now,” he replies and it’s true. Nothing, no one in his life has looked as stunning as Simon does right now. He pulls his fingers out and chuckles when Simon lets out a high pitched whine. Adding more lube to his hand, he bends down to peck Simon’s lip before he carefully pushes three fingers in, crooking them in a way he now knows will make Simon shout out in pleasure.

“I’m ready,” Simon murmurs after a minute, sweat glistening on his body and Wille makes sure to brush his prostate one more time before pulling his fingers out. Simon whimpers and it makes Wille lean over to give him another quick kiss. Sitting back on his heels he finds the condom Simon got out earlier, ripping the package open and rolling it on before covering his cock with more lube. He positions himself between Simon’s legs, gripping the other man’s hips to keep him in place.

Simon’s hand releases its grip on the sheet and instead sneaks its way up Wille’s back to the nape of his neck. Simon tugs at his hair cautiously and Wille relishes in the feeling it sends through his body, catching Simon’s lips in a dirty kiss. He feels Simon’s other hand move and from the corner of his eye he sees him grip his knee, pulling it up a bit to give Wille more space. Wille keens and Simon breaks the kiss, looking up at him with burning eyes.

It makes Wille take his cock into his hand, torturously slowly starting to push inside Simon, all the while keeping his eyes on Simon’s. When he’s finally pushed all the way in the sensation makes him groan, feeling the other man so impossibly close. Simon tightens his grip in his hair slightly.

“You okay?” he checks in, wanting to make sure Simon isn’t feeling uncomfortable. Simon nods and Wille’s not sure if he feels his own heart or Simon’s beat against his chest.

“Yeah, so good Wille. So fucking good,” Simon answers, a grin spreading to his face when he says it. He moves his hips a bit, indicating to Wille he wants him to move.

Wille does as Simon wants and starts to move his hips, working to establish an unhurried rhythm, wanting to draw out the moment between them as long as possible. When he pulls Simon closer after a while, changing the angle just a bit the other man gasps out in a way that makes Wille think he’s found the right spot. He snaps his hips forward again and Simon lets out a long whine. “There, oh god, yes, do that again.” He pleads and Wille obliges, wanting to hear Simon curse, moan, every little sound and pant music to his ears.

When he feels Simon clench around his cock and his breathing turns even more shallow, Wille wraps his hand around Simon’s cock, spreading the precome with his thumb. It makes Simon writhe and drop his hand from his knee to Wille’s ass, his fingers digging into the flesh, pulling him even closer. Wille falters for a moment, feeling his own release start to build inside him.

His movements start to become more rushed, hips snapping forward with less finesse, matching the way his hand is working Simon’s cock. He twists his wrist and Simon clenches again, his breath catching before he barely manages to pant out “Wille, I’m close, please, so close.”

“Come,” Wille whispers into the space between them, not an order but a plea. He pulls out a bit more before pushing deep inside Simon, as deep as he can. Simon shudders and when Wille rubs his thumb over the head of his cock he stills before coming, painting Wille’s hand and stomach white with his come, Wille’s name spilling from his lips over and over again. It’s the hottest thing Wille has seen, the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. It drives him closer to the edge, this gorgeous man singing his name like a prayer, mouth open and his skin glowing golden in the low light, sweat beading it like diamonds.

His own orgasm washes over Wille like a giant wave, pleasure coursing through his body, stars dancing behind his eyelids when he crashes. He’s never felt so good, so alive and so wanted. He faintly registers Simon wrap his arms and leg around him when his body trembles, every muscle feeling his bliss.

When he starts to come back to his senses he feels Simon smoothe his hair back from his forehead, one arm still wrapped around his back. He opens his eyes and looks at Simon, takes in the smile on his face, the love in his eyes. “Good?” he asks Wille, twirling a strand of hair around his finger.

“Mmm,” Wille mumbles against Simon’s collarbone where he’s dropped his head, his lips tasting Simon’s skin. “So good.”

“Good,” Simon says and Wille can hear the smirk in his voice. He feels himself start to soften and reluctantly moves to pull out, his fingers shaking a little when he removes the condom and tries to get on his feet to discard it. Simon notices his slight wobble and giggles, pushing himself up from the bed. “Let me.” He says and takes the condom from Wille before walking to drop it in the bin by the door to his walk-in closet.

Wille flops back on the mattress, opening his arms when Simon crawls next to him. He wraps the man in an embrace, carding his fingers through his curls when he settles against Wille’s chest. Simon pulls the duvet over their legs, up to Wille’s waist and tilts his head back. Wille takes it as an invitation to kiss him, feeling the warmth radiating from Simon.

“I love you,” Wille murmurs against Simon’s lips, feeling more content than ever, right here in this bed, with this man.

“I love you too,” Simon responds, his hand drawing little circles over Wille’s abs. “Did you enjoy that?”

“Oh god, yes. I enjoyed that so much,” Wille tells him, no doubt in his mind. “Did you enjoy that?”

“Yes. Thank you, Wille,” he says and it’s not what Wille expected to hear. He raises an eyebrow and tilts Simon’s head with his fingers to lock their gazes. “Thank you for making me feel whole, for making me feel wanted and loved.” Simon says softly, looking a little bashful, as if saying those words out loud isn’t something he’d planned.

“Always. I’ll want and love you forever, if you’ll let me,” Wille says and doesn’t think about how much weight the words hold.

They stay silent and cuddling for a long while, happy to be as they are, not caring about the mess they’ve made. It isn’t until Simon’s stomach growls and he lets out a tiny laugh that Wille checks his watch to see it’s late morning already.

“How long are you staying, when do you have to leave?” Simon asks him then, eyes fixed on where he’s been playing with Wille’s fingers, smoothing his own over the torn skin of his cuticles.

“I don’t know. I don’t think I have a return ticket booked. I think I do have to be in training on January second, but until then…” Wille doesn’t finish the sentence, because despite everything that’s happened in the past few hours he doesn’t want to make Simon feel like he’s just assuming he can stay with the other man for an undefined amount of time.

“Stay until then,” Simon says, half question, half statement. He lifts his gaze to look at Wille, waiting for him to reply. Wille just nods.

“I’d love nothing more,” he says, pressing their lips together for a quick kiss.

“So, shower and then breakfast?” Simon suggests when they break apart.

“Sounds perfect,” Wille answers when Simon takes his hand and pulls him up. It’s closer to lunch time when they eventually emerge from the shower, but Wille doesn’t complain.

Chapter Text

“So, have you heard the news already?” Henry asks Wille when he enters the dressing room at the training centre. He’s been back in London for less than twenty four hours and hasn’t checked any news in that time. He assumes Henry’s talking about transfer news, but it rarely gets interesting in the first days.

“It’s day two of the transfer window Henry,” Wille says when he settles down on his seat. The training session had been gruelling, Aitor making them go through set piece after set piece before their 5-a-sides. Wille feels exhausted, but he’s determined to prove he should be named in the starting line up in the cup match coming up in a few days.

“Yep, and we’re getting big news,” Henry sounds excited and Wille gives him a sideways glance. He’d be the first to admit he hasn’t really kept up with the club’s dealings in the past few weeks, but they shouldn’t be getting any new team mates, they don’t really need new players.

“We? As in the club or…?” Wille asks with a frown before starting to change out of his training outfit. His clothes are damp with sweat and drizzle and while the dressing room is warm, he shivers.

“No, not we as in Islington. We as in the general population interested in football,” Henry makes a sweeping gesture with his hand. “It’s your dear cousin.”

It stops Wille in the middle of stripping off his training top, the garment awkwardly halfway over his head, the wet fabric sticking to his hair. He yanks the collar to pull it completely off before turning to look at Henry.

“August?” he hears himself asking, not entirely sure why he needs the confirmation. He knows August wanted to leave Ramsley, it had been literally what they’d talked about back in November. Wille stops his train of thought before his mind adds a ‘before’, telling himself it doesn’t matter.

“Oh yeah, he’s coming to London,” Henry’s tone is almost gleeful and Wille doesn’t like it. There are five options and Wille knows August would never consider two of them, the clubs too small, too insignificant for his liking. Which leaves two alternatives when Wille counts out Islington, knowing he’s not the type of player that would fit anywhere in their playing system. And neither of those alternatives are good.

“No,” he looks at Henry, hoping the man isn’t going to confirm what he thinks. But Henry nods, looking all too happy with Wille’s misery.

“Yes. He couldn’t join us, so he joined them,” Henry puts emphasis on the last word and Wille groans. “Meet Finsbury’s new number ten.”

Henry lifts up his phone for Wille to see the screen and sure enough, there is a post announcing August Horn as Finsbury United’s new signing. Watching his cousin’s grinning face Wille shakes his head.

“At least I can now officially stop calling him family, because this is just… wrong,” Wille says, trying to wrap his head around the news. Somehow it makes perfect sense, he thinks, August playing for the biggest rivals his club has. Wille knows it’s probably August’s last chance to get to play for a club he considers big by any definition and even this is stretching it.

“The derby is going to be so good. I mean, obviously it always is, but this. Oh man, I can’t wait to see you two go head to head,” Henry says, conveniently ignoring the fact that it’s actually his job to be keeping August at bay.

The word derby must be what finally piques Fred and Oliver’s attention, both of them suddenly looking at Wille and Henry.

“What?” Henry asks them, switching back to English.

“I heard you say Finsbury. And you mentioned the derby, but it’s not until April. What is going on?” Oliver asks them and Henry and Wille exchange a look. They’re going to find out sooner or later, Wille thinks and shrugs.

“My cousin’s signed for them. Henry for some reason thinks it’s hilarious that August’s doing everything he can to become my worst enemy,” Wille says and it’s only a slight exaggeration.

“Ooh, but this is good. You don’t like him and you don’t like them,” Fred states, a grin spreading on his face. “Don’t say you aren’t thinking that winning them is going to be extra sweet next time around. Your family dinners are going to be fun.”

Wille thinks back to the first derby of the season, the humiliation and dejection he’d witnessed while sitting on his couch. “Fine, but we do need to beat them in April.” He doesn’t need to say more, they all know that they can’t lose that match or their supporters will never forgive them.

“Yeah yeah. But seriously, you didn’t get a heads up? I thought your family shares, like, everything,” Oliver says and it makes Wille shake his head, a few drops of water landing on his face.

“No, I didn’t. I had no idea he was signing for them. Yeah, I knew he was desperate to get out but…” he trails off, not adding that his family stopped sharing everything years ago. Or, he stopped when he got Jordan to take over his parents as his agent.

“How much did they pay for him?” Oliver continues and Henry looks up from his phone.

“Thirty five,” he says and Wille snorts before he can stop himself. The other three look at him.

“Overpaid, should’ve been half of that,” Fred simply states with his eyes fixed on Wille, as if daring him to say something.

“Don’t tell him that, he probably thinks it should have been at least double,” Wille says, getting back to removing his wet clothes.

“No, but I would pay good money to see you do it. The rest of us could just get popcorn and enjoy the show,” Oliver dares him and Wille groans. He doesn’t think even August would be petty enough to challenge him over something as stupid as transfer fees.

“Guys, please. Remember what happened last time we went head to head?” WIlle motions towards his ankle. Fred at least has the decency to look sorry, while Oliver and Henry just shrug, tossing their damp shirts into the basket in the middle of the dressing room.

“Seriously though, you really didn’t know he was considering Finsbury? Doesn’t his agent still work for your folks? What the hell did you even do in Stockholm if this didn’t come up?” Henry asks him, switching back to Swedish.

“Not discuss transfers,” Wille answers, before his brain fully processes what Henry’s asked him. “Wait, how do you even know I was in Stockholm?”

“Please. People saw you at the airport,” Henry tells him and Wille doesn’t even want to think about how he got that information. He sighs and pulls off his shirt and training pants, throwing them to the laundry basket. “So? Stockholm?” Henry continues to prod.

“Mind your own business,” Wille says tiredly while rummaging through his bag for some clean and dry clothes to wear after a shower. Grabbing his towel he turns to head towards the showers and freezes when he sees Henry’s eyes light up, a smirk appearing on his face.

“I see,” the other man says, nodding his head towards Wille’s chest and wiggling his eyebrows comically. Wille curses inwardly, feeling a blush creep up onto his cheeks. His hand flies up to his collarbone where he knows the marks are visible. Where Simon’s mouth had been just two days ago.

“Hey, not judging, though Aitor might. Obviously that was a good trip back home, just not sure it’s what he meant when he told you to get your shit together,” Henry laughs, lifting his hands up in surrender and Wille gives him a glare that he hopes is enough to make Henry drop the subject.

“Seriously Henry, learn to mind your own goddamn business,” Wille mutters under his breath, loud enough for the other man to hear. He knows the others haven’t understood what they’ve been talking about, but they are not blind. He should have thought about this earlier, know someone would ask him about the hickeys. Though, he admits to himself, thinking about this, thinking in general, had been the last thing on his mind when lying in Simon’s bed, the other man mapping every inch of his skin.

“Where would be the fun in that?” Henry’s laugh is boisterous, only growing louder when Wille flips him off when he finally rounds the corner to the shower, catching a few curious glances from their teammates. Wille gives half a shrug, as if to say ‘you know what Henry’s like’ and finally slips under the warm spray, ignoring the look he sees Oliver and Emmanuel exchange. None of their business, he tells himself when he scrubs the soap over his chest and collarbones, his fingers lingering on the bruises just a bit.

*****

Wille’s sitting on his couch, watching as the pundits on the TV analyse the fixtures for the next round of the cup competition. Islington had won their match comfortably, the club from a lower league they’d faced not really managing to put up a fight. Wille is mostly pleased with his performance, something in his mind had unlocked the block he had been suffering from and made playing feel almost normal again. Almost, because he knows he’s still not on the level he can be, should be.

The loud buzzing of his phone shakes him from his thoughts and he reaches over to the table in front of him to pick it up.

“Hey Jordan,” he greets his agent, muting the TV and tossing the remote back onto the table.

“Hello my favourite client,” Jordan answers him and Wille wants to snort.

“Blatant lie, I’m your least favourite. What’s up?” he asks, genuinely wondering why Jordan is calling him. They have a meeting about the contract extension in a few days, they’ve basically agreed on the terms already and save for his little stunt the previous month, Wille doesn’t think he’s done anything that would cause Jordan to call him all of a sudden.

“Saw the fixtures. How excited are you?” Jordan inquires.

Wille leans back against the cushions, running a hand through his hair and suddenly lets out a laugh.

“Honestly? More than I probably should be. I mean, another derby when we’re getting back on track with things? It’s going to be sweet beating them twice at home,” he says, genuinely thrilled to be facing Finsbury in the next round.

“Have you heard from August? How’s he feeling about it?” Jordan asks then, and even though he knows the other man can’t see it, Wille shrugs.

“No idea. Haven’t heard a thing from him after I welcomed him to London. Which is a bit suspicious, actually, usually he’s messaging me every week,” Wille replies. He doesn’t really mind the radio silence, he doesn’t particularly enjoy the constant attention from August.

“Hmm,” is all Jordan says before continuing. “Anyway, not exactly why I called you.”

“Is it about the contract? I thought we had pretty much everything figured out,” Wille asks, shuffling on the couch and stretching his legs in front of himself.

“We have, unless you want to go for a bigger pay rise. I think there is still some room for that,” Jordan tells him.

“No, I’m happy with what we agreed upon earlier,” Wille says, knowing the club will agree to what they’re asking. “If this isn’t about that, then why are you calling?”

“Remember when Silva pitched you that article idea a couple of weeks back? The one where you’d get to write about football yourself?” Jordan asks.

A bell rings somewhere at the back of Wille’s mind, a faint memory of his PR manager calling him on one of those endlessly grey November days surfacing. He can’t claim he’d paid much attention to what she’d said, had considered it to be just one of those things Silva suggests and maybe follows up later if she still thinks it’s a good idea. Apparently this was one of those things.

“Why isn’t she calling me herself?” Wille asks Jordan. He knows the man tends to stay away from most PR things. “Unless you think it’s a bad idea?”

“Silva’s got some family thing, there’s a deadline for letting them know if you’re doing it or not and she knows you read your emails like once a week if we’re lucky,” Jordan states, a hint of annoyance creeping into his tone. Wille can’t figure out if it’s because of his lack of interest in going through his inbox or because Jordan isn’t fully on board with Silva’s idea.

“When’s the deadline? And what exactly did she pitch? It’s not like they want just an essay where I’d retell how I ended up playing at Islington.” There’s some concern in his voice, he can tell and he knows Jordan hears it too, they’ve worked together long enough for him to pick it up.

There’s a lengthy silence before Jordan answers and Wille has to check the call hasn’t disconnected. It doesn’t do anything to make him feel less anxious and he’s consciously stopping himself from biting at his nails. Instead he focuses on playing with the hem of his shirt, pulling on a loose thread.

“The deadline’s on Friday, and they want to publish the article or essay or whatever you want to call it in April. The week of the derby,” Jordan finally says and Wille sucks in a breath. “And… it’s not what Silva suggested them, so don’t go after her head. But… they want you to write about your family. As in, what it was like to keep playing after Erik and how your parents—”

“No,” Wille cuts him off. Every now and then someone asks him to talk about his brother and he’s never said more than a couple of sentences. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk about Erik, but it’s always felt like they’re either after something sensational or want to compare him to his brother. So he’s stopped answering those questions altogether, carefully picking and choosing the few interviews outside the mandatory ones he’ll do each season.

“Wille, listen,” Jordan starts and Wille presses the heel of his hand against his left eye, the pressure enough to help him focus solely on it. “I know it’s not what you want to talk about normally, but this could be a good opportunity to really talk, or well, write about Erik the way you want to. Use this as a ‘I’ve said all I want to say about the subject’ kind of thing in the future.”

Wille knows it makes sense, knows that he can’t avoid the subject for the rest of his life unless he wants to make it look like there is something to hide. It makes him laugh, Erik and what he meant to Wille being one of the few things he really doesn’t need to keep a secret. The irony of it all makes him laugh, sounding just a little bitter.

“Think about it, okay? You have a few days until Silva needs to let them know if you’ll do it. And not to force you into it, but given the original suggestion came from us, it’d look kind of bad if you backed out now,” Jordan says, his voice carrying just a hint of worry. For Wille, or for himself, Wille isn’t entirely sure.

“I’ll do that. We need to let the club know if I do it, right?” he confirms, thinking there is a clause about something like this in his contract.

“Yes, though I don’t think you need to tell them until about a week before the publication. Silva will coordinate that with your comms director. Unless you decide to write something that ‘brings the club or the game of football into disrepute’, which, please, for the love of god, don’t,” Jordan tells him, quoting the clause directly from his contract. Wille wonders if he’s ever had to tell that to any of his other clients.

“I’ll let Silva know before we head up north for the weekend,” Wille promises, suddenly feeling like his brain is trying to process a hundred and one things at the same time.

“Do that. I’d say have fun in Newcastle, but when has it ever been fun there,” Jordan chuckles before wishing Wille a nice evening.

Wille turns the phone in his hand a few times, moving down to half lie against the pillows on his couch. He glances at the TV and sees the channel has moved on to replay an old match. So old he suddenly sees his brother, in one of the few matches he ever had the chance to play in England. He reaches for the remote and turns off the TV.

He knows the article would make sense. He’s spent years giving the most media trained answers to every question he’s been asked, all very polite and suitable answers, but also boring, he thinks. Sometimes he wonders how he is as popular as he seems to be among the fans with all the meticulously planned interviews and social media posts, wonders if they don’t see the carefully crafted façade, if they don’t want to see behind it.

He mindlessly unlocks his phone and swipes to open Instagram, for some reason wanting to see his own feed. Before he gets that far he sees a new post from Simon. He’s posted a clip from rehearsals, dancing in front of a wall-length mirror, laughing when he misses a turn and flopping down on his yoga mat complaining about exhaustion. “Five weeks till London” the caption reads and it makes Wille’s heart skip a beat. Three weeks until he gets to see Simon in person again, knowing the man will land in London earlier for some promotion and last minute rehearsals. Wille isn’t sure why he needs to promote a sold out show, but he isn’t complaining when he knows Simon will be in the same city, hopefully in the same room with him again soon.

He taps to like the post and the casualness of the video suddenly strikes him. Simon, with his millions of followers, joking around when he’s not doing something perfectly. Wille tries to think about posting a video of all the times he’s missed a shot, a goal, given a terrible pass and bristles. He doesn’t know if he’d even be allowed to post something like that. He groans, letting the phone fall to his chest and closes his eyes.

His thoughts keep circling back to the proposed article. He’s read some by other players, has liked them, has seen how openly they’ve written about things he had no idea of, how well they’ve been received. He doesn’t even know why Silva had come up with the idea, she knows Wille isn’t all that good with words. He suddenly wishes he could talk to Erik about it, about everything. He rubs a hand across his face, feeling frustrated about the whole situation. He knows he could just say no, but something is holding him back from typing his PR manager a message. Instead, he grabs his phone and opens the message app, hoping for a distraction when he types Simon a message.

Wille
You around?

He stares at the screen, willing a reply to come through. It takes a couple of minutes, but eventually Simon answers him.

Simon
Got an hour before a meeting
Want to call?

Before he’s even fully finished reading the words, Wille’s already pressing the call button. When Simon’s voice greets him, he figures the decision on the article can wait for another day.

*****

Wille is nervously pacing in his living room, staring at the lines of his carpet instead of glancing at his watch every two minutes. He’s been on the edge all day, barely managing to work out through the morning practice. He thanks whatever god he doesn’t believe in that they only had one training session today.

His phone buzzes and he almost trips over his feet in his haste to pick it up. He reads the message and all but runs to the door, pressing the button to open the downstairs door as fast as he can. Unlocking his own door he cracks it open and waits. Listens to the elevator move down and then start its way back up, moving too slowly for Wille’s liking.

The door opens and he sees Simon step out, quickly looking around before his eyes land on Wille standing at the doorway. Wille feels himself break into a smile and feigns nonchalance while he leans against the doorframe, though he thinks Simon might see right through his act when he takes the few steps from the elevator to his door.

“Hi,” Simon says softly when he comes to stand in front of Wille, a black beanie pulled over his curls, nearly drowning in his oversized coat.

“Hi,” Wille breathes out and reaches his hand to take Simon’s, pulling him inside his flat without another word. As soon as he hears the door click shut behind them he uses his body to push Simon against it, looking at the other man and the smirk spreading on his lips.
Without really thinking he leans down and hungrily catches Simon’s lips with his own, letting the frantic kiss soothe away the anxiety that’s been burning inside him all day. Simon slips his tongue into Wille’s mouth and it makes Wille push him against the door a bit harder, his hand sneaking its way under the beanie and into Simon’s curls. He moves, slotting his leg between Simon’s and more feels than hears the moan the other man pants into his mouth when he grinds against it.

Releasing his hand from the back of Simon’s head, Wille brings his fingers to work the zipper of Simon’s coat, pulling it open and circling his hands around his back when Simon pushes himself to move against Wille’s leg. It makes Wille groan and pull back just enough to rest his cheek against Simon’s head, feeling Simon’s hot breaths fan over his neck.

He feels Simon push his shoulder and he lifts his head to meet his eyes, dark and a little blown. The smirk is still playing on his lips when he licks them and opens his mouth to ask: “Miss me?”

It makes Wille laugh, breathless but deep from his belly. He pulls back a bit more before answering.

“You have no idea,” he says, running a hand up and down Simon’s back, trying to feel the vertebrae under the material of his shirt. He feels Simon press against his touch.

“I might,” he replies, hands coming up to cup Wille’s face, eyes flitting between his eyes and lips. He gives Wille a quick peck before continuing. “I missed you too.”

A part of Wille thinks he must be dreaming. Having Simon here, in his flat, in his arms, feels surreal. He doesn’t know if he’d even dared of dreaming this, definitely not in the long dark hours of November and December when it felt like he’d fucked up everything, when he didn’t even know if Simon would ever speak to him again. Didn’t think Simon would want to hear him out, accept his apology, his love. Love him back. He lifts his hand to pinch his own arm.

“What are you doing?” Simon asks him, eyes following his hand.

“Making sure that this is real, that I’m not dreaming,” Wille says, brushing his fingers across Simon’s cheekbone, feeling the other man lean into the touch. “Can’t believe you’re here.”

Simon grinds down on Wille’s leg still resting between his and the movement makes both of them moan, the sound echoing in the hallway. Simon lets out a giggle. “I’m here. This is real.”

Wille hums in agreement and reluctantly pulls back, pushing Simon’s coat from his shoulders and reaching his hand to take it when Simon shrugs it off and stuffs his beanie into the pocket. He suddenly feels nervous, and pushes his hand through his hair before starting to turn back to Simon.

“You want something? I’ve got—” he doesn’t manage to finish the sentence when he feels Simon drape his arms around his middle, planting himself around Wille.

“You,” Simon says, breathing the words into the space between Wille’s shoulder blades. It sends a hot shiver down Wille’s spine. He brings his hands atop Simon’s, loosening his grip to be able to turn around in the embrace.

“You’ve got me. I meant something to drink or…” he suddenly doesn’t know how to finish the sentence when Simon looks up at him, eyes shining and cheeks flushed.

“Coffee?” Simon’s answer sounds like a question, so Wille nods. Neither of them moves, standing in the middle of the hallway, eyes locked, letting their breaths slowly return to a steady rhythm.

“Yeah,” Wille says eventually, nudging his head towards the kitchen. “Come on.”

He lets go of Simon and takes his hand instead, guiding him into the kitchen, pointing to the island. Simon hops on the chair and pulls Wille towards himself, his other hand finding his hip and guiding him to stand between his legs. Wille lets him, inclining his head to be able to give Simon another kiss. It’s slower and deeper this time, as if they’re trying to make up for the time they’ve been apart.

Eventually Simon pulls back, still smiling. “So, coffee?” he asks, as if it wasn’t him who had distracted Wille from the task. Wille grins at him and takes a step back before turning to the stove and reaching for the moka pot. He can feel Simon watch him go through the preparations before setting the pot on the hob.

He watches as Simon studies his kitchen, then turns to sweep his gaze over the living room. Wille follows his eyes, watches as Simon takes in the room that’s still half empty after two and a half years. Wille feels heat start to rise to his cheeks, remembers how warm and lived in Simon’s flat looked in comparison.

“Cosy,” Simon eventually says, turning back to face Wille. It makes Wille shake his head, feeling embarrassed.

“It’s not,” he answers, knowing his bedroom is the only part of the flat he’d made any effort to make feel even a bit like him. “I’ve been here over two years and it’s still…” he trails off, not sure what he wants to say.

“Minimalistic?” Simon suggests and it makes Wille laugh. Simon brings a hand up to his arm and strokes gently. “It’s fine, Wille. I didn’t exactly come here for interior design. I came here for you.”

The words ease the anxiety starting to creep in, the steady touch on his arm helping even more. He turns to pick up two cups from the cupboard and removes the pot from the stove, pouring the coffee into the cups. He moves to the fridge to get the oat milk for Simon, handing it over to the man to let him pour in as much as he wants. Simon smiles and gives him a little nod when he sees the milk is the same brand he uses back home.

When they each have a cup of coffee in hand Wille gestures to the couch with his free one, wanting to feel more comfortable. He sets his cup on the table and sinks onto the couch, Simon following suit, leaning against the cushion and suddenly looking tired.

“You okay?” Wille asks, can tell his brows furrow a bit when he looks at Simon.

“Yeah. Just, tired,” Simon answers, his eyes slipping closed. Wille stays silent, waiting for Simon to continue, to elaborate. He takes a sip of his coffee, gently placing his other hand on Simon’s knee. The other man gives a long sigh but doesn’t speak.

“I’m sorry,” Wille says. He knows Simon needed to persuade his team to let him sneak out of the hotel he’s staying at, needed to figure out how to make it to Wille’s flat without anyone spotting him. Wille hates himself for that, for having to ask Simon to do that.

“It’s not your fault,” Simon tells him, opening his eyes and picking up his coffee.

“It is… I mean, you could be sleeping or taking a bath or something instead of having to sneak around, making sure no one sees you…” Wille’s voice grows quiet towards the end of the sentence and starts to retract his hand from Simon’s knee. Simon grabs it and plants it back on his leg, keeping his own hand on top of it.

“Wille. I’m here because I want to be here. I wanted to come here, even if it means I had to use a service exit and tell too many people on my team I wouldn’t be back until tomorrow for the first interview,” Simon says and Wille’s heart skips a beat. Simon squeezes his hand. “I love you, I don’t mind that it wasn’t as easy as walking out to the first cab I see. Nothing in my life is ever that easy anyway. And I know it won’t be like this forever.”

Wille hears Simon’s voice waver a little when he says the last sentence. WIlle can’t blame him, he knows it’s about him and not the fame that complicates Simon’s everyday life. He flips his hand, giving Simon’s hand a squeeze in turn and shifts to sit sideways, to look at Simon. He swallows around the small lump in his throat and sucks in a deep breath.

“I love you too,” he starts and before he loses his nerve he rushes to continue. “You remember how I told you I was asked to write an article?”

Simon nods, turning his head to catch Wille’s eyes.

“I… They asked me to write about my family. And about football, obviously, but mostly the influence my family has had on me and my playing. And I was thinking… I… if you’d be okay with it, I wanted to write about you too,” the sentence comes out almost in one jumbled word and Wille lowers his eyes, looking at their intertwined hands instead of Simon’s face, scared of what he might see.

“Wille…” Simon begins to say, his voice soft.

“Not that I… Like, I know you’re not… I wouldn’t name you, obviously, but my family’s part of the reason I’m still not out and I kind of… want, fuck, need to address that and I promised you I’d come out one day and—” Wille feels his heart beat against his chest, his breaths growing more erratic, a white noise starting to fill his ears.

“Wille, love, breathe,” Simon says, gripping Wille’s hand harder and exaggerating his own breathing, waiting for Wille to match his rhythm. Only when he hears Wille’s breaths return to a more steady pace does he bring his other hand to his face, lifting Wille’s chin and meeting his eyes. Simon brushes his fingers across his cheek and shifts to mirror Wille on the couch. Then he leans in to give him a tender kiss.

“I’m sorry, it’s a stupid idea…” Wille almost whispers while nuzzling into Simon’s palm.

“No, it’s not Wille. If that’s how you want to do it, then that’s how you do it. I’ll be here for you, however and whenever you choose to do it,” Simon tells him, his hand keeping Wille’s head in place, not allowing him to break their eye contact. “Really, I’m honoured you’d want to write about me in something that’s about your family…”

It’s Simon’s turn to trail off, but he keeps looking at Wille, his eyes full of compassion and love and it lights up something inside Wille. He wants Simon to be his family, he realises, more than anything else.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, not really sure if it’s a reply to anything Simon said or if he just suddenly feels like he needs to fill in the silence. “I do.”

The way Wille says those two words draws out a laugh from Simon and Wille feels the corners of his own mouth lift up. “I’m not sure we’re quite there yet, even if I love you so much,” Simon says in between his giggles, leaning in to give Wille yet another quick kiss. “Maybe see how it goes with… everything first and then…” he doesn’t finish the sentence, but the implication fills Wille’s stomach with butterflies and he notices his heart has picked up the pace again. This time it feels good though.

“Yeah,” he says again, smiling at the radiant look on Simon’s face, the tiredness from before almost completely gone. “I love you.”

“And I love you,” Simon says for emphasis before downing the rest of his coffee, setting the cup back on the table in front of them. He shuffles closer to Wille, moving to sit by his side and Wille drapes an arm around his shoulders, letting Simon drop his head to rest on Wille’s shoulder. He smiles when he hears Simon sigh contently.

“So, you want to come watch me sing a few songs?” Simon then asks, hooking his ankle around Wille’s, turning his head up a little to gauge Wille’s reaction.

“Is that even a question?” Wille responds, his fingers lazily playing with a ringlet of Simon’s curls. He can’t think of any universe where he’d decline.

“I take that as a yes then,” Simon concludes and Wille nods.

“When?” he asks Simon, wondering if he’s doing more performances before that one show that’s brought him to London.
“On the fourteenth,” Simon answers, his fingers tracing the logo embroidered on Wille’s pant leg. “You don’t have a game then.” It’s not a question but a statement and Wille feels his heart swell even more.

“The show at…” Wille raises up a little to look at Simon. The other man simply nods. “Simon, that’s like, what, ten thousand people.”

“Ten thousand two hundred and fifty. It’s actually considered a small venue. Which is why I’d love to have you there. It’s almost intimidating actually being so close to all those people,” Simon tells him quietly. Wille can’t imagine the man selling out the biggest arenas and stadiums to be intimidated by something like that.

“Isn’t it usually the other way round? The bigger arenas being scarier?” he asks. Though when he thinks about it, the older, smaller stadiums where the supporters seem to be closer to the pitch, almost on the pitch, have always been more daunting, a little trickier to play at. Maybe it makes sense, he thinks.

“Nah, the arenas are just… more exhausting. They require so much planning and logistics and everything to make it all work. Sure, I love playing them, but I love these smaller places too. It just feels scary when I haven’t done it in ages,” Simon explains and Wille nods, the brown curls tickling his neck.

“Well, I’ll be very happy to be there,” Wille tells him.

“Good, because I already put your name on the list,” Simon says with a small chuckle and Wille turns to press a kiss to his temple.

“Very sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Wille teases, pulling Simon a little closer, mumbling the words against his hair.

“Or maybe I just know you’re easy,” he responds half-jokingly and as much as Wille would like to deny it, Simon is right. It makes him lean forward until he manages to arrange their positions so that Simon is lying on his back under him and a sly smirk spreads on his face when Simon spreads his legs to make room for Wille.

“Who’s the easy one now?” he can’t help but ask. Simon lets out a laugh and brings his arms up to circle them around Wille’s neck, fingers playing with the hair at his nape. Then he pulls Wille down to kiss him. It’s slow and loving, trying to make up for the weeks they’ve spent apart, trying to communicate all the things they haven’t yet said and Wille thinks he could lose himself to the feeling forever.

He lets his hand wander under the hem of Simon’s shirt, feels the warm skin and how Simon moves against his palm. One of his legs wraps around Wille’s calf and the way it changes the angle and sends their bodies even closer to each other makes him moan at the back of his throat. Simon squirms a bit under him when he moves his hand upwards and Wille decides there’s entirely too many layers of clothes between them.

Pulling back from Simon’s embrace he sits back on his knees and watches as Simon’s chest rises and falls, the other man as out of breath as he is. Wille reaches down to run his hands up Simon’s thighs, back to the hem of his shirt and starts to lift it, bunching the fabric in his hands. Simon shuffles back and lifts himself up enough to let Wille pull the shirt off him, flopping back against the cushions as soon as his upper body is naked.

Wille takes in the sight, watches Simon shiver when the cool air hits his skin. He reaches back up, splaying his hands over Simon’s torso, rubbing small circles into his caramel skin, enjoying the way the other man responds to his touch. Before long his hands start to trail down Simon’s body again, stopping at the waistband of his trousers. He watches Simon’s face, sees his blown pupils and hears the breathy pants leaving his lips.

Wille pops open the button of Simon’s trousers, fingers ghosting over the zipper before Simon nods. He then loses no time in opening it, catching the fabric, Simon raising his hips enough to let him pull down the trousers and his boxers in one go. He smiles when he sees Simon’s socks, tracing the colourful stripes and logo before pulling them off and leaning back over him.

“Happiness, huh,” Wille mutters against Simon’s lips before capturing them into a kiss, feeling Simon’s hands come to rest on the small of his back. Wille feels happy, something warm flowing through his body, settling into his veins. Not just lust, he can tell, something different, something better.

“Mmhhm,” Simon hums, pulling away from the kiss just enough to be able to speak. “You. Have too many. Clothes on,” he pants into the space between them, hands tugging at the hem of his sweater impatiently and Wille lifts up to strip away the garment, throwing it somewhere on the floor with Simon’s clothes.

He tips his head back down, letting his nose snuggle against Simon’s curls, breathes in the scent of his shampoo. He starts to trail his lips down, running his tongue along the shell of his ear, nips at his earlobe and relishes the surprised sound the other man makes. Continuing his journey he lets his lips map Simon’s skin, pausing to lick the jut of his collarbones, his hands finding their place at Simon’s hips.

He listens to the noises Simon lets out, breathy and just a bit whiny, the combination making Wille smile against his sternum. He resumes his work, mouthing first over Simon’s left nipple before moving to graze his teeth gently against his right.

“Wille,” the sound Simon makes is something between a whine and a moan, the most delicious way anyone’s ever said his name. Wille does it again and feels Simon jerk up, his cock brushing against Wille’s stomach. It makes him grip Simon’s hips harder, pinning him down on the couch.

“Wille, please,” Simon begs and who is he to deny Simon anything, Wille thinks. He runs his tongue over the nipple one last time before mouthing a wet, sloppy path down Simon’s stomach, stopping just below his navel before lifting his head back up to look at Simon.

He smooths his thumbs over Simon’s hipbones and feels him tremble under his touch. His breathing has grown louder, the heavy pants filling the otherwise quiet flat. Wille sucks in a breath, ignoring the way his own cock is straining against his pants, the ache almost painful.

“I’m going to suck you off now,” Wille tells Simon, looking up to see the shine in Simon’s half-lidded eyes, his tongue licking over his lips. Simon pushes his curls matted with sweat back and gives Wille a small nod before his eyes slip closed, one hand gripping the backrest, the other finding the back of Wille’s neck.

It’s all Wille needs. He licks his own lips before wrapping them around Simon’s cock and takes as much of the length in in one go as he can, hollowing his cheeks.

“Jesus Christ Wille,” Simon pants out, the hand on his neck gripping his hair as he obviously tries to control his hips. “You can’t just— Give man a warning, oh my god.”

Wille smiles as best as he can, feeling Simon heavy and warm on his tongue. He bobs his head up and down a few times before he pulls off and releases Simon’s cock with a pop. Simon whines as the loss of contact, his hips bucking under Wille’s hands. He releases his grip, planting his hands on either side of Simon’s head instead when he raises himself up to be level with Simon. He waits until Simon cracks his eyes open.

“I want you to fuck my mouth, okay?” he says and grins when Simon’s eyes fly wide open, his brain processing what Wille’s just said. “Please.”

“Wille, I… Oh fuck,” Simon’s words are barely audible, his voice raspy.

When Simon nods, Wille doesn’t wait for him to put together a more coherent sentence, just moves back down between his legs. He runs his tongue over the tip of Simon’s cock, licking some of the precome and swallowing it. He then wraps his lips back around Simon’s cock, taking him in slower this time. The angle isn’t optimal, but he’s determined to make it work.

Simon’s hand is back in his hair as soon as Wille’s mouth touches his cock and Wille hums around him, urging him to grip harder. He feels a pleasant sting when Simon’s fingers give a testing tug and he hums again, louder this time. He waits for Simon to do what he asked, slowly bobbing his head until he feels Simon’s hips lift tentatively.

He tightens his lips around Simon’s cock and pushes his head against his hand, indicating he wants Simon to keep going. Simon bucks his hips again, with a little more force this time and Wille moans, the feeling sending a hot shiver down his body. The sound seems to spur Simon on, and he starts to work his hips in a fast rhythm, moaning incoherently.

Wille hollows his cheeks and sucks, letting his tongue swirl over Simon’s length, not minding when the other man bucks his hips up harder than before. It makes him choke a bit, but the burn at the back of his throat feels pleasant, feels right. He brings one hand to cup himself over his sweatpants, the friction sending a jolt through him and he moans around Simon again.

It makes Simon pull his hair hard and Wille lets out a guttural sound. Simon’s hips still and he releases his grip. He opens his eyes to look down at Wille. “Shit, Wille, that was… was that… okay?” Simon asks, trying to catch his breath.

Wille trails his tongue over the vein on the underside of Simon’s cock before letting it slip out of his mouth, his jaw glistening his saliva.

“Yes. So much yes,” he answers and watches as Simon’s eyes turn even darker when realisation sets in.

“Oh,” is all the other man manages to say. “Oh.”

“Hmmm,” Wille hums in assent before moving his mouth back on Simon’s cock, taking him in.

Simon’s hand flies back to clutch his hair and his hips pick up speed again. Wille’s jaw is starting to ache, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t want anything but Simon to feel good.

It’s not too long until Simon’s rhythm starts to falter and turn more erratic, his fingers twisting his hair. “Wille, I’m— Fuck, I’m close. God, you feel so good, I’m so close.”

Wille just hums, pressing his hand against his own cock through the pants harder. He sucks and sucks and Simon trembles under him, fucking into his mouth. His hand releases Wille’s hair, giving him a chance to pull away if he wants to. “I’m gonna, Wille, fuck, I’m gonna—” he doesn’t manage to finish the sentence before his orgasm hits, his come spilling over Wille’s tongue and down his throat.

He swallows, come and the heavy weight of Simon’s cock filling his mouth. He ruts against his hand, the friction sending familiar sparks through his body as he feels Simon start to soften on his tongue. He slowly pulls back to sit on his haunches and brings a hand to wipe at his mouth, the back of his hand coming back covered in spit and come.

Simon’s chest heaves and Wille watches as he eventually starts to get his breathing back under control, one arm coming to rest under his head. He smiles, loves seeing Simon like this, sated and relaxed. He thinks he’ll never get tired of the sight in front of him. When Simon finally opens his eyes again, they both smile.

“Fuck, that was so hot,” Simon says, his eyes raking over Wille’s face and flushed chest. “You are so hot.”

They stay silent for a moment, just looking at each other, Wille lazily drawing swirling patterns into Simon’s thigh.

“Do you… How do you want… Fuck,” Simon tries to say, but instead gives out a small frustrated groan when words seem to evade him, his brain still too blissed out. Wille smiles and watches as he sucks in a deep breath. “You want me to suck you off? Or something else?” He finally manages to say, his fingers finding Wille’s on Simon’s thigh.

Wille shakes his head and sees how it makes Simon’s eyebrows knit together just slightly. He trails his hand up Simon’s body, allowing his fingers to trace the ridge of his hip bones before placing it on the cushion next to Simon’s head and leaning down. His other hand smooths the lines on Simon’s forehead.

“I heard you say something about not going back to the hotel until tomorrow?” he says, eyes fixed on Simon’s. He lets his hand gently wipe away beads of sweat lingering on Simon’s brow.

“Yeah,” Simon answers, searching Wille’s eyes questioningly.

Wille dips his head down to capture Simon’s lips in a kiss, slipping his tongue into the other man’s mouth. Simon responds in kind, and knowing the other man can taste himself sends a shiver down Wille’s spine and onto his cock that’s still throbbing hard. His hips give an involuntary thrust and Simon gasps into the kiss, making Wille pull away.

“Good, because when you’ve recovered enough for round two,” he says, leaning back down to whisper into Simon’s ear. “I’d very much like to fuck you into the mattress.”

Wille hears a gasp escape Simon’s lips again and his arms wrap around Wille’s neck a bit tighter. “Oh fuck, yes please,” Simon mutters against his skin, his lips peppering Wille’s jaw with small kisses. Wille closes his eyes, enjoying feeling Simon’s mouth and hands on his skin, spreading warmth all over his body.

He doesn’t know how long they spend lazily making out on the couch, but when Simon’s right hand comes down to slip under the waistband of his pants and gently grabs his ass, Wille moans loudly. He can’t help but respond to Simon’s touch, his hips thrusting up and down before he manages to control himself again. Simon laughs and tightens his grip.

“So, bedroom?” Simon asks. Wille nods and lets out a little whine when Simon retracts his hand. He waits for Wille to push up and get to his feet before reaching out his hand. Wille takes it and helps Simon get up from the couch. He doesn’t let go when he guides Simon down the hallway to the bedroom, to lie down in the middle of his bed. Only when he reaches over to the bedside table to turn on the light does Wille release Simon’s hand. He watches as Simon makes himself comfortable, stuffing a pillow under his head and smiling when he catches Wille follow his every movement.

“I love you,” Simon tells him, his voice low and gruff.

“I love you too,” Wille responds, making his way next to Simon on the bed. Simon tugs at the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Need to lose these to fuck me,” Simon chuckles.

Wille moves Simon’s hand away and shuffles on the bed to pull down the pants and his boxers. He kicks them on the floor, smirking when he catches Simon’s gaze and sees the other man hungrily roam his eyes over his body, his hands soon following suit. Wille thinks it’s something he’ll want to see and feel every day for the rest of his life. Has dreamt of this, of Simon next to him in his bed, in his life, of getting to feel this good and make the other man feel just as good. When Simon moves to straddle his hips, Wille’s mind snaps back into the present moment and he focuses on Simon. On making those dreams become reality.

Chapter Text

Midweek matches have never been Wille’s favourites, the way they change up the practice rhythm making him feel off-balance. He runs after Lukas, intercepting his pass and sees Temi catch the ball. The ball finds the back of the net before Manu has the chance to properly react and Wille almost feels bad for him. He gives Temi a high-five when he jogs back to the centre of the pitch, ready to go again.

It’s then that Aitor blows the whistle and gathers them all around the centre circle. He gives some of them appreciative nods. “Blue team, good job. I want to see more of that on Thursday. White team, c’mon guys, that kind of defending won’t do. We went through this.”

Wille watches as a few of the other guys shake their head, knowing themselves they haven’t brought their best forward in today’s training. They’d spend what felt like hours watching clips of the way Kingston created their goal scoring opportunities and Wille just wants the match to be over already. He doesn’t hate playing against the other London club, but he hates the discourse that precedes it. He knows Kingston have been playing really well lately, but so have they. He doesn’t know why they’re painted as the underdogs this time; if anything, it should be one of the most even matches they’ll play this season.

If someone were to ask him, though, he’d admit the first match of the week isn’t what he’s mostly thinking about on this Tuesday afternoon when he walks out the training centre and towards his car. No, it’s tonight. Simon and his concert. He knows the other man is already at the venue doing soundcheck. Only a few miles north from where he is driving home and he wonders, not for the first time in the past couple of weeks, what it would be like if things were always like this. Both of them in the same city, seeing each other every day. Wille sighs as he parks the car and makes his way to the elevator. At least they’ve had the past few weeks, even if it has required more nondescript cars and late hours to be together than he’d like.

A couple of hours later he changes into dark jeans and a blue silk shirt, still feeling a little disoriented after his nap, some restless energy buzzing under his skin. A ringing sound alerts him to Felice’s arrival and he presses the button to open the front door, reaching to crack open his flat door before walking back to his bathroom. He stares at his reflection when Felice finds him.

“Hello, lover boy,” she greets him and he can see a blush creep into his cheeks. Felice notices it too and laughs brightly.

“Hello to you too,” he replies, trying to sound calm and collected.

“Are you obsessing over your hair or something else?” Felice asks. “You do realise he’s seen you look like… well, I don’t actually want to know what he’s seen you looking like, but the point still stands.”

Wille groans, because she’s right. “I know, it’s stupid. I just… want to look nice tonight.” He throws his hands up and Felice laughs again.

“Wille, I think it’s impossible for you to not look nice. Just admit you want to impress him in front of all the people who don’t even know you’re a thing,” she says before getting up from where she’d been perched up on the edge of the bathtub. “C’mon, let’s see.”

He turns to face Felice who gives him a once over and watches as she nods before opening the door of the cabinet. He doesn’t know how it happened, but over time she’s stored what feels like a small store’s worth of cosmetics in Wille’s flat. He’s let her, remembers how fun it has been watching her get ready before their outings. Simon had asked about it when he’d spotted the makeup and had had fun rummaging through the boxes and bags, nodding appreciatively.

“Okay, let’s make you look nice then. You trust me?” Felice finally says and Wille nods.

“Feli please, you know I’d trust you with my life,” he answers.

“Yeah, I know. Now hush and close your eyes,” she commands and Wille does as he’s told.

He doesn’t know what she does, he’s hardly ever paid attention when someone’s put makeup on him for a photoshoot or a studio appearance. After a moment she steps back and Wille opens his eyes. “Are you done?” He asks and she shakes her head but tells him to keep his eyes open. Wille sighs when he sees the mascara in her hand, but knows better than to fight her now. He’d brought it upon himself.

“Okay, now I’m done,” she says while dropping the mascara back into the bag. Wille turns and looks at himself in the mirror. What he sees makes him gasp, the dark eyeliner and mascara bringing out his eyes in a way he has to admit looks nice.

“I take it you like it?” Felice asks with a sly smile on her lips and Wille nods. “Good. Didn’t do too much because we don’t want you to outshine the star of the night though.”

Wille laughs, because he doesn’t think that would ever be possible. “Are you ready? We should head out soon to beat the traffic.” He ushers Felice out of the bathroom and she waits as he slips on his shoes and coat. “Okay, let’s go.”

*****

At the venue they find the door Simon had instructed them to take and are let in by a bulky guy in a black outfit. Wille nods in thanks and follows Felice and someone working for Simon’s team down a series of hallways. When they finally reach the backstage his eyes immediately land on Simon, who’s crouching on the floor, going through a series of stretches by the looks of it. Simon lifts up and spots them, a wide smile spreading on his face.

“Hi,” he says softly when he comes up to Wille and gives him a quick hug. Then he turns to Felice. “You must be Felice. Nice to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Likewise,” Felice replies and lets Simon hug herself. “I’m willing to bet good money I’ve heard more about you though.”

Wille shakes his head and Simon lets out a laugh. “Is that so? Please, make yourself comfortable, there’s drinks and snacks over there,” he points to a set of tables on the other side of the room, “and the bathroom’s that way. Our dressing rooms are back over there, everyone’s getting changed now and will be back here in a bit.” He points towards yet another hallway. Felice nods and turns to Wille but Simon continues. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to steal this one for a second.” He points at Wille.

Felice lets out a sound Wille can only call a cackle before motioning them to move. “I’ll be fine,” she says and winks at them. Simon giggles and starts to walk towards the dressing rooms, turning back a bit to beckon Wille to follow him. Wille glances around, the area mostly empty except for a handful of people who don’t seem to be paying them any attention. He walks to where Simon is waiting and lets the other man pull him into a room to their right.

When Simon closes the door behind them Wille lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. Simon wraps his arms around Wille’s neck and pulls him down for a kiss. It’s unhurried and Wille lets his hands rest on Simon’s waist, revelling in the way their bodies and lips fit together.

“You’re wearing makeup,” Simon notes when they pull apart.

“Mhm, Felice’s doing,” Wille answers and looks at Simon. “Is it too much?” he asks, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

“It’s incredibly hot, that’s what it is,” Simon says and trails his fingertips from Wille’s hairline down to his jaw. “You should wear it more often.”

Wille laughs, imagining himself stepping on the pitch looking like he is now. “I don’t think that would go down very well,” he hears himself say, distracted by the way Simon’s lips hover a mere breath away from his. He leans in for another kiss, a slightly more heated one this time. He lets out a low whine when Simon pulls away from him.

“Sorry, need to get ready now. As much as I’d love to say you can stay and watch me change, I don’t think that’d be a good idea,” Simon says with a smirk and Wille has to agree with him. He doesn’t know if he could stop himself if he saw the other man half-naked in front of him right now.

“Don’t want to disappoint the people,” he says and reluctantly steps towards the door.

“No, I don’t,” Simon responds, the look on his face suddenly very professional and determined. Wille finds the change fascinating and wonders if he looks the same when he starts focusing on a match.

“I’ll leave you to it and will find Felice,” Wille says and Simon gives him a nod. “Still can’t believe she came here when she’ll never come to watch any of my matches.” Wille shakes his head and Simon laughs brightly.

“What can I say, I’m special,” he says with a little shrug and Wille can’t help but agree with the statement.

“I’ll see you after the show. Nothing personal, we just need our little moment together with the band and the dancers before we go on stage,” Simon continues and Wille understands. He wouldn’t want anyone else trying to talk to him before he and his teammates walk out on the pitch. Not even Simon. “Someone will show you your spot at the side. The stage is set so that you shouldn’t be visible…” Simon trails off and Wille swallows around the small lump in his throat. So many people have already seen him backstage, but he doesn’t want everyone in the general public to know about his presence too. He doesn’t think their fanbases overlap, but he also knows someone in the audience is bound to recognise him.

With one last kiss Wille makes his way out the dressing room and towards where he left Felice earlier. He finds her in conversation with someone who turns out to be Simon’s photographer, discussing what appear to be the best restaurants in London. Wille sits down next to her and before he knows it, he’s roped into the conversation, recommending some of his own favourites.

*****

A little later Wille stands next to Felice at the side of the stage, looking at the mass of people. He can’t see them all, the screens obscuring some of his view but seeing so many people packed in the space, all there for Simon, makes something swell in his heart. He knows the other man is popular, has sold out venues much bigger than this, but seeing it with his own eyes makes it sink in.

The roar of the people becomes louder when Simon’s band members walk on the stage. Wille watches as they pick up their instruments and start playing the intro of the opening track of Simon’s latest album. The screaming gets even louder and when he sees Simon walk past them to the stage, he understands. The man looks incredible in his cropped golden jacket, the long crystal brooches on either side of the lapels glinting in the lights.

“Good evening London!” Simon shouts and when he starts to sing, the crowd goes absolutely wild, jumping up and down.

The next fifteen minutes go by in a blur, one song blending into another, Simon giving the crowd his all. Wille knows he might be biased, but he thinks he’s never seen anyone sing and dance better than Simon. He can’t tear his eyes away from Simon, from the way his hips move and the smirks he keeps giving the audience.

After a couple more songs Simon hurries towards the side of the stage while the band keeps playing one of the more instrumental songs. He takes the towel one of the assistants hands him and wipes some sweat from his face. Simon slows down for a step when he comes in front of Wille, whisper-shouting quiet enough only for Wille to hear. “You’re staring.” Wille feels his cheeks heat up when Simon gives him a devilish grin and Wille shrugs, humming a noncommittal sound in response. As if there was anything else he could do when Simon moves on the stage like that.

A moment later Simon brushes past him back to the stage, this time pairing the black pants with a long black lace shirt, so long that Wille briefly thinks it might actually be a dress. His mouth goes a bit dry when he spots the golden chain at Simon’s waist and even Felice gasps next to him.

“What an outfit,” she half-screams into his ear and Wille can only nod, trying to keep what is left of his composure. He thinks it might be the hottest thing he’s ever seen Simon wear.

He’s so busy skimming his eyes over Simon’s body he doesn’t even register the man is almost through the song, a beautiful ballad Felice had been playing on repeat when it first came out. Only when the song ends and the band doesn’t immediately launch into the next one Wille’s focus snaps back to what is actually happening on the stage.

“You know, this is where we’d usually play ‘Heartbeats’,” Simon starts and the crowd cheers loudly. “However, today I’d like to sing you something different. This is a new song I’ve been working on, and let me tell you, it took some convincing to get these guys to play it tonight.” He laughs and spins around to gesture at his band.

“I hope you like it. This is ‘Your Name’,” Simon announces and steps back to the mic stand. He closes his eyes and when a slow melody starts, begins to sing:

"Two beating hearts, two worlds apart
I feel like I’m missing a piece of a puzzle
And when I reach for it
Your touch burns like fire in the snow

Was it you that held too tight
Was it me who was too weak
I whisper your name, it’s all I have
Hold on to me, take my hand
And I will lead us away”

Wille feels his heart beat faster as he listens to Simon sing with his eyes still closed, a vulnerable look on his face. The crowd is the most silent it has been all evening, soaking in the new song they’re treated with.

“If you listen closely you’ll hear my tears fall
Stain the sheets with yours
Because it is heaven
But heaven comes with a price to pay

Was it you that held too tight
Was it me who was too weak
I whisper your name, it’s all I have
Hold on to me, take my hand
And I will lead us away”

Wille feels tears start to burn at the corners of his eyes, the raw emotion in Simon’s voice crawling under his skin. His throat feels tight when he swallows, something about the song, about the way Simon is singing it sending his emotions on overdrive. Felice brings her hand up to give his forearm a gentle squeeze and he’s suddenly very happy she’s by his side.

“Every time you look at me
My world grows a little bigger
And I see you as you see me
As someone who can give something
Something I never dreamt of before

I whisper your name, it’s all I want to have
Hold on to me, take my hand, don’t hesitate
Because I promise I will lead us now”

Simon’s voice grows stronger with the melody towards the end and he opens his eyes, singing like he means every single word. Wille feels tears roll down his cheeks and brings his hand to wipe them away. When the song starts to fade to an end Simon steps back from the microphone and turns to look at where Wille is standing, a gentle smile on his lips and something Wille can’t read in his eyes.

The audience erupts in cheers and Simon returns to the mic, thanking the crowd before starting to sing one of his Spanish songs. Wille’s eyes are fixed on Simon, he hears what he’s singing but his mind still lingers on the previous song, on the look Simon had had on his face, on the words he’d sung. He feels like his mind is trying to tell him something, but he can’t put his finger on it.

Five songs later Simon bows and waves to the crowd. “Thank you London, you’ve been amazing!” He walks off the stage, brushing Wille’s arm on his way to the backstage in a way that to anyone else would look accidental but Wille knows it’s intentional. He turns his gaze to Felice when the band members file past him and sees her smile cheerfully. The audience keeps chanting ‘Simon, Simon, Simon’ and they all know he’s going to return to the stage in a few.

When he does, he’s running out in a top made out of what Wille can best describe as silver chains. His mind goes blank for a moment and it must show on his face when Felice nudges him and laughs loud enough for him to hear it over the song Simon’s singing together with the crowd. He’s left the biggest hits for the encore and while he’d never admit it to anyone, Wille finds himself singing along with the people around him also joining in.

The confetti cannons go off towards the end of the final song and Simon spins around on the stage, hitting the high notes of the song perfectly. He looks ecstatic, Wille thinks and fishes out his phone to snap a few shots before the show is over. He’s going to remember this night forever, but still wants to capture the joy Simon is radiating.

With one last bow Simon’s band members and dancers leave the stage, Simon taking a little longer to take one last look at the crowd. When he finally walks towards the backstage with the biggest smile on his face, the house lights come on and Wille and Felice follow the rest of Simon’s team up the stairs to the backstage area. The spacious area is full of people, a member of Simon’s team handing out drinks to everyone. Wille declines the beer and goes for a Coke instead, knowing he still needs to drive home tonight. Besides, the energy of the concert is still making his skin buzz.

He sits down with Felice and listens to her chat about the show with one of Simon’s PR people. Wille thinks he has no idea what half the people in the room do, but doesn’t manage to dwell too much on the thought when Simon emerges from the dressing room some time later. He’s showered and changed into jeans and a long lace shirt, similar to the black one he’d worn on stage.

Sipping his drink he watches Simon hug his way through the people gathered around him, chatting excitedly about one thing or another, everyone complimenting him for the show. He finally reaches the couch Wille and Felice are sitting on and plops down between them, taking a sip of his own drink.

“That was amazing,” Felice says, beaming at Simon. “Watching from the stage was so different from where I’ve had tickets before. Such a different experience.” Wille can tell she’s babbling, seemingly having lost her cool nonchalance at some point. It makes him smile.

“Thank you. If you ever want to watch from the side again, just ask. Though it’s very different when the stage is bigger,” Simon tells her and Wille swears he can hear Felice gasp under her breath.

Wille doesn’t register what Felice says next when he feels Simon’s hand come to rest on his thigh and his fingers start to draw circular patterns into the dark denim. It’s totally innocent, but it still makes him tense. His heartbeat picks up when he notices how many people have their eyes on Simon, even if they all pretend they’re not looking at him. Simon notices the way his body grows more rigid and withdraws his hand.

“I need to go socialise for a while, but we’re skipping the afterparty tonight. The guys have an early flight back and…” Simon says, not really addressing either of them. “I’ll see you in a bit before you leave.”

With that Simon gets up and heads to talk with a small group of people. Wille watches him chat with them and grips the glass bottle in his hand a little tighter. Letting out a strangled sigh he gets up.

“Wille, what’s—” Felice starts to ask, but he shakes his head.

“It’s nothing, I just need to…” he trails off, vaguely motioning towards where the toilets are. He hopes it’s enough to keep her from following after him.

He sets the bottle down on a table on his way and walks to the other side of the room. There are a couple of people standing by the toilets and before he knows what he’s doing, he opens the door to the staircase. Walking a few steps down he stops to lean against the wall when he reaches the first landing. He brings a hand to press hard against his sternum, cursing his reaction earlier.

Wille doesn’t know how long he’s stood there, away from everyone but when he hears the door open and quiet footsteps come down the stairs he drops his gaze to the floor. Only when the steps stop and a hand covers his own on his chest does he lift his eyes back up.

“Hey,” Simon’s voice is soft when he stands in front of Wille.

“I’m sorry,” Wille blurts out, his gaze fixed on one of Simon’s earrings.

“What are you sorry for?” Simon asks.

“I— I didn’t mean to—” Wille stammers, suddenly feeling like his heart is trying to climb its way to his throat. “When we sat there and—”

“Wille, I’m sorry. I did that despite there being people around and knowing you aren’t comfortable with PDA” Simon says, the look on his face apologetic.

Wille finds his free hand and laces their fingers together, soothing his thumb over the golden ring on Simon’s finger. “I want to be. It’s just… Never a possibility.” He suddenly hates how his life is like this, how he’s allowed it to become like this. “And when you said you’d find us before we leave…” Wille swallows past the lump in his throat, his eyes searching for Simon’s.

“Wille, I’ve wanted nothing more since coming off that stage than to leave this place to go home with you,” Simon says while squeezing his hand, the gesture feeling grounding. “But if you’re not okay with that—”

Wille shakes his head and takes in a deep breath. “No, I’m so okay with it.”

“Even if there’s going to be paparazzi around and whatever photos they take will probably end up on the gossip sites masquerading as newspapers?” Simon asks, his warm eyes firmly locked with Wille’s.

“Yeah, even if that’s going to happen,” he hears himself say and it hits him that he genuinely means it, doesn’t care what rumours or half-truths they’re going to publish. “I’ve had to spend the entire night away from you and I don’t want to be apart any longer.”

Simon nods and lifts up to his tiptoes to give Wille a gentle kiss. “Let’s go then. It’s late and most of the crew wants to leave to catch some sleep as well.”

Simon steps back and pulls Wille’s hand when he starts to walk up the stairs. Wille follows him, only breaking their hold when they reach the door. Simon strides into the backstage and makes a beeline towards the dressing room down the hallway, quietly murmuring something about grabbing his coat and sorting something out with his team.

Wille finds Felice in conversation with someone Wille’s never seen before. Lightly tapping her on her shoulder, Wille reaches for his own coat still draped over the couch where he’d set it hours ago.

“We’re leaving. How do you—” he starts to ask but Felice just gives him a little shake of her head.

“Leo’s picking me up, he should be here any minute now,” she explains and gets up from the couch, giving a nod and a wave to the person she’d been chatting with. “I figured you wouldn’t want to take a detour and drop me home on your way back.” She winks as she says it.

“I, no, we could…” Wille tries, but Felice just laughs.

“Wille, remind me again how long we’ve known each other? Because I know for a fact the only thing you want right now is to get home as soon as you can and I know you aren’t going alone. Your eyes haven’t left that door since Simon closed it,” her tone is a little teasing and Wille feels heat rise up his chest.

Felice checks her phone when the screen lights up and types something. “Leo’s here. Thank you for this, thank him for me too.” She wraps her arms around Wille’s back and he hugs her tightly. “I’m really happy for you. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you look as happy as you do right now. Hold on to him.” Felice whispers close to his ear, just loud enough for him to hear.

Wille nods as she pulls away and disappears through the exit. From the corner of his eye he sees the dressing room door open and then Simon is standing next to him, wrapping a colourful scarf around his neck.

“Ready to go?” he asks and Wille nods, indicating for Simon to lead the way.

*****

Simon was right, there are paparazzi outside the venue when they leave. He thinks it’s only because they didn’t expect the star of the evening to leave in a fairly inconspicuous black car through the guest parking that it takes them a little longer to spot them. Wille knows photos of them will circulate online before morning, probably get printed in the newspapers as well. He doesn’t want to think who is going to be the first one to contact him and ask him to explain why he’s driving Simon around.

They spend the drive in silence, Simon only commenting once that the paparazzi don’t seem to be following them. Wille keeps his eyes on the road, though he can’t help but check the rearview mirror more often than he normally does, to make sure the cars behind them are just that - regular cars. When he pulls up to the parking garage of his building and finds his spot he feels a wave of relief wash over him. Simon’s hand finds his and gives it a squeeze, though Wille thinks the other man looks a bit more relaxed than before too.

As soon as Wille closes the door to his flat behind them, Simon crowds him against the wall next to it. His fingers work to open the buttons of Wille’s coat and his tongue slips over Wille’s lips before licking into his mouth. Once he’s managed to push Wille’s coat off his shoulders, Simon moves on to blindly unbutton Wille’s shirt. Wille grips Simon’s hips, pulling him closer and enjoying the way his body responds to Simon’s.

“This look you have tonight,” Simon breathes the words into the space between them when he breaks the kiss for some air. “It’s making me feel feral as the kids say.”

Wille laughs and shakes his head, because god, hasn’t Simon seen himself. His grip on Simon’s hips tightens and he can practically feel the way the other man shivers in front of him.

“If I didn’t have a show to get through, I would have had you in the dressing room, there and then,” Simon continues, his fingers working to pop open the last buttons of Wille’s shirt.

“You can have me now,” Wille tells him, removing Simon’s scarf and dropping it to the floor before pushing his coat off as much as he can. Simon steps back just enough to pull himself free of the coat, allowing Wille to drop his on the floor next to their hastily discarded shoes.

“That’s the plan,” Simon replies as his arms circle around Wille’s neck and he starts to walk backwards towards the bedroom, pulling Wille to follow him. They tumble against the doorframe, Wille too busy mouthing kisses along Simon’s jaw to guide them directly into the room. Simon lets out a breathless giggle when he reaches to flick on the lights and Wille moves his mouth back up to capture Simon’s lips, kissing him hungrily. He discards his shirt on the floor and lets his hands trail up Simon’s sides, feeling the lace of his shirt under his palms.

Once they reach the side of the bed, Simon spins them around and brings his hands down to Wille’s chest, pushing him on the bed. Wille flops to his back and scoots up on the bed to pop up on his elbows. Wille watches as Simon steps closer to the bed, his eyes roaming over Wille’s naked torso before he makes his way to crawl between Wille’s legs. The air in the room feels charged as they spend a moment just looking at each other, the hunger Wille feels mirrored in Simon’s eyes. He falls back on the bed and Simon leans over him, planting his hands on either side of Wille’s head before dipping his head down for another kiss.

When they part, Simon sits back on his haunches and swiftly works to open the buttons of his shirt before pulling it off and flinging it somewhere behind him. Wille gasps when he sees the golden chain around Simon’s waist, reaching his hand to touch the little beads hanging on it.

“You like it?” Simon asks breathily while his hands work to open up his jeans.

Wille does his best to nod, his mouth feeling dry and the sight before him sending heat down to his groin. Simon smirks and gets up just enough to push down his jeans and underwear, crouching to remove his socks in the process. Wille brings his fingers to his own fly, tearing the zipper open as fast as he can. He lifts his hips enough to let Simon strip off his remaining clothes and a pleasant shiver goes through his body when Simon leans back over him, feeling skin on skin.

Wille tilts his head up and Simon doesn’t hesitate to catch his lips in a searing kiss, his tongue licking into Wille’s mouth and teeth grazing his lip. Wille’s hand finds its way into Simon’s hair, his other hand sneaking down to cup Simon’s ass. He uses his grip to pull Simon down a bit, their cocks brushing. The sensation makes Wille groan into Simon’s mouth and he hears Simon let out a similar noise.

“How do you—” Wille starts to ask when they break apart for air. Before he manages to finish the question, Simon rolls his hips down and his hand grabs Wille’s from his hair, pinning it up over his head. Wille feels his breath catch in his throat, the devilish look on Simon’s face making his hips buck up.

“I wanna ride you,” Simon tells him and Wille’s mind blacks out.

It takes him a moment to realise he should say something when Simon keeps intensely staring at him. “Fuck. Yes.” It’s all that he manages, but it seems to be enough for Simon who grins and releases his hand to reach over to the bedside table. He drops the lube and condom next to Wille’s head before murmuring into his ear. “We’re running low, need to restock soon.”

Wille laughs breathily while wondering how Simon can still form such long sentences, words having evaded him. He watches as Simon pops the lube open and drips some on his fingers before pushing to sit on his knees, spreading his stance as much as he can while lodged between Wille’s legs. Wille licks his lips and loosely fists his cock while his eyes follow Simon’s finger, a moan escaping his lips as he watches Simon push the digit inside of himself.

“I can—” Wille begins to say, but Simon shakes his head, his eyes falling shut while he works the finger in and out.

“You’re too slow,” Simon states and brings his hand back to his front, reaching for more lube. Wille grabs the bottle and adds a generous amount to Simon’s fingers, rolling his lower lip between his teeth. He knows Simon is right, he likes to savour the moment and catalogue all the sounds and movements Simon makes when Wille opens him up.

Wille looks at Simon, lets his gaze roam his body when the other man pushes two fingers inside himself. He trails his fingers along the chain before moving them further down, drawing swirls into Simon’s hip. Simon moans above him, his hand working faster to open himself up. Wille moves his hand to Simon’s cock, giving it a couple of tugs which makes the other man cry out and curse loudly. His eyes fly open and find Wille’s. Simon’s dark gaze is full of lust and Wille pushes up to catch the other man’s mouth into a messy, greedy kiss.

Simon removes his fingers and wipes them on the sheet before reaching over to where he dropped the condom. He rips open the foil and gives Wille’s cock a few quick strokes before rolling the condom on. Wille squeezes the remaining lube into his fingers and hurries to coat his cock. Simon repositions himself over Wille, straddling his hips and brings his palms to rest on Wille’s chest.

“Ready?” Simon asks and Wille gives him a small nod.

“Yeah. Sure you are?” Wille asks in turn. Simon hums in confirmation and grabs Wille’s hand to guide it to his cock before returning his hand to Wille’s chest.

Wille feels his mouth hang open as Simon starts to lower himself down slowly. Wille’s hand flies to his hip to steady him. Simon stops halfway, his eyes scrunching shut again and his laboured pants filling the silence in the room. Wille uses all his willpower not to buck his hips, the tight heat of Simon around him feeling almost too good.

“You okay? Wanna stop?” Wille asks, a hint of worry creeping into his voice. They’ve both been so busy with work and barely seen each other in the past couple of days, so it’s been a while since they’ve last had sex. Even a bit longer than that since they last had penetrative sex and he knows Simon can be impatient and not prep himself enough.

Instead of instantly answering Simon responds by lowering himself fully down on Wille’s cock and sighing out. “I’m good. Fuck, you feel so good.” Simon looks down at Wille for a while, their eyes hungrily roaming each other’s faces before he starts to move. Wille keeps his hand on Simon’s hip when the other man begins to establish a steady rhythm, his other hand curling around Simon’s cock.

Wille knows he’s not going to last long, not with the way Simon moves above him. He lets his thumb move over Simon’s slit and the move makes the other man clench around him, pushing Wille closer to his climax. He feels Simon’s rhythm start to falter, his thighs trembling slightly.

“Can you— can you move to the edge?” Simon gasps and inclines his head towards the edge of the bed.

“Mmhm, but I need you to…” Wille grabs his ass and pushes Simon upwards, whining when he lifts up and Wille slips out. Simon scoots to the side, pushing his sweaty curls away from his forehead. Wille scrambles to sit on the edge of the bed and Simon immediately straddles him again, lowering himself down in one go. It makes both of them moan, the sound mixing with the slick noise of skin meeting skin.

Wille pushes his hips up when Simon moves down and he’d know the moment he hits Simon’s prostate even if the man didn’t suddenly yell out. “Fuck, yes, right there.” Wille picks up his pace and watches as Simon starts to tremble, pleasure coursing through his body. Simon drops his head down and bites Wille’s shoulder when his cock brushes the other man’s prostate a few times in quick succession. The pleasurable shock of pain the bite and Simon clenching around him send down his spine and to his groin makes Wille sense he’s just moments away from his orgasm.

“Simon, I’m gonna—” he pants out, his hand back to Simon’s cock, stroking him fast.

“Me too, so close. So fucking good, Wille please,” Simon whines, begs. Wille works his hand faster, Simon grinding down and then the other man is coming, painting their stomachs white. Simon clenches tightly around him and Wille stumbles over the edge too, his body tingling and pleasure shooting through his body, his mind going blank. He keeps stroking Simon through his orgasm, the other man slowing down his movements before he’s just sitting on Wille’s lap.

Wille opens his eyes when Simon tugs a strand of hair behind his ear, feeling himself start to soften but not willing to let go of Simon quite yet. He moves his hand between Simon’s shoulder blades, tugging him closer.

“I love you,” Simon whispers and smiles, the sudden softness making Wille sigh out and the corners of his mouth curl up to mirror the look on Simon’s face.

“I love you too,” he replies and tilts his head up to give Simon a kiss. It’s slow and sweet and Wille doesn’t want the moment to ever end. He is starting to feel oversensitive though and Simon squirming above him isn’t helping. Reluctantly Wille helps Simon lift himself off of him and guides him to lie on the bed before removing the condom and finding his place next to the other man.

Wille leans on his forearm, his other hand coming to rest over Simon’s heart. He glances over to the bedside table and laughs when he catches the alarm clock, his brain registering the time. Simon cocks his eyebrow, bringing his arm up to rest his head on it.

“Just broke a pre-match rule,” Wille says and collapses on the bed, breathlessly giggling into Simon’s bicep.

“Huh?” Simon hums, obviously confused.

“No sex on match day, but also never the day before the match.”

“What kind of a bullshit rule is that?” Simon asks, his fingers carding through Wille’s hair.

“Something about it affecting our performance,” Wille replies and hums contentedly when Simon’s nails gently graze his scalp.

“Does it though, really? Affect your performance?” Simon questions and Wille smiles into his skin, remembering the first time Simon asked him the same thing. “Wouldn’t it be the opposite, you being relaxed and satisfied? Assuming you are.”

“Mmm, I am. Very much,” Wille murmurs but doesn’t answer Simon’s first question, doesn’t know how to. Can’t tell the answer before he’s played the match tomorrow. “You too?”

“Yeah, that was so good,” Simon confirms. He makes a small disgruntled noise and Wille lifts his head from where it’s been resting against Simon’s arm. “We need to shower.”

Wille knows he’s right, can feel Simon’s come drying on his own body. He rolls over and pushes himself up from the bed, extending his hand to Simon. The other man grabs it and gets up, allowing Wille to catch him when he stumbles a bit. Together they make it to the ensuite, and Wille turns on the shower, letting Simon step under the warm spray first.

*****

Islington win their match against Kingston comfortably. Wille thinks it feels almost too easy. He knows they still have a long way to go, but seeing the club at the top of the table turns the dressing room jubilant for a moment. Maybe this season they’ll finally conquer the league again. No one says it out loud, not yet, not when they have another match in just a few days - and a Cup match against their biggest rivals just around the corner too.

It’s a couple of days before the Cup match when his phone pings. He’s left it on the kitchen island after preparing dinner, feeling weird about eating alone after weeks of having Simon join him for the meal. The other man is in Los Angeles, the best Wille could understand about what he told him was something to do with smoothing out the details for recording his next album, the technicalities still going over his head.

He picks up the phone and sees there’s a new message from August. Wille sighs. He doesn’t enjoy interacting with his cousin, let alone during a derby week when they’re supposed to meet on the pitch during the weekend.

August
You might want to be careful who you associate with, wouldn’t want people thinking you’re like that too

Wille feels his blood boil when he sees the preview picture of the link August’s sent him. It’s one of Simon and him in his car, the night after his concert. The photos had gone viral just as they’d predicted, but the internet had seemed to chalk it up as two Swedes catching up in London. Wille had been worried for a while they’d land him in hot water with Aitor again, but the manager hadn’t said anything. Wille knows he must have seen the photos, so he thanks his lucky stars his performance in the last training and on the pitch had been one of his best this season, even if he says so himself.

August’s words grate, make him feel uneasy and he wonders what the man wants. He’s never told August about liking men, but he knows they both know enough of the same people in their extended family that one of the few people to know might have let it slip.

Wille
Like what

August
You know

Wille
And?

August
What would your mother say

Wille feels a chill run down his spine. His mother had called him about the photos, chiding him about being out so late so close to a match. He’d listened to her rant about it, staring unseeing out the window while her words washed over him. To Wille’s surprise she hadn’t really cared about Simon, had accepted it when he’d explained he’d given the other man a ride home.

Wille
Are you trying to threaten me?

August
Just saying
Get seen with him for a third time late at night and people might start to draw to conclusions

Wille stares at the screen, trying to make sense of the words August had typed. It’s the first time photos of them have circulated the papers and gossip sites and he doesn’t mind, it didn’t seem to be a big deal to anyone. Suddenly his heart sinks to his stomach. ‘A third time late at night’ August had written. How would he know Simon and him have been spotted publicly before? Yes, there are the social media posts the club had made in the summer, but those were obviously something they wanted everyone to see.

Wille feels bile rise to his throat when he thinks of the only other time there’s been evidence of Simon and him being together. August had seen him leave the stadium, knew what he was wearing that night, would have been able to recognise him on the video the way Felice had. Before he can come up with a reply, another message from August comes through.

August
One could almost think you want people to figure things out, with your face for everyone to see this time
Too bad the paparazzi didn’t really know what they captured, though I guess his presence alone gave the photos a good price tag
This is how you’re going to end your career?

Wille closes his eyes, ignoring the dark spots dancing in his vision. He can hear the blood rushing in his veins. So August knows. August knows and Wille isn’t sure what the other man is going to do with the knowledge. He clenches his hands into fists, his blunt nails digging into his palms. He moves closer to the sink while counting his breaths in and out. He doesn’t know how long he stands there before he eventually opens his eyes again and picks up the phone from the counter.

Wille
What do you want

August
Nothing
Just think about your family
What do you think Erik would have said

It’s the mention of his brother that makes him snap, red hot anger coursing through his veins. How dare August drag Erik into this? How dare he act like he knows what his brother would have thought or said?

Wille
You have no idea what Erik would have said

August
Are you sure about that?

Wille clutches the phone in his hand so tightly he thinks he might break it. Without thinking about it he navigates the menu to block August’s number. He doesn’t need the man to make more poorly veiled threats, not right now, especially not right now when he’s trying to focus on one of the biggest matches this season. He slumps down on the chair at the island, all energy suddenly draining out of him.

He calculates the time difference and comes to the conclusion Simon must be in the middle of his meetings. He needs to talk to someone though. He hits the call button and waits for the call to connect.

“Hey Wille,” Felice greets him.

“August knows. About the video, about me. Probably about me and Simon,” Wille says without returning Felice’s greeting. The silence that follows his words feels deafening.

“I know you didn’t want him to…” Felice responds. Wille can hear her footsteps and what must be a door closing behind her. “What did he say?”

“Shit about how I shouldn’t associate with Simon, that it looks like I want people to find out we’re together. Asked if this is how I want to end my career,” Wille grits through his teeth.

“So he’s basically threatening to out you even more?” Felice asks and as soon as the words leave her mouth she gasps.

It takes Wille a few seconds to realise what she’s said but when he does, his anger rears its head up again. “Even more? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Wille, please don’t get mad—” Felice starts and Wille lets out a bitter laugh.

“Don’t get mad? What do you know?!” he basically shouts out the question.

“Look, a friend of Leo’s works for The Mirror. We had dinner with him last week and Simon’s concert came up. He told us someone had tried to sell the video to them, saying they’d be able to tell the identity of the other person if Mirror compensated them properly. They turned down the offer because what they were asking for was ludicrous. Just said the email address traced to Sweden the first time but the second message a few days later had a UK IP address,” Felice explains.

Wille knows it’s possible there had been someone on the street that had recognised him that night, but the chances are slim. Especially it being someone who randomly happened to travel from Sweden to England around the same time the national team players did. And in the national team there are only two people who’d made the journey and in the light of the conversation he’d had earlier Wille is ready to rule out the other. Leaving just his cousin.

“You should have told me as soon as you heard about it. Are you trying to fucking protect him?” Wille doesn’t mean to sound quite as harsh as he does, but he is angry.

“No. I am trying to protect you. I knew you’d get furious and I didn’t want you to find out before you have to play against him. I know you Wille, I’ve seen your temper. I don’t want you to do something you’re going to regret. Or that’s going to get you into massive trouble,” Felice replies, her voice shaking a little.

Wille exhales a long breath. He knows Felice has a point, because right now all he wants to do is break every bone in August’s body, make him suffer like he’s made Simon and him suffer. His anger towards Felice dies down a little when he follows her train of thought.

“Wille, please, don’t do anything stupid on Saturday,” Felice pleads with him. Wille nods even though he knows she can’t see it.

“I won’t, though I need to do something,” Wille says in response, tapping his fingers against the countertop. “I gotta go.”

He doesn’t let Felice say more before hanging up the call and clicking the next name on his recent calls list. He stares at the screen and gnaws on his cuticle while waiting, hoping for Simon to accept the video call.

“Hi,” the other man greets him, his eyes darting to the side when he gives someone a small nod.

“Hi. Can you talk?” Wille asks him although he thinks Simon wouldn’t have answered if he was in the middle of something.

“Yeah, what’s going on? You look…” Simon doesn’t finish the sentence, seemingly not able to tell what the look on Wille’s face actually is.

Wille pinches the bridge of his nose and pushes his hair back, not completely sure how he wants to tell Simon what he’s just learned. “I know who sold the video of us.” It’s the only thing he can think of, his mouth running before his brain can fully catch up.

“What?” Simon sits up a little straighter, his eyes locking with Wille’s, as if searching for answers there.

“August. It was my own fucking cousin,” Wille grits his teeth so hard it makes his jaw hurt.

Simon’s face blanches and his gaze turns nearly black. He stays silent for a long while, so long it’s making Wille feel uncomfortable. “Simon…”

“How long have you known?” he finally asks, his tone flat and voice so cold it makes Wille feel sick.

“I just found out, I swear. I wouldn’t keep something like this from you,” Wille tells him.

“What are you going to do?” Simon asks him next, his eyes fixed on something above the camera of his phone.

“I… I want to fucking kill him,” Wille blurts out and it gets a reaction out of Simon. His eyes flick back down to meet Wille’s. “I want him to pay for what he did to us. What he did to you, to make sure he never hurts you again.” His voice grows quieter towards the end, but it’s truly what he wants. To make sure August gets nowhere near them again, can never do anything to hurt Simon again. He doesn’t even care about himself, Wille realises.

“I don’t need his money,” Simon tells him, his mouth setting into a tight line.

“I know. I just want… Fuck, I don’t know. I just want to see him suffer,” Wille rakes a hand through his hair, words failing to make sense of the mess of thoughts in his head.

“This needs to stay out of the media. I don’t want to deal with that shit again,” Simon says and Wille doesn’t miss the way he says ‘I’ instead of ‘we’. He feels his chest tightening, like someone is driving shards of glass into his heart. He brings his hand up to rub at his sternum and watches as Simon’s eyes soften a bit when his gaze follows his hand.

“I’ll make sure he feels the consequences. I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to take away everything he cares about,” Wille utters, his voice suddenly sounding hoarse but resolve burning inside him.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Simon tells him all of a sudden and if Wille’s mind didn’t feel like a big mess at the moment, he’d be almost surprised by what feels like a change of subject.

“Me neither. All I want is to keep you safe, keep us safe. It’s not going to be easy when I… when I come out,” Wille almost whispers. He feels tears starting to prick at the corners of his eyes and lifts his hand up to wipe them away. “But we can control that. I want to do it on my own terms, not because he’s trying to force me. I won’t let him.”

“Does anyone else know about what you’re going to do? Have you told someone about the article?” Simon asks and Wille shakes his head. “Are you planning on telling?”

“Of course. It’s just… I haven’t really thought about it that much yet. Don’t know how to write something like this. I don’t know why I agreed to it, it’s not exactly a thing I’m good at,” Wille replies, his fingers picking at a loose thread on his sweater sleeve. He locks his eyes with Simon’s. “Besides, I’ve sort of been busy with something else. You see, there’s this amazing man whose company I’ve been enjoying…”

The corners of Simon’s mouth twitch upwards and he laughs, the spark Wille loves returning to his eyes. “I see.” Wille grins and feels a wave of relief wash over him, relaxing a bit when he senses Simon isn’t as angry anymore. Wille still feels his own anger towards his cousin lowly simmering, but knows there is nothing he can do about it right now. At least nothing that would make things better.

“Is everything okay between us?” he asks Simon instead.

“Yeah, everything’s okay,” Simon replies but Wille can tell he’s holding something back. He furrows his brow and Simon sighs before continuing. “I just— Is it terrible of me that I don’t really want to meet your family, like ever? After everything I’ve seen and heard and…”

“No, it’s fine. I don’t really want to spend time with them either. I mean, you might have to meet my parents eventually but…” Wille doesn’t need to explain his strained relationship with his parents - or his cousin - again, he’s told Simon enough about everything for him to understand. “August isn’t my family. Not anymore.” He adds.

“Ugh, sorry Wille, but I really need to go. Can’t extend this lunch break any longer even if I wanted to,” Simon says apologetically after someone outside the screen calls his name.

“It’s okay. I love you. See you in three weeks.” Wille blows Simon a kiss and the other man giggles.

“Love you too,” Simon whispers barely audibly before disconnecting the call.

Wille locks his phone and drops it on the counter. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do with August, not yet. However, he is determined to not let his cousin distract his preparation for the match on Saturday. They need to win, no matter what it takes and if they do it in a way that makes August miserable, Wille is going to enjoy it even more. It’s not enough to make August feel the consequences of his actions, but it’s a start.

*****

The matchday against Finsbury rolls around with rain. The team jogs out of the tunnel to the pitch before the match and Wille follows Christian and Fred to their end of the pitch to start the warmups. He goes through the familiar stretches and narrows his eyes when he sees the opposing team move to the other end. He sees August with his teammates, knew he’d be in the starting lineup.

He catches August smirking at him when both of the teams are walking back off the pitch and it makes Wille see red. How dare he, act as if he didn’t do something unforgivable. He falls a few steps behind his teammates and glares at August.

“Wille,” August greets him with a nod and it’s enough to make Wille snap. He turns around to face August in the tunnel.

“Why?” he asks, stepping closer to crowd August against the wall. He knows there’s people around them but he can’t make himself care. Not when they’re speaking Swedish and there are maybe two people who could understand him.

“Why what?” August questions back, a sweet smile on his lips that Wille knows is fake.

“Where’d you even get the video? You were at the stadium, at the dinner,” Wille inquires. There is no way August had made it to Södermalm around the same time as Simon and him, not with all the duties he had after the match.
“What does it matter?” August shrugs, the non-answer confirming Wille’s suspicions. He steps even closer and notices August is starting to seem uncomfortable, glancing around to the other people lingering in the tunnel.

“Where did you get it?” Wille asks again, coldness creeping into his voice.

“From Kristoffer, okay,” August grits through his teeth. “He and his girlfriend have been staying at my place while theirs is getting renovated and his girlfriend recognised… him. Kristoffer sent it to me, he owes me some money and figured I could get a few bucks out of it to make it even. So I did.”

Wille notices the way August refuses to say Simon’s name, as if he’s beneath him somehow. “Even when you figured out it was me,” he states.

“Yeah, though at first I didn’t,” August’s answer isn’t as confident as before, and if Wille didn’t know better, he’d almost think his cousin is showing some regret.

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Wille is seething, his words hissed out. “You keep claiming you’re family and yet you decided to fucking out me.”

“I didn’t—” August begins to defend himself, but Wille isn’t having any of it. He grabs August’s shirt and watches as the man flinches.

“You fucking did, but I don’t care about that right now. Just know that you’re not my family, not after what you’ve done to us. To Simon. You have no idea what you’ve put us through,” Wille spits the words into August’s face, his hand gripping the fabric of his shirt tighter.

“It’s him you only care about? Not your career? Not protecting our family lega—” August sneers and it’s only a voice calling Wille that stops him from doing something he knows he would regret later, if only because it would probably put him out of the match.

“You are not my family,” he repeats, releasing his hold on August. “And if you think I am not going to make you pay for what you did…” He leaves the threat hanging in the air as he steps back and walks into the dressing room.

“Where did you go?” Henry asks when Wille sits down next to him, unlacing his boots only to start relacing them as soon as he’s done.

“Ran into August,” he tells the other man, the disgust towards his cousin still audible in his voice.

“I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you, but Wille please, don’t make anything stupid like headbutting him on the pitch,” Henry pleads with him cautiously, glancing around the dressing room. Wille lifts his gaze too and notices Christian watching them.

“I won’t,” Wille assures him. “But I am going to make him hate the day he transferred to London. We’re going to beat the shit out of that team today.”

It takes Wille fifteen minutes to rile up August enough to get the referee to show his cousin a yellow card. It takes Islington another five minutes to score the first goal, a beautiful shot outside the box that leaves Finsbury’s defence looking dumbfounded. The second half is barely underway when Santiago and Jonathan link up and the ball is at the back of the net again.

Wille enjoys watching August grow more and more frustrated as Islington keep the ball and run around Finsbury’s defence as they wish. When the ball lands on his feet and he sees the opening, Wille takes the shot. The ball curls towards the goal and hits the post before going in. He turns around and catches August’s gaze, grinning at him in a way he knows infuriates his cousin before turning back around to catch his teammates running to congratulate him. Witnessing his team make sure Finsbury crash out the Cup isn’t enough to satisfy Wille’s need to get back at August, but it’s a start. It’s a very good start.

Chapter Text

“I’m not playing with him.” 

It’s the first thing Wille says when he steps into the national team’s dressing room and drops his bag on his seat. His eyes land on August sitting on the bench already and the fury he’s managed to keep at bay for the past couple of weeks surges back. 

“Wille,” Henrik says, giving him a questioning look. 

Sure, Wille knew August was called up as well, of course he was. But part of him had expected August to decline the invitation. He didn’t want to give his cousin the satisfaction of dropping out of the national team himself, not when he didn’t have any reason for doing so. 

“I am not playing with August,” he repeats, voice firmer this time. “It’s either him or me.”

“Wille, where is this coming from? You’ve never refused to play with someone. I can put you on the opposing teams for today’s training if you want,” Henrik sounds confused and Wille doesn’t blame him. The poor man is just trying to do his job, get the best out of the players he has available. 

“No,” Wille glares at August, watches as the other man crosses his arms in front of his chest, looking defiant. “I am not walking on the pitch with him on Friday. Or sitting on the bench with him.”

“Wilhelm, please, don’t make a scene,” August says, sounding almost bored. They haven’t interacted since Islington beat Finsbury in the Cup match and Wille supposes August thought he’d gotten off the hook. 

“Do not talk to me. Not after what you did,” he hisses at August. 

He senses movement beside himself and from the corner of his eye he sees Henrik take a few steps towards them and Anton rise up from where he had been sitting on the other end of the bench. 

“Wille, I don’t know what issue you’re having with August, but I suggest you solve it when we’re done with today’s training. You two can act like adults and set whatever it is aside for a couple of hours,” Henrik’s tone is stern, everything in his demeanour indicating he doesn’t have time for Wille’s antics. 

Wille shakes his head. He is not going to spend the day pretending August has any right to be playing with the team - or being anywhere near Wille. “Then I’m going.”

“Wilhelm Andersson, you’re the fucking captain of this team! Act like one!” Henrik loses his temper, raising his voice when Wille turns back towards the door.

“That’s what I’m doing! I am not going to let someone who betrayed me be part of the same team as I am!” he shouts back, anger making his chest rise and fall in rapid succession. 

Henrik looks at him with his eyebrows raised. Wille knows everyone in the room has their eyes on him, though he catches a few of the guys giving August sideways glances.

“He used someone I love to make some extra cash and I am not going to pretend I’ll ever forgive him for that,” he continues, his voice just a tad quieter than before, his hands clenching into fists as he pins August down with his gaze. 

He hears the gasps going around the room, hears the ‘what’ and the ‘are you serious’ some of the other players mutter under their breaths. He can sense Henrik still next to him, clearly taken aback by what he’s just said. August raises his chin and stares back at Wille.

“Love? Are you being serious?” his cousin says with a sneer and it’s what makes Wille fully explode. He surges forward and grabs August’s shirt with both of his hands, dragging him up from the bench. He thinks August actually looks frightened for a moment, his hands coming up to Wille’s wrists to push him away. 

Wille feels someone grab his arm and tries to shake them off, still glaring at August and only releasing one of his hands to draw it back. Before he can punch the man in front of him someone wrestles his arm back and another person grabs the arm still clutching August’s shirt. 

“Not worth it,” Wille hears Henry say while dragging him away from his cousin. To his right Emil is still holding his arm behind his back and only now is Wille starting to notice how unpleasant it feels. He tries to free himself but it only makes Emil grip him tighter. 

“Let go of me,” he yells at the two men holding him back as August slumps back to the bench. 

“Not if you’re going to attack him again,” Emil yells back at him and suddenly Anton is stepping between them too. 

“Wille, calm the fuck down!” he says, not shouting but clearly raising his voice as well. They stare at each other for a while, Anton standing before him in a way that tells Wille his vice-captain is going to haul him out the room himself if he needs to.

He takes in a few deep breaths, willing himself to calm down a notch. “Fine.” He yanks his arm free from Henry’s hold and takes a couple of steps back, lifting his hands up in surrender when Emil frees him. 

“August,” Henrik starts and turns to look at the man. “Is what Wille said true?” 

The silence in the room is suddenly deafening, everyone’s eyes on August, waiting for him to answer. “I… may have sold something about someone Wille claims to… love . It’s really not a big deal.” August finally says with a shrug and it’s maddening enough to make Wille take a step forward, the blood rushing through his veins burning and making him want to get his hands back on August, consequences be damned.

Emil’s hand grabbing his bicep stops him. Wille throws the man an annoyed look but he just shakes his head. If to tell Wille he’s not going to let go of him or to say something else, Wille isn’t sure.   

“It is a fucking big deal! You have no idea what we’ve been through, how much it’s made us suffer, how much…” he shouts at August instead, ‘how much you’ve made him suffer’ the thing that he really wants to say but can’t make himself do it. Emil’s grip on him tightens again. “I am not going to hit him.” He tells the man next to him and knows no one in the room buys it right now, not even he himself.

“Why don’t you tell everyone why you did it?” he continues, spitting out the words towards August. “Why don’t you tell everyone you did it because Kristoffer owes you quite a bit of money you lent him to bet on some matches.”

“What— How do you—” August stutters, the look on his face a mix of surprise and dread. 

“He was very talkative when I called him. When I told him I could help him. Something you should have done, get him help for his goddamn addiction, not encourage it,” Wille says. “How much of his wins have you pocketed? How much has he been betting on your behalf?”

He hears one of the younger players, Berat, he thinks, ask quietly ‘isn’t that illegal too?’, the words loud like a bomb in the otherwise silent room. He doesn’t turn his gaze, his eyes boring into August’s, almost enjoying the way realisation starts to dawn on him. 

“August?” Henrik asks. “What Wille just said - is it true?” 

August closes his eyes and shakes his head before giving a small nod. “I… lent him some money some time ago. But I didn’t know what he was using it for, I swear.”

Wille doesn’t believe it, not after what Kristoffer had told him on the call. That August has been lending him money for months after he’d gambled away most of his own, that the other man knew he was betting on their league, occasionally offering an insider tip or two. Wille laughs out bitterly, closing his eyes.

“August, in my office. Now,” Henrik’s voice is cold and stern, not leaving any room for argument as he starts to walk towards the door. “The rest of you, out on the pitch with Filip and Isak. And Wille, don’t think I’m done with you yet, either.”

Wille opens his eyes and nods. He watches as August gets up from where he’s been slumped on the bench, looking more defeated than Wille’s ever seen him look. He knows what he said is enough to put August under investigation and while his actions might not be enough to get him suspended, it’s going to mean he’s not going to play for a while. And it will be enough to make everyone doubt him, cast suspicions. Especially if August keeps claiming he didn’t know what his money was used for. 

*****

They’d won their first match against Estonia at home with a good margin, even if Wille feels their current formation isn’t the best they could play. The crowd hadn’t been too enthusiastic despite the goals and Wille guesses he can’t blame them. He does hope they’ll have some support for their next match, because he’s sure their opponents are going to have everyone backing them. 

It’s not the first time he’s playing at Wembley, but there’s always something about it that makes him feel more aware of the scale of the match. The biggest stage they could have in England, and now he’s leading out his own national team to the pitch there. He takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders, all too aware of the television camera trained on his face while they stand in the tunnel and wait to step out. 

He lets himself work on autopilot when they walk out, line up for the national anthems, take the team photos. It’s something he’s done countless times and he doesn’t want anything to seem out of the ordinary. It’s only when they walk to their places on the pitch that he allows himself to look up to where he knows the VIP boxes are. Wille knows they’re too far and he won’t be able to make out the people in the dark spring night, but he knows Simon’s there somewhere. They’d talked about it, Wille claiming a national team match would be the least suspicious one for Simon to attend after the man had said he wants to watch Wille play, that it’s only fair after he’s seen Simon perform twice. That Simon could always insist he wanted to support his countrymen while he was in the city, that when offered the opportunity to attend the game he thought why not. Wille hates it that it’s something they’ve had to plan with such great detail, that Simon can’t just show up because he wants to, that he needs an excuse. It stings his heart, and he takes a deep breath. Two more months, he tells himself. 

The first half of the match isn’t spectacular football, the conditions too dreadful for it, Wille knows it, but he’s pleased they’re heading back to the dressing room with a one goal lead. He plops down on the bench next to Anton and Henry, downing half of his sports drink in one go. 

“England is very uninspiring tonight, which means I need you to be the opposite,” Henrik tells them and Wille sees his teammates nod. “Go for those challenges, create those chances. Their left side isn’t doing anything right now, so make sure you block the right one and force them to pass the ball through the middle or the left. You can do it.” 

Wille watches the couple of clips that get played of the first half, of the way England clearly has a pattern in their attack. He sees where they leave space on the pitch and his mind starts to play out scenarios of how they could barge through to score another goal. 

A few minutes into the second half Wille sees Emil run up from the right and passes the ball to him, only to see one of the England defenders manage to get his foot on the way. It does give them a corner and Wille makes his way into the box with the other players, trying to find a spot where he could try to head the ball into the net. They’ve played this variation so many times, he knows exactly how it’s supposed to work out.

What he does not expect is to suddenly feel something hard hit his head. An elbow, or maybe he’s just butted heads with another player, he thinks in the brief moment before he drops down on the pitch, doing his best to protect himself from anything worse. His vision goes black and there is a sharp pain shooting through his temple. He lets himself lie down on the pitch for a second, then another, to catch his breath, before he feels the dampness of the grass seep through his kit. When he pushes to sit up he sees the team doctors jogging already towards him and sighs. 

“I’m fine,” Wille says when the doctors reach him, the slight unsteadiness of his stance when he stands up undermining his words. He blames it on getting up too fast. 

The doctor doesn’t look convinced and even though Wille knows he passes all the quick tests the medical team makes him do, he also knows the protocol that was introduced. He doesn’t want to leave the pitch, not when they have such a good momentum going on, a second goal basically hanging in the air. 

“Wille, you know the rules. We’re not taking risks with a potential head injury,” one of the doctors tells him. 

“I’m totally fine, it wasn’t bad, I can keep playing,” Wille insists, shaking his head to emphasise that he’s not affected when they walk towards the bench.

“We’re not going to let you, Henrik’s not going to let you. Marko is coming in for you,” the assistant coach is basically shouting at him when they reach the sideline, close enough to the bench that he can have this conversation with all the staff there.

He sighs when he sees his own number come up for the substitution and hands his armband for Marko to take it to Anton when he runs out on the pitch. Wille pulls on the jacket someone offers him and sits down the bench, his eyes flitting up to the VIP boxes again. This isn’t the kind of end to the first match Simon would see him play he had hoped for, not when there’s still so much time left on the clock and when the reason for his substitution probably looks like something more serious to an outsider than it is.  

Wille does get some joy out of Sweden scoring a second goal, from a set piece that England defends so poorly he’d laugh if he wasn’t aware it’s bad taste and would possibly get him into trouble later. He walks back out to the pitch with the rest of the team after the referee has blown his whistle for the last time, thanking the surprisingly large number of supporters that have made their way to London on the chilly Tuesday evening. 

It’s only when he walks back towards the dressing room when he hears the commotion outside the door. He can pick out Henrik’s voice - and Aitor’s, he realises suddenly. He didn’t know the manager was watching them play tonight, though he thinks he shouldn’t be too surprised by it. A good number of Islington players were on the pitch tonight after all. 

“Wille,” Aitor says when he reaches them by the door. “How bad is it?” 

“It’s literally nothing, I’m okay. I can see clearly, there’s no headache or dizziness, they’re just being too cautious,” he answers with a hint of frustration in his voice. He knows the new rules are supposed to protect the players, but sometimes the strictness feels ridiculous. 

“It’s not nothing when you were lying down for a good while,” Henrik cuts in, giving Wille a onceover. 

“I got the wind knocked out of me when I dropped to the pitch, you know what it’s like!” he tells the other men, starting to feel he’s not going to like the direction this conversation is going.

“Either way, you’ll be monitored tonight. We need to fix it with one of the medical team members and then have you thoroughly checked tomorrow,” Henrik says.

“National team duty ends at midnight, come on,” Wille tries. He’s getting tired and just wants to get some sleep. Someone waking him up every hour isn’t going to help him recover from the match. 

“I want you to see the medical team on Thursday,” Aitor speaks then, addressing Wille, and Wille can’t help but groan. Of course. 

“Our team is perfectly capable of making sure he’s fine,” Henrik tells Aitor, sounding a little hurt at the suggestion the national team would not take care of its players.

“And we pay his wages. I want to be certain he’s 100% okay, there are some big games coming up in the next weeks,” Aitor fires back at the national team coach, his accent growing a little thicker the way it always does when he’s getting annoyed. Wille suddenly feels like he’s watching divorced parents fight over their child and the thought makes him chuckle.  

“Well, I’m not going to be at my best if I basically have to stay up all night. Just let me go home and get some rest, you’d already agreed to that before the match,” Wille pleads with Henrik. The man had agreed to make an exception for him and Henry, letting them leave the team a bit earlier and head home to prepare for the weekend ahead. 

Aitor all but glares at Henrik before turning his gaze to Wille. “I get that he might have given you some leeway what with playing at home,” Wille doesn’t bother correcting him, that just because he lives in the city they’ve very much been the away team tonight. “But we can’t let you go home alone when we don’t know if it’s a concussion or not.” Aitor looks over to Henrik who nods.

“It’s not a concussion! I’m fine, how many times do I have to say that,” Wille huffs out, growing more and more tired with the situation. 

“It could be. You know how it is, you could start developing symptoms later,” Henrik argues. Wille knows he’s right, but he knows himself. It’s not a concussion. He’s had one before, he knows what it felt like. 

“Listen to him, Wille. Maybe if the situation was different we could let you go home, but not when there’s no one to keep an eye on you. We can’t lose you for the rest of the season, or even for a single match, not now,” Aitor says and Henrik nods along.

“There is someone who can check on me, if that’s what you’re so worried about,” he utters, the words out of his mouth before his brain can register what he’s just said. Wille can read the surprise on both men’s faces and curses inwardly. This is not how he was planning on this night to go, this definitely wasn’t what he was going to say. 

Aitor only raises his eyebrow and looks like he’s trying to figure out what to ask first, but Henrik beats him to it. “Someone? Last time I checked you were living alone. Are you telling us you’ve finally found yourself a nice girl?” Henrik’s tone is teasing, but it makes Wille want to shudder. 

“I, no, there’s…” Wille stutters, desperately searching for the right words. “I’ve had someone stay over at my place for a while, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind checking in on me a couple of times if that makes you happy and is enough to let me go back to my own home. He’s here today, I could check—” Wille closes his eyes and bites the inside of his lip when he says the last sentence out loud. 

The silence that follows when the men chew over his words extends a bit too much for Wille’s liking. He’s starting to regret opening his mouth and fighting the decision that was made for him, thinking it would have been easier to go back to the team hotel and spend the night in a fitful state of slumber. But he can’t back out now, not when he’s spent the last few minutes fighting to get his way. 

“Can you… get them down here so we can make sure they know what to do?” Henrik finally asks. Wille breathes out a long exhale and opens his eyes.

“I need to get my phone to check,” he says with a nod. Henrik nods back to him, and Wille slips into the dressing room to grab his phone from his bag, feeling the eyes of the two men burning on his back. He types Simon a quick message.

Wille

So, might have just told Aitor and Henrik you’re staying at my place

And that you can check up on me

In case I have a concussion – which I don’t, but they don’t believe me

Simon

Are you sure? It looked kind of bad

Wille

Yes

But I need you to come down here so you can be briefed on how to check for signs of one 

So they’ll let me go home instead of back to the hotel

If you’d be okay with that, obviously

I’m sorry, this is a mess

I didn’t really think

Simon

What else is new

Wille

HEY

Simon

Sorry

Love you

Seriously though, are you sure? 

Not about not having a concussion but me coming there

People are going to ask and talk

Wille

Yes, I’m sure

I want you here

I want to go home with you and this is the only way they’ll let me

Simon

Okay

How do I get there? 

Wille

I’ll get the team to send someone for you

Love you

Simon

Love you too

See you in a bit 

Wille locks his phone with a sigh. This really isn’t how he imagined this night to go. He was supposed to play the match, go back to the hotel to get his things and drive home. They’d planned this so well. Simon had a car waiting for him to get him back to Wille’s flat, with access to the garage, something they’d managed to arrange without anyone asking too many questions. No one would have known, but he’s just had to go and complicate things. 

He flags down one of the stadium stewards standing by the door and asks if he or his colleague could please get his guest down to the dressing room. If the steward thinks it’s an unusual request, he doesn’t say a thing. Not even when Wille tells the number of the VIP box and the person he’s asking for. 

“Right, so he’s coming in a few minutes. Can I go and take a shower in the meanwhile, or are you not letting me out of your sight?” Wille asks, not really directing the question to either of the coaches.

“You can go. I need to get to the press conference soon, I’m already running late,” Henrik says and Wille nods, trying to indicate that he can go do his post-match duties. “Nope, not leaving until I’m sure you can be trusted.” Wille isn’t sure if the ‘you’ is supposed to mean him or Aitor, but he shrugs and leaves the men in a slightly awkward silence. 

Wille takes the quickest shower he can manage and changes into his normal national team outfit, deciding it’s better to acknowledge he’s still on duty representing his country. Most of the team seems to be focused on their own post-match activities but he notices the way Henry watches him from the massage table. Wille gives him a small shake of his head and slips back to the corridor outside the dressing room, only to see the door at the other end open and Simon walk in behind a security guard.

Simon shoots him a small smile, though Wille doesn’t miss the worry that’s visible on his face. He sees the moment recognition sets in, Aitor and Henrik both almost comically raising their eyebrows at the same time when they turn to look back at Wille. Wille ignores them and instead steps up to Simon, giving him a quick hug that looks nothing more than friendly.

“Thank you, I’m sorry,” he whispers low enough only for Simon to hear. “Hi, thanks for coming.” Wille says louder, so that the others can hear too. 

“Sure, no problem,” Simon replies, sounding nonchalant. If Wille didn’t know better, he’d almost say the look on Simon’s face now has shifted to amusement. “Simon Eriksson. Good win today.” He says with a pleasant smile that does not look quite genuine on his face, extending his hand to shake both Henrik and Aitor’s.

“So, umm, I don’t know what Wille’s told you. Or, umm, why you’re actually here, but uhh,” Henrik stutters and Wille wants to laugh. Never did he think he’d see the coach so starstruck, not when he’s literally shook hands with some of the biggest football stars in the entire world. 

“Wille here claims he doesn’t have a concussion and while the medical team seems to agree,” Aitor looks at both Wille and Henrik, who gives him an affirmative nod. “He does need someone to check in on him a couple of times tonight to make sure he doesn’t develop symptoms later and seeks medical help if he does. And apparently he’s volunteered you to do that.” Aitor seems much more unfazed by the situation. Wille knows his daughter is a fan of Simon’s and he makes a mental note to make sure the girl gets to meet Simon one day. When things are easier.

“Makes sense, I was going to spend the night at his place anyway. You wouldn’t believe how nice the bed in his guest room is,” Simon tells them sweetly, exaggerating a bit too much for Wille’s liking. Though if the situation wasn’t so absurd, if Wille didn’t feel like his heart is trying to beat its way out of his ribcage with fear that either of them is going to slip and say something that gives them away, he’d laugh. He’d laugh, because he knows for a fact Simon has no idea what the bed in his guest room is like. He’s not sure Simon’s even set a foot in said room. 

Aitor and Henrik trade looks that Wille doesn’t want to interpret but somehow Simon’s attitude seems to convince them. Henrik goes to get one of the doctors to explain what Simon should keep an eye on while the rest of them chat about the match. If Wille didn’t feel so nervous, he’d be impressed by how well Simon seems to be able to analyse the events of the game. Aitor does seem impressed. 

After the doctor has explained Simon in detail the possible symptoms of a concussion and what to do if any of them occur and after Simon has assured everyone they have a ride back, Henrik finally lets them go. When they make it to the backseat of a car with tinted windows Wille breathes out a massive sigh. Simon finds his hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze, but neither of them says a word.  

The ride feels like it takes forever, even though it’s probably faster than Wille’s ever managed in London after a match. Only when they walk into his flat well past midnight does he feel like he’s starting to relax. He kicks off his shoes, hangs his coat in the closet and watches as Simon does the same. 

Wille then walks into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and sits down on one of the chairs by the island. He gulps down the water and sets the glass on the counter when Simon walks up to him, nudging his legs open to stand between them. Wille wraps his arm around Simon’s shoulder and pulls him closer, tilting his head down in an invitation which Simon doesn’t hesitate to take. Their lips find each other and Wille lets Simon set the pace, content with having the other man so close. 

Simon steps back a moment later, looking up at Wille. “Any headache? Dizziness? Nausea?” He asks and Wille shakes his head, feeling just tired after a physically demanding match. Simon’s eyes map his face, his fingers tracing lines on his thighs. Wille gently grabs Simon’s wrist when his fingers travel closer to his inner thigh, to his groin, keeping it in place. Simon’s gaze dips down before his eyes meet Wille’s again.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, I was told you should avoid physical exertion just in case,” Simon says but doesn’t try to move his hand, instead softly strokes his thumb over the fabric of Wille’s pants. 

“I told you, I don’t have a concussion. I’ve had one before, I know how I’d be feeling,” Wille tells him, the touch sending shivers down his spine. 

“Would you even have the energy?” Simon asks him, stepping a bit closer and dragging his hand higher on Wille’s thigh. Wille swallows and takes in the sly smile on Simon’s face.

“With you? Always,” he says, even though if he’s being honest, he kind of wants nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for a few hours. His bones feel heavy, his entire body is screaming for rest, definitely feeling the kilometres he’s run tonight, the lack of a proper cooldown making his muscles ache. But Simon is right there and they haven’t seen each other properly in twenty-one days. Not that Wille was counting or anything. 

Unfortunately for Wille, Simon is good at reading him. “But not tonight, not like that.” Simon doesn’t sound disappointed, just states it like a fact. He takes a small step back and lifts his hand to intertwine their fingers. “Let’s go. You clearly need some sleep and I could do with some too. You made me worried tonight.” 

Simon pulls Wille down from the chair and leads the way to the bedroom. He only lets go of Wille’s hand when he reaches over to the bedside table to turn on the lamp, bathing the room in a low golden light. Wille watches as Simon pulls off his sweater and drops it on the armchair by the window, his jeans soon following after. Wille strips off his pants and throws them on the pile of clothes on the chair. Then he fumbles with the buttons of his shirt for a brief moment, feeling exhaustion starting to settle into his body. Simon notices and gives him a concerned look, but makes quick work of getting his shirt open and pushing it off Wille’s shoulders, his hands lingering on his biceps for a moment.

Wille discards the shirt on the floor and ignoring Simon’s weak protest grabs his hips to walk them to the bed. When Simon’s legs hit the edge he hikes himself up on the bed and Wille crawls after him. They look at each other smiling for a second until Wille dips his head down to capture Simon’s lips in a sloppy kiss. It’s a bit uncoordinated and Wille moves his mouth to kiss the tender spot under Simon’s ear he knows will make the man underneath him keen. 

As if on cue a small moan slips past Simon’s lips when Wille presses a kiss to his skin and he continues to trail his mouth down Simon’s neck. He feels Simon buck his hips up ever so slightly and Wille grinds down, more on instinct than anything else. He feels Simon’s fingers tangle into the hair at the nape of his neck, his other hand gently stroking back and forth on his shoulder. 

They lazily make out for a while, neither of them really wanting or having the energy to take things any further. “You feeling okay?” Simon asks after a moment, lying on his side and propping his head on his hand. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Seriously,” Wille answers, a yawn escaping him. He stretches out on the bed, his eyes never leaving Simon. 

“Good,” Simon says, letting his free hand drop on Wille’s stomach, anchoring him in place. For a while neither of them moves, until Simon pushes himself up and hops down from the bed. “Come on. You need to brush your teeth too.” 

Simon disappears into the ensuite and Wille hears the tap run. He knows Simon is going through his evening skincare routine and knows it’ll take a few minutes. Wille slowly gets up from the bed, his movements already sluggish. He pads to the bathroom and leans against the doorframe, letting his gaze linger on Simon. Their eyes meet on the mirror and Simon cocks his head, beckoning Wille to step inside and handing him his toothbrush. They stand next to each other in silence, both brushing their teeth. The domesticity of it all makes Wille’s heart swell and feel full.

They’re already under the covers, Simon’s body warm against his when Wille hears him mumble one more time. “Are you sure you’re fine? It did look pretty bad, you lying down there and not moving for a while. I’ve never seen you like that before.”

“I’m fine, just feeling tired like I always do after a match,” Wille answers, telling himself Simon is just worried and he can’t get irritated with him. Then the rest of what Simon said hits him. “Wait, you’ve watched us before?” 

“Not your team. Just you,” Simon says, his arm wrapping a little tighter around Wille’s middle. 

Wille had no idea. He didn’t think Simon would really have time to watch more than the occasional highlight reel. Maybe that’s what he’s referring to, surely he hasn’t sat down to watch them go against teams like Exhall or Orrell Park.

“Not all your matches, but when I’ve had a free moment here and there,” Simon continues. Wille wants to blame the late hour for the wetness he feels at the corners of his eyes, but he knows it’s more than that. None of the people he’s been with before - the few who he’d tried to be with for longer than a couple of weeks at least - have ever wanted to watch him play without him asking. Had always said they don’t care that much for football.

He squeezes Simon’s arm, pulling him closer. “I’m sorry I made you worry. Things like that happen though, it’s usually nothing serious. And I’m sorry you had to meet the coach and the manager like that.” Wille still feels nervous about facing them again, wonders what they’ve been thinking, wonders if they’ve put together one plus one. He feels Simon’s breaths tickle the back of his neck, his body wrapped around Wille’s in a still slightly unfamiliar but soothing way. He isn’t sure what it is that makes him whisper his next words into the darkness. “I’m telling the team the day after tomorrow. Or tomorrow, I guess.”

Simon hums against his neck, the sound more an acknowledgment that he’s spoken than anything else. 

“About you,” Wille says softly, not much louder but with enough determination that the simple sentence seems to fill the entire room. 

“I thought you were going to wait until the article,” Simon replies, sounding more awake than moments before. Wille turns around in his arms, wanting to face Simon even if he can’t really see the other man in the darkness of the night. 

“I was, but they’re not stupid. After tonight…” he trails off, trying to gather his thoughts. He feels sleepiness fogging his brain, but he wants to say this now. Doesn’t want to wait until the morning. “I don’t want to keep lying. Or telling half-truths. You’re more important than that. You deserve better.”

Wille lets his fingers ghost over Simon’s temple, tries to see the other man’s eyes. All he can make out in the blackness is the shape of Simon when he moves closer to press a gentle kiss to Wille’s mouth. “Okay,” he murmurs against Wille’s lips, sounding a tiny bit choked up. “That makes me happy. You know how much I hate this. Hiding and sneaking around and not being able… to tell everyone you’re mine. How much I love you.”

Wille tugs Simon closer, not sure where his limbs end and the other’s start. “I know. I’m so sorry you have to do it. That we have to do it.” He presses a small kiss to Simon’s curls. “Just till the season’s over. If it wasn’t for the media frenzy…” Wille don’t end the sentence. 

They’ve talked about this before, several times. That if Simon wasn’t someone the entire world knows, if Wille wasn’t someone almost the entire sporting  world at least knows, if they knew there wouldn’t be weeks of undying interest and the so called news outlets dissecting every single interaction between them they can find… But there will be, they’ve seen it before with other high-profile couples and all Wille wants is to focus on the rest of the season. They’re so close to a trophy now, two even, and he just wants to get through the remaining games without an intruding reporter asking about his personal life a million times. And while Simon hasn’t said it out loud, Wille knows he wants his new music to be what people focus on, not his relationship. Not that he’ll manage to escape the relationship inquiries, but at least he’ll have an EP to deflect the questions back to. 

Simon holds him, his hand a comforting weight on his back. Wille’s lost count of all the times he’s hoped he could just be with Simon, the way his teammates get to be with their girlfriends and wives. Without it being news, without it being something that’ll be cited in, if not general history books, at least in certain football publications, over and over again. 

“Hmm, get some sleep. We can talk more in the morning,” Simon quietly says after a while, the silence having stretched so long Wille thought the man might have fallen asleep already. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Wille replies, the way he always does, always will do. He feels sleep pull him under and almost misses what Simon mumbles against his shoulder, voice thick with sleep.

“I’ve set the alarm in a couple of hours to check up on you, don’t think I’m not taking this seriously.” 

Wille smiles, remembers it to be the last thing he does before falling into peaceful slumber. Of course Simon’s taking this seriously, he wouldn’t expect anything else. 

*****

They’d spent most the following day on the couch, Wille feeling groggy from the lack of proper sleep - Simon had woken him up every few hours after all, and not for fun - and his muscles screaming at him for skipping the cold bath and massage. He doesn’t know if he feels better this morning even if he’s managed to sleep a bit more. For a while, after Simon had put his skilled hands to use and made Wille forget his own name, he’d slept, deep sleep without dreams. But then he’d woken up, sometime a few hours before the break of dawn, the too familiar feeling of anxiety clawing at his chest and hadn’t managed to fall asleep again. 

After tossing and turning for what felt like an eternity he’d gotten up, not wanting to wake Simon. He’s sitting in the living room, staring at the communal yard where spring is slowly starting to creep in, nursing a mug of coffee. It’s too early to leave for the training ground. He knows there won’t be anyone around for another two hours and while he knows how he could get in, he doesn’t want to cause trouble for the staff, knows they have their own routine at the centre. So Wille sits on the couch and watches the sun slowly rise, his hand rubbing across his sternum as if it’s a normal part of his morning routine. 

An hour later he hears the bedroom door creak open and counts Simon’s footsteps until the man is standing behind him, wrapping his arms around Wille’s shoulders over the backrest of the couch. “Morning,” Simon softly murmurs into his ear, his cheek warm against Wille’s. 

“Morning,” Wille returns, placing his hand above Simon’s to keep his arms tightly enveloped around himself. They stay like that for a while, Wille staring out the window still but nuzzling his head against Simon’s, the touch calming down his rapidly breathing heart.

“How are you feeling?” Simon asks softly. Wille feels grateful that the other man doesn’t ask why he’s up so early, if he’s slept well. He knows Simon knows the answers to those questions already.

“Nervous,” his answer is barely above a whisper, an admission he feels ashamed to make. ‘Terrified’ even closer to the feeling numbing his senses. He shouldn’t be feeling anxious about going to work and meeting people he’s spent more time with in the past year than anyone else. Shouldn’t feel like his entire world could collapse in a minute when he tells them one more thing about himself. A thing that doesn’t even have anything to do with his playing, a thing that shouldn’t affect what he does every single day in any way. And yet. 

Simon stays quiet, his steady breathing warm against Wille cheek, his embrace growing a little tighter. Wille closes his eyes and leans back into the hug, into Simon, as much as he can with the backrest separating them. Tries not to think about the fact that he might not have a job in a few months when his contract runs out, might spend the remainder of the season on the bench or worse, not even a part of the squad. 

“Remember what you told me yesterday? When I asked you why you want to stay at the club?” Simon asks him eventually, unwrapping his arms from around Wille’s shoulders and rounding the couch to sit next to him.

Wille nods, because of course he remembers. He’d spend a good part of an hour talking about Islington, telling Simon what the club and all the people involved with it meant to him. Why they meant so much. 

“When you think about what you told me, do you think they’ll treat you differently when you tell them about… who you are?” Wille doesn’t miss the way Simon struggles to put his question into words, like he isn’t quite sure what he actually wants to ask. It seems unlike him, Wille doesn’t think he’s really ever seen Simon lack the right words. He leans in when Simon wraps his arm around his shoulder again, his warm body grounding him into the moment. 

“I didn’t think my parents would treat me differently when I told them, but they did,” Wille’s voice is low. The way his mother and father had talked to him ever since he’d blurted out the words in the middle of a heated conversation over dinner years ago still stung. How they still treated him.

“That’s not—” Simon starts to say, his fingers tracing the patterns of Wille’s pyjama pants. 

“I don’t want to lose another family,” Wille whispers. He feels stupid saying it out loud, as if something as seemingly trivial as a football club, work, could ever be a family. But it’s what he feels like, what he’s felt like for a while now. That Islington, the people there, are exactly like a family. And that he won’t know what he’s going to do if they turn their backs on him. If they let him go because he’s finally brave enough to be himself. 

“You won’t,” Simon says with so much conviction every cell in Wille’s body wants to believe him. Wants to think that Simon is right, despite never spending more than a few hours with the team at a charity event. “You’ll have me.” Simon adds after a beat, pressing a lingering kiss to Wille’s temple. 

Wille feels his breath hitch and turns to Simon. He looks the man right into his eyes and sees them shine with nothing but love. He brings his hand up to cup Simon’s face and kisses him deeply, hoping the action will convey all the feelings he can’t find words for. 

When they pull apart, Simon smiles and with a humourless laughter says, “And if it all goes to hell, you can always sue them for discrimination. You know you’d probably have a winning case there.” 

Wille shakes his head, because that is the last thing he ever wants to do. “I don’t think it needs to come to that. I hope so.”

“Good,” Simon nudges his knee and starts to get up. “Let’s get some breakfast before you go.” 

Wille isn’t sure he can actually stomach eating anything, but raises himself from the couch and follows Simon into the kitchen. 

“When it all goes well, when do you sign your new contract?” Simon asks a moment later while he busies himself with buttering a few slices of bread. 

“Next week,” Wille answers while watching Simon place cucumber slices over the cheese before plating the sandwiches. He’s been thinking about what he wants to say next for weeks now, not really knowing how to go about it. “You know… If I sign the extension—”

“When you sign it,” Simon interrupts, reaching into the fridge to pull out a pot of yoghurt. 

“Okay, when I sign it… You know that means I’ll be staying in London for at least four more years? And that I’d hate… that you wouldn’t be…” Wille tries to form a proper sentence without succeeding, nervously keeping his eyes on Simon to gauge his reaction. 

“Yes, I know. There are much worse places in the world when it comes to the music industry you know, I think I’ll be just fine here,” Simon replies and motions towards the stove, urging Wille to please get them a fresh pot of coffee.

“Oh, yeah… I… You, I…” Wille stutters. Simon’s answer catches him off guard, he’d expected to have a long and thorough talk about this.

“I’m sorry, were you not trying to ask me to move in with you?” Simon turns to him with a smirk wide enough to light up the entire room. 

“Uhh, yeah. I mean, I was. I am,” Wille can’t help but feel a little dazed. Simon steps up to him and wraps his arms around his neck, his gaze fixed on Wille’s.

“Wille, I’m basically living with you already. Whenever I’m here. If you decide to stay in London, of course I want to live here with you. Like I said, as far as my career goes, London is just as good a place as Stockholm. Better even, really,” Simon tells him and Wille nods. It makes sense, everything he’s just said. But they’ve never talked about this before and Wille can’t help but feel slightly uncertain, like maybe he shouldn’t have brought it up now, like they’re moving too fast.

“If you’re going to say it’s too fast or too soon or something like that, I’m going to punch you. I thought we’d established it doesn’t matter, not when we are both so sure about this. About us,” Simon says then, as if he could read Wille’s mind. “You’re it for me, Wille.” He punctuates the words with a kiss that Wille is happy to return.  

“And you’re it for me. Will always be,” Wille returns, wanting to dispel any doubts there might be lingering in the air. 

“Well then, let’s sit down and eat before you go,” Simon tugs his arm and sighs when his eyes land on the coffee pot, realising there isn’t a steaming mug waiting for him. Wille hurries to empty the pot and sets it on the stove after rushing through the preparations for a fresh pot. He knows it won’t be the best coffee he’s made, but it’ll have to do. 

“Thank you,” Simon says when Wille sets a mug in front of him and finally sits down on the chair opposite him. Simon hooks his foot around his ankle and smiles as they sit and eat in comfortable silence. Wille thinks that no matter how the rest of the day will go, at least he’ll have this. He’ll have Simon. 

*****

Wille knows he’s been off his game today, his mind not focused on the training. First the check-up with the medical team had made him join the others at the gym late and then he’d messed up some of the drills on the pitch. It’s only a few hours after he’d sat on the couch with Simon and he feels like his anxiety levels are rising again. He knows that if he doesn’t talk to Aitor and Vijay before lunch he’s not going to do it. 

Which is why he stays back after they’re done with the morning training, not paying attention to what Henry and Christian are chatting about next to him as they start to walk off the training pitch. Everyone else has already headed inside for lunch. He’s stalling, he knows it.

“Christian, you got a minute?” Wille hears himself saying. He hadn’t thought about it before, but maybe having the captain with him will make things easier. 

“Sure, what’s up?” Christian answers, waiting for Wille to catch up with him and bidding goodbye to Henry.

“I need to talk about something with Aitor, and Vijay, if he’s available and I’d like you to be there too,” Wille says. He can hear the blood rushing through his veins, feel his heart drum a frantic rhythm against his chest. 

“Okay,” Christian simply says, but there is a questioning frown on his face.

They find Aitor in his office, and after checking with his assistant that he’s free, walk to Vijay’s office. Wille closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to count four in and four out before knocking on the door. 

“Oh hey, Marta said you wanted to see me,” Vijay greets them and motions to the couch and armchairs by the window. “What is it?” 

“Wille,” Aitor prompts him after a moment of silence. “You’re the one who wanted to see us. Said you had something to tell.” 

Wille breathes in a shaky breath, his nails digging into the already reddened cuticles of his left thumb. He looks at the three men, all of them sporting an awaiting look, their eyes fixed on him. 

“I, uhh, was asked to write an article. About football and my family, the usual stuff,” he begins and Christian nods. Wille remembers he’d written one too, about the tragedy that had hit his national team a few years ago. 

“And you’ve written something that you couldn’t just run by the comms team?” Vijay asks, no doubt going through the clauses about things like this in the player contract in his mind if Wille were to guess.

“No. Or well, yes, I guess. I mean, they’re going to get to read it before it’s published, obviously. But I wanted you to know before… before I sign the new contract. So that you’d still have… time to react,” Wille hates how small he sounds. The situation is completely different from that dinner with his parents years ago and yet he feels like he’s living that night again.

“Okay…?” Aitor says, the unsaid question evident in that one word. 

Wille closes his eyes again, pictures Simon in his mind. The radiant smile, the way he’d kissed Wille in the morning before he’d stepped out the door. The way he’d said ‘I love you’ and made sure Wille knew he meant it. He opens his eyes and doesn’t look at any of the three men, instead lets his eyes fall on the club crest above the shelf behind Vijay’s desk. 

“In the article I tell that I’m in a relationship with another man. That I love him and don’t want to hide being with him anymore,” Wille finally says, his voice loud and clear as his eyes trace the outline of the crest.

The silence in the office feels deafening, like the others are letting his words sink in for minutes, like time has stopped. He can’t look away from the crest, afraid of what he might see on the other men’s faces. “I know it’s going to change everything and it’s going to be all over the news and… if you don’t want me to sign a new contract anymore I understand.” Wille continues, his voice catching towards the end of the sentence, the words that come out strangled and dejected. 

It’s Christian who finally reacts first. He turns to Wille sitting next to him on the couch and envelopes him in a tight hug. “Thank you for trusting us.” He says the words so that only Wille understands, their native languages close enough. Wille lets out a shaky breath and returns the hug. “It doesn’t change anything. Well, okay, it does, but not within the team.” Christian continues in English, letting go of Wille and turning to look at Aitor.

“Christian’s right. As long as it doesn’t affect your playing in a negative way, it doesn’t change anything. You’re still the guy our supporters and your teammates love,” Aitor confirms with a nod. “It might take some of the guys a while to… wrap their minds around, but they aren’t going to treat you any different.” 

Wille wants to believe Aitor, but he knows and the manager knows that there will be one or two players who’ll have a harder time accepting him from now on. He hopes Aitor is right and they will be professional. “I’ll make sure no one is going to treat you differently,” Aitor tells him, like he’s managed to read Wille’s mind. Or maybe the man just had to take in the look on his face, Wille thinks. 

“Wille,” Vijay finally speaks too, his warm eyes fixed on Wille. He smiles. “All we want is for you to be happy. I’m sorry we as a club haven’t been supportive enough, that you haven’t felt comfortable enough to tell us before. Not that you needed to do it now either, but I appreciate it that you did. I imagine it can’t have been easy.”

Wille shakes his head before nodding, a mix of emotions coursing through him. He feels so relieved he could cry, can’t be far from spilling some tears judging by the wetness he feels along his lash line. He wipes his eyes and lets out a shaky laugh. “Thank you.” He doesn’t manage to say more, the gentle smiles he sees making him choke up. 

Aitor gets up and hands him a box of tissues from the table which Wille gladly accepts. He wipes his eyes again and blows his nose. 

“Not that it’s any of our business and you don’t have to tell us now if you don’t want to, but who’s the lucky guy who’s stolen your heart?” Vijay asks, his voice warm, and Wille can sense three sets of eyes looking at him expectantly. 

“Simon Eriksson,” he answers and a strange feeling washes over him as he says the name. Giddiness, he realises. Finally being able to say his name out loud.

“ The Simon Eriksson?” Christian gasps and when Wille nods, the other man lets out a low whistle. Aitor simply gives him a knowing smile. 

“We’re happy for you, the both of you. I do need to ask, because you need to coordinate this with the comms team: when does the article come out?” Vijay inquires, pulling out his phone and checking the calendar. 

Wille grimaces. “Tuesday, on the week of the derby.” The timing is far from ideal, and the silence that fills the room again confirms it. 

“You know that’s going to, umm, make their supporters give you hell? Not just on the pitch,” Vijay asks, his tone tentative.

“I know. I’m prepared for it. My team will be ready to handle my social media but uhh, there’s nothing they can do about what gets said on the stands,” Wille replies. He hates knowing that the so-called fans can chant whatever vile stuff they want and most likely get away with it. ”And I know this probably will be an issue with the sponsors, but I’m not backing out.” He’s never really given their sponsors that much thought, but it suddenly hits him that some of them are based in countries that would not welcome him with open arms anymore. 

“We’ll have an extra meeting with the security and make sure the supporter liaison teams are in on it too,” Vijay says, half to himself while typing something on his phone. “And don’t worry about the sponsors. One deal is up and we weren’t going to renew that anyway. The other one… well, if this— if you are an issue and they decide to pull their sponsorship, we’re calling breach of contract. Nothing you need to worry about, the board and executives will deal with it. Speaking of which, are you okay with me telling the directors or do you want to tell them yourself? You know we can’t keep them in the dark until the article is published.”

“You can tell them. Just, don’t mention Simon’s name, please. We know it’s going to be on every damn news site eventually and I just want to make it to the end of the season without having to deal with that too. Like, this one article and what comes with it I can handle, but I don’t want the non-stop scrutiny that comes with everyone finding out I’m his partner, not right now,” Wille pleads and sighs relieved when Vijay gives him a nod. 

“When are you going to let the rest of the first team know?” Aitor asks in turn. Wille hasn’t really thought about it, too focused on today. 

“Umm, I… haven’t actually thought about it,” he admits.

“You can’t blindside them and not tell before,” Christian chimes in. Wille nods, the captain is right. It wouldn’t be fair to them. “How about Monday, the day before the article gets published? We’re home from Portsmouth on Sunday evening so Monday’s training would be lighter anyway, right?” The question is directed to Aitor.

“Yes. That would work. Get it out of the way and then focus on the derby,” Aitor answers, getting out his own phone to put in a note for the day. 

“Less chance of anyone leaking it too…” Wille mutters, mostly to himself but he knows he’s said it loud enough for the others to hear too. 

“We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” Christian assures him, sounding just a tiny bit offended that Wille would suspect any of their teammates would do something like that. 

“Wille, I trust you to coordinate about the article with the comms team, get your own team to approve what they have in mind. If there isn’t anything else, I do have a meeting in fifteen minutes that I need to prepare for,” Vijay says after glancing at his watch. 

Christian is the first one to leave the room, his stomach growling as he bids them bye and heads to get some lunch. Wille promises to join him soon, realising he is feeling hungry too. He walks down the hall with Aitor, neither of them saying anything for a while. Wille is itching to get his phone, to text Simon, to tell the other man he was right. At least for now. 

“You know, I think everyone who’d see you together would guess there’s something between the two of you. The way you looked at him the other day when you thought no one was paying attention…” Aitor says, humming a melody Wille doesn’t recognise. “You looked like you’d steal him the moon every night.” 

Wille sighs, not entirely following the manager’s analogy. He smiles though, knows he has a hard time keeping his eyes off of Simon. Thinks it’s nothing short of a miracle that no one’s managed to figure them out by now. Or maybe someone has, but hasn’t said it out loud. 

“I’m happy for you Wille. I hope he makes you happy,” Aitor tells him when they round the corner and come to a stop in front of the cafeteria. Wille glances around, but doesn’t see anyone but Christian on the other side of the glass wall. 

“He does. Happier than I thought I could be,” Wille answers and can feel a smile spreading on his face. He feels better than he has in months when he notices the other man smiling back at him. 

“That’s good. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at training. And don’t you dare be late for the contract signing next week. We have big plans for this team and you’re a very important part of them,” Aitor reminds him before striding down the hallway towards his office. 

Wille watches the manager’s receding back and shakes his head a little. He pinches himself, unable to otherwise believe he’s not dreaming, that things really did go so much smoother and better than he had imagined. He suddenly feels like someone’s lifted a weight off his shoulders, like he no longer needs to hold up the sky in fear it would come crashing down if he made one wrong move. It’s how he wants to feel for the rest of his life.

Chapter Text

Wille is genuinely starting to hate how he can’t sleep. Not even when he has Simon next to him, all serene and soft. Rationally he knows he has nothing to be worried about, he has Aitor and Christian standing by him. But rational thinking has never been his strong suit, not when his anxiety is getting the better of him. He thinks he’s lucky that today’s training is going to be light because his limbs feel heavy as lead and the mere thought of running and pushing himself to the limit makes him want to bury himself into the blankets and never get up. He’s done it, so many times, especially in his youth. But it’s never really worked in the long run.

Instead of burying himself into the blankets he slips out of bed and carefully pulls up the duvet from where it’s pooled around Simon’s waist. He presses a light kiss into Simon’s shoulder and holds in his breath when the other man shifts but only burrows himself into the duvet. Wille closes the door to the bedroom behind himself and makes his way to the living room. He sits on the couch and in the low light seeping into the room stares at the lines of the carpet, replaying the conversation he had with Jordan and Silva some days earlier in his head. They’d been supportive, after the initial shock of digesting what they’d read. But they were also right. He knows the way he’s written about his parents isn’t exactly going to fix their strained relationship, will probably force them to answer some uncomfortable questions about the way they’ve raised their children. 

And of course they’re preparing for the nasty comments that no doubt will fill the comment sections of his social media channels. Wille had argued that he doesn’t want to turn the comments off, that if he did it would be like admitting defeat before the battle has even begun. Because in a way it feels like they are gearing up for a battle. Silva has forbidden him from checking any of the comments though, going as far as threatening to change the passwords of all his official accounts if he so much as thinks about it. Wille thinks it’s fair, that he doesn’t really want to see what people have to say. Not again.

He wonders what he’ll say to his teammates later. He’s tried to draft some sort of speech in his head, but it hasn’t felt natural, not the way he wants to tell them. He tries to think back to any of the times the guys have talked about their new girlfriends, but all he can come up with are some offhand remarks. Wille knows he can’t do that, can’t just casually mention the most amazing man in the world currently asleep in his bed. Besides, there is nothing casual about Simon for him.

Knowing mulling over what he’ll say or not say does him no good, Wille turns on the TV and navigates to his watchlist. He knows sometime in the past he might have tried to distract himself with an old football match, but now the mere thought makes him feel sick. He chooses the first movie on the list and presses play. Fifteen minutes into the movie he realises he’s actually seen it already, knows what will happen to the red plane and the pilot flying it. That he’d watched it with Simon after the other man had quoted a line from it when they’d ended up talking about politics and Wille hadn’t had a clue what he’d referenced. He decides to watch it again anyway. 

When weak sunlight hits his face Wille realises he must have dozed off for a moment. A quick glance at his watch tells him it’s still too early for anything, that it’s still another four hours until he needs to be at the training centre. He scrolls through the watchlist, trying to settle for another movie when he hears the bedroom door creak open and Simon stepping into the living room. Without saying a word Simon motions Wille to get up from where he is lying on the couch and when Wille makes space for him, he sits down, legs stretched out. He pulls Wille’s head to his lap, fingers immediately coming up to gently card through his hair. 

“What are we watching?” Simon asks, voice rough with sleep. His hand keeps a steady pace, his nails occasionally grazing Wille’s scalp. 

Wille shrugs, as much as he can in the position he’s in. He motions the remote towards the TV and looks at the preview picture on the screen. “That’s the next one on the list.” 

“Nuh-uh, we’re not watching that. Not today,” Simon responds, looking down at Wille. “Pick the next one.” 

"A witch?” Wille questions, taking in the girl and a cat on the broomstick. He looks up to Simon, who nods.

“Trust me on this one,” he says, giving Wille a small smile. Wille can tell Simon is tired, his eyelids drooping heavily over his eyes and movements slower than normally. 

“Always. You should go back to bed though, you’re still tired,” he says quietly, nudging the hand that’s resting on his arm. 

“So are you. I’ll just take a nap when you’re at training, I’m too awake now. Besides, I don’t want to wake up again to find out you’re not next to me,” Simon tells him, intertwining their fingers and bringing their joint hands to rest above Wille’s heart. 

For a while they just watch the movie, neither of them saying anything. Wille finds Simon was right, he’s quite enjoying what is happening on the screen. However, it’s not enough to stop his wandering mind and suddenly Wille realises he’s thinking about something he’s been meaning to ask Simon for weeks, months even, but has never gotten around to. 

“Back in the summer,” he starts and Simon hums, acknowledging that he’s heard Wille speak. “Why’d you come up to me?”

“Are you really asking me now why I decided to try my luck and flirt with you?” Simon’s voice is tinged with amusement. Wille makes an assenting noise, turning his head to look at Simon instead of the screen. “Wille, you looked hot as fuck in that suit.”

Wille feels blush creep to his face and closes his eyes, burying his head into Simon’s lap when he hears the man’s melodic laugh. “I could have turned you down, or worse. I could’ve told you… I’m not like that.” Wille’s voice is quiet, his brain reminding him of the conflicting thoughts that had plagued his mind that night.

“But you didn’t. I’d seen the way you looked at me, when you thought no one was paying any attention. If you’d said you didn’t want… anything, I would’ve moved on and maybe later anguished to my friends how once again I’d fallen a bit for the one I couldn’t have,” Simon’s tone is equally quiet, but when Wille opens his eyes he sees Simon smiling at him. “I could tell how much you cared about the charity you were there to promote, even though it was clear you were repeating some rehearsed speech about it. There was something about the way you talked about the community and how important the work is, how you see it has an impact on the people that made me want to get to know you better. Made me want to find out if you’re as caring and kind and passionate about other things too. I really hadn’t planned on locking us into a vacant room and getting down on my knees though.” Simon huffs out a laugh and Wille chuckles too, getting up and scooting closer to Simon to give him a kiss.

“Best blowjob of my life at the time,” Wille murmurs against Simon’s lips, their noses rubbing together. “Do you ever regret it?”

“No,” Simon’s answer is quick and firm and he pulls back a little to look Wille in the eye. “Where’s this coming from? Do you regret it?” Wille can hear the hint of concern creeping into his voice, sees his deep brown eyes search for an answer and rushes to reply.

“No. I could never regret it. I will never regret you ,” he says, trying to find the words to explain his train of thought. “You know how you lie awake in the middle of the night, those little brain ghosts whispering and making you doubt and question everything? It’s that. And I’ve just… been thinking lately what my life would be like if I hadn’t met you. If you hadn’t been brave.”

Wille keeps his eyes on Simon, practically staring at the other man. He watches intently as a flurry of emotions flickers across Simon’s face, the sun having crept high enough to illuminate the room. Wille knows they should draw the curtains closed because while it seems his neighbours like their privacy just as much as Wille and Simon do, it’d still be safer. But he doesn’t want to get up just yet, not when Simon has been quiet for a good while. 

“What have the ghosts said?” Simon eventually asks, his hand lightly brushing against the side of Wille’s face. The touch makes Wille smile, makes him feel grounded.

“They try to say that it’d have been better. For you. That you’d be happier without having to hide and be kept a secret and—” Wille answers, the smile fading from his face. He drops his gaze and brings his hand up to gnaw at his nail. Immediately, Simon’s hand curls around his and pulls it down to rest on his lap. 

“Wille. They’re wrong. They’re so wrong. Look at me,” Simon says, tugging at the hand he’s holding. Wille raises his eyes and is met with Simon’s intense gaze, his eyes shining with emotion. “It hasn’t been easy, I admit that. Far from it at times. But I’ve never felt like this about anyone. I don’t want to feel like this about anyone else, ever. All I want is you, however I can.”

Simon lifts his hand back up to caress Wille’s face and takes a deep breath before he starts to sing, his soft voice drowning out the sounds of the movie they’ve forgotten about. “ Every time you look at me, my world grows a little bigger. And I see you as you see me, as someone who can give something, something I never dreamt of before. ”

Wille feels tears prickling in his eyes, Simon’s tender touch leaving goosebumps in its wake as his hand travels down Wille’s neck and skates across his collarbone to come rest over his heart. “I loved watching you perform it. But I didn’t realise just how beautiful it is because I… maybe wasn’t fully focused on what you were singing.” Wille admits, an apologetic smile ghosting on his lips. 

“Maybe you should have. It’s about you after all,” Simon responds. 

“What?” Wille feels his own eyes widening, his brain trying to catch up on and process what Simon just said. He watches as a disbelieving look appears on Simon’s face and the other man shakes his head, groaning a little. “What?” Wille repeats.

“I am in love with an idiot,” Simon laments, dropping his forehead to rest against Wille’s shoulder. 

“Hey!” Wille huffs, trying to sound affronted but when a breathy giggle slips past Simon’s lips he finds himself chuckling too.

“Who else would I write a love song about? Who else would I write a love song for ?” Simon asks, his voice slightly muffled from where his head is pressed against Wille’s upper arm. 

Wille doesn’t know what to answer. No one’s ever done anything as sweet or as grand for him. He does the only thing he can think of. Cupping Simon’s face, Wille tilts his face up so he can bring their lips to meet in a kiss. He tries to pour all his feelings into it, all the appreciation and adoration and awe and love he feels in his core. He feels Simon’s lips curl up into a smile. Only when he starts to feel a little lightheaded from the lack of oxygen does Wille pull back. He rests his forehead against Simon’s, sees how the man’s brown eyes have grown darker. 

“I love you,” he whispers into the space between them, his thumb smoothing back a curl that keeps dropping over Simon’s ear. 

“I love you too,” Simon responds, letting his hand rest against Wille’s chest. He gives Wille a gentle push. “You should probably start getting ready. Wouldn’t want you to be late for your own big coming out event.” His tone is teasing, but his eyes are warm and reassuring, making Wille feel like he can do this. That, as nervous as he is, he’d do it again and again when it means he gets to have this. 

*****

An hour later, after he’d sat on the edge of the bed watching as Simon tucked himself in for a couple more hours of sleep and kissed him a little longer than maybe necessary, Wille parks his car on his designated spot at the training centre. He squints against the bright sunlight when he gets out and starts walking towards the front door, taking in the other cars and making a mental list of who’s already there.

When he steps in through the doors, he’s greeted by a thudding of paws against the hardwood floor and an enthusiastic Golden Retriever running circles around his legs. Wille crouches down to pet the dog. 

“Hello there Victoria, hello,” he coos, leaning back a little when the dog tries to lick his face. “Of course you are here today too. I should have known.” Because he really should have. The atmosphere is always more relaxed when the manager brings the dog in, making it easier for everyone to enjoy the day and take in whatever is on the agenda.  

Rising up from where he’s crouched he brushes his hand against the animal’s yellow coat and starts to walk towards the conference room they’re gathering in today. “Come on Victoria, let’s go. Want to be my emotional support today, huh, what do you say girl?” he asks the dog and takes the way she jogs next to him as an affirmative answer.

Aitor gives him a nod when he walks into the conference room. Wille takes in the way the tables have been cleared away and the chairs set in a half circle, like they’d be in the dressing room. He sits in what would be his seat at the stadium too, feeling comforted when Victoria lays her head over his feet. 

Slowly the space starts to fill and as the clock strikes the hour, everyone is gathered in the room. Wille lets his gaze sweep around the room, watches as his teammates chat amongst themselves. Everyone seems to be in a good mood, the effortless win during the weekend clearly making them happy. They’re trailing just two points behind the leaders and he knows everyone thinks they can do it, Islington’s remaining matches should be easier than theirs.

“Okay, good morning everyone. Glad you could all make it and without anyone having to contribute to the late penalty fund,” Aitor says, his eyes pointedly flicking over to David and Jonathan at the latter part. “We’ll start the training later today, because Wille has something he wants to share with you.” 

Aitor looks right at him and Wille takes in a deep, but a little shaky breath. He can sense his teammates’ eyes trained on him and before he realises it, Victoria has sat up from the floor and laid her head on Wille’s knee. He lets his fingers tangle in the golden coat, scratching the dog behind her ear. He looks around the half-circle and nods when Christian gives him an encouraging smile. 

“So, I, umm, there’s going to be an article published tomorrow. One I’ve written myself. You know, one of those pieces about how I got into the game, about my family, all that stuff. But it’s, umm, about something else too. About who I am,” Wille feels his heart drumming in his chest, his pulse picking up speed as the words tumble out of his mouth. “We all want football, this club, to be about legacy, about passing on the traditions and values we say we cherish. But sometimes we need to stop to think about what all that is really like. When the traditions make us hurt, because we have to keep secrets, because we’re afraid. Because they don’t allow us to be who we truly are. I am tired of being afraid, lying, keeping secrets I no longer want to keep. In the article I am letting everyone know I’m in a relationship with another man. That I am one of the statistically many who have hidden because our sport hasn’t given someone like me the space to be. He deserves so much more than to be kept a secret. I don’t want to hide anymore, and I don’t care what the traditions or legacies of our sport claim.”  

Wille breathes in at the end of his monologue and when he focuses for a second, finds Christian still smiling at him from the other side of the half-circle. The room stays quiet when he breathes out, focusing on the weight of the dog’s head on his lap. He doesn’t lower his gaze but can’t make himself meet anyone’s eyes directly either. 

“So you’re… gay?” Daniel eventually asks, and it’s like the question breaks a spell, the room suddenly filling with low murmurs. 

“I— No, I…” Wille doesn’t know how to answer, because he’s not sure it’s the word he’d pick for himself. His palm against Victoria’s neck is starting to feel sweaty. 

“Or like, bi?” Lukas inquires, his eyes intently trained on Wille’s face, eyebrow lifted. 

“Does there have to be a word, some sort of label?” he asks, suddenly feeling overwhelmed because he’s never really thought about what word fits him the best. Simon’s never asked, never indicated Wille needs to put a specific label on himself and he’s been content to let things be like that. But now, apparently, everyone wants to know what to call him.

“No, there doesn’t need to be one,” Christian finally says, his sure voice cutting through the chatter in the room. “Wille doesn’t owe any one of us anything, he doesn’t need to call himself something just because it makes things easier for the rest of us.”

Wille nods gratefully, glad to have the captain on his corner. He sees a couple of his teammates watch him with guarded looks, like they don’t know how to react to anything he’s said. And then he hears the question he knew was going to come up sooner or later.

“Who is it? The guy you’re willing to jeopardise everything for,” Thomas asks, sounding like he’s trying to keep his voice neutral but failing a bit. 

Wille sighs. Simon and him had agreed they want to come out as a couple on their own terms, deciding themselves how much they want to share and when. “Someone well-known enough that it’s going to create headlines.” He ultimately settles for, knowing it’s not enough to satisfy anyone’s curiosity. 

“More than this will?” Daniel presses on, and Wille wants to snap, even though the man is right. The article is going to create waves and the news cycle will probably be repeating his words for days. Especially when he’ll decline any request to speak about it any further. It’s what he’s agreed upon with Silva and Jordan and how he wants to keep it, he’s never been keen on interviews that have nothing to do with his profession. 

“Yes, more than this will. You’ll find out his identity soon enough, but I just want to make it to the end of the season without having to answer questions about him every single weekend. It’s only seven more matches.” Wille knows he’s pleading with his teammates by now, but his chest still feels heavy and there is something constricting his throat. 

Aitor clears his throat and finally addresses the men sitting in front of him. “There’s going to be a lot of questions and speculation in the coming days. We’re going to stand by Wille, because what he’s doing is brave and should be celebrated,” someone scoffs and Aitor’s eyes grow darker in a way they all know is going to make him launch in a lecture. “Wille has our full support, and if any of you think you won’t accept that, you’ll meet me in my office later. Tomorrow is going to be a historical day and you all should be proud that it’ll be part of Islington’s legacy forever.”

A chorus of murmurs sounds in the room, most of the players seeming to agree with what the manager is saying. Wille observes the room, sees Christian take stock of their teammates and he suddenly knows who’ll be exchanging some words with the captain later. Wille isn’t sure he can take any sort of confrontation at the moment, feeling drained after the sleepless night and bracing for everyone’s reaction just now.

“Wille, go do some sprints on field one or something. Take Victoria with you. The rest of you, we’re staying here to talk,” Aitor says sternly, nodding his head towards the door as his eyes land on Wille. 

Wille starts to protest, knows he should be around for what’s about to go down, it’s about him after all. Christian repeats the manager’s nod and with some reluctance Wille stands up, feeling everyone’s eyes follow him as he exits the room. He strides to the dressing room, reassuring the whining dog he’ll be right back and gets changed into this training gear. 

Once he steps out onto the field he knows he doesn’t want to do sprints. Instead he hauls a bag of balls to the edge of the penalty box and lines the first one in for a kick. Wille knows he shouldn’t let Victoria on the field with him, but the dog’s settled into the little patch of shade on the corner so he allows her. He moves back for minimal speed and shoots the ball into the upper left corner of the goal. Fishing out another ball he repeats the motion, aiming for the right hand side. 

He doesn’t know how many times he’s kicked the balls into the net and retrieved them when he hears footsteps approach behind him. He shoots another ball into the back of the goal and startles when the next one rolls to his feet. Wille turns his head to find Henry standing next to him. They go on for a while, Wille taking his shots and Henry providing him with the balls. 

“So, Simon Eriksson, right,” Henry finally says and Wille misses, the shot going a good meter wide of the goal. He turns to look at Henry, panic starting to rise in his chest. Surely Aitor and Christian have kept their word and not revealed that bit of information to the others.

“How do you, did they—” Wille stammers, his hand flying to press down on his sternum. Henry shakes his head.

“No one’s said anything, though I assume you’ve told someone. We’ve known each other for how long now? Ten years or so? I know when you’re subtle and you haven’t been subtle at all when it comes to him if one knows what to look for,” Henry explains. Wille feels heat tint his cheeks and knows it’s more than just the sun. “Relax, I don’t think anyone else knows. Or if they do, they’re not going to say anything. Not after the talking-to Aitor gave us.” He winces a bit and Wille wants to ask, but Henry just laughs and gives another shake of his head. 

Wille looks at the other man for a moment before nodding his head. “Yeah, Simon.” He confirms, a soft smile splitting his face. “You can’t say anything to anyone.”

Henry laughs again. “My god, you’re so gone for him. You should see yourself.” Wille tries to hide his face but Henry throws an arm around his shoulder. “My lips are sealed. I’m happy for you man, you deserve it. You’re going to make a lot of people jealous once the cat’s out of the bag.” 

And oh, that’s something Wille hadn’t thought of at all. That people would be jealous of him. Rationally he knows that a good portion of the world’s population would be ready to do drastic things for Simon, at least in their imagination, and brushes the thought aside before it becomes too much to think about. 

Henry pulls him closer and starts to walk them back towards the building. “Come on, we’ve got a team to beat on Saturday. Aitor’s got a whole folder full of clips to go through and I need lunch before I can sit through that.” 

Wille whistles to get the dog to come with them and follows Henry back inside, feeling grateful that his friend seems to take things in stride and not treat him any differently. Maybe the rest of the team will do too, once the dust has settled and they’ve had time to process everything. It’s all Wille hopes for right now. 

*****

Wille turns his phone on silent and sets it down on the table. He’s published the post he’d spent hours drafting with Silva, the link to the article accompanying the text. He inhales deeply and stretches out on the couch, letting his eyes slip closed, thinking about the words he’d spent weeks putting together. Now out for everyone to read.

You Don’t Know Me Yet

by WILHELM ANDERSSON

Everyone thinks they know us. Me and my family. The Anderssons. What we are, what we were. But in reality, very few do. So let me tell you about my family. 

There was never any doubt of what we’d do during the weekend in my family. We’d always, without a fail, sit in front of the television and watch football. Not just any football, but the English league, my mum’s team, my parents’ team. It was something sacred, religion-like in our household. For 90 minutes we’d sit in our living room in Stockholm and let a team of 11 men determine the mood for the rest of the week. If they won, my brother and I could sigh a breath of relief. If they drew, we knew there’d be a lot of grumbling. If they lost, well. Then we’d spend some long hours on the pitch with our parents on the sidelines, telling us how we’re going to be better than those 11 men, how we’re going to make it. How we’re going to make sure that one day, our parents could sit in front of the television and know they’d have a good week ahead of them because the team had won. It was the future they had decided for us, for Erik and I. That’s a lot of pressure to put on two kids.

I don’t know if it was some act of childish rebellion, or if he genuinely did not like the team my parents supported - still support, to this day - but one day Erik announced he’ll become an Islington player. That the team in London is who he’s going to support. Islington were a fantastic team back then, but they weren’t the team our family stood behind. I was maybe five years old then. I don’t properly remember how my parents reacted, but I know for a year there was never an Islington match on in our house, unless my parents’ team was playing against them. And there was always a football match on the TV in our house.

I admired Erik’s bravery, to pick a different team and to stick to his decision. And because I wanted to be like him, because I thought whatever he did was right and that he was perfect, I decided to support Islington too. I remember how our parents reacted to that and it wasn’t pretty. But Erik stuck to his decision, and so did I. 

I think the first time my parents were ever happy with his decision was when he signed for Islington. Because it was at least the right league, and a proper top-flight team too, even if it wasn’t the one further up north, with more titles and silverware. Erik had worked hard, held his head up high, made good decisions and was finally where he wanted to be. 

Hold your head up high. It’s always been like a family motto. We’d hear the song every weekend, we all knew every single word by heart. It’s what my parents believe in and what our family lived by. Whatever happens, whatever comes your way, you hold your head up and keep going. You walk on, you just keep walking on and eventually you’ll make it. 

If you’ve spent as much time in football as I have - or even if you haven’t, but you’ve heard the song - you know the next line of the song too. With hope in your heart. I think the hope my parents held in their heart was that Erik would change his mind. And when he did, I would too. When that didn’t happen, I think the hope in their heart died and was replaced by something else. Want. Because in our family we didn’t really hope for things. We wanted them, and we worked extremely hard to get them, to make them happen. 

I honestly don’t know how other kids got into football, how they learned, how they trained. With my parents it was very clear cut. We’d go on the pitch and we’d work. Not play, not score some fun goals, not goof around with the ball. No. We worked, with discipline like professional adults. I knew more about pass accuracy, about how to compensate for my weaker foot with my stronger, about creating goal scoring opportunities than I did about Sweden’s history, maths or biology before the age of 10. 

Not to say my parents didn’t think school was important. It was, but it served to mould us into the perfect footballers we were to become. We’d spend the days at school learning English, to make sure we spoke perfectly when we’d one day be professionals here and then we’d spend the evenings on the pitch, improving our skills, our shooting power. It’s almost a miracle both of us somehow made it, with the amount of time we spent training, with the way we exhausted our bodies.

Erik held that hope in his heart though. He hoped I’d make it too, that one day I’d be playing alongside him at Islington. It’s the last thing he told me before he got on the plane to London for the last time. Sweden had won the match against Germany and he was ecstatic, had loved playing the match, and hoped that feeling would carry him to score a similar goal at the match the following weekend, finally getting to play against the team my parents had supported for as long as either of us could remember.

You all know what happened next. There was never a similar goal, there was never the match he’d looked forward to so much. Or I guess there was, but I don’t remember it. I don’t remember any of the matches from that season apart from the last two or three. I know I sat through all of them whenever I didn’t have my own match to play during the weekends, which I often did. But my parents and I, we sat in our living room and watched their team play. It was like we’d travelled back in time to when Erik first said he was going to become an Islington player, because we, as a family, didn’t watch a single one of Islington’s matches for the rest of the season - or the next. Not even the away one against my parents’ team. I think it’s the only time my parents haven’t watched their team play. I watched them alone, late at night, foolishly thinking I’d wake up from a nightmare to see my brother walk on the pitch and score a few goals. 

For the longest time I thought hope died with Erik. I lost my brother, the one person who always stood up for me, looked out for me. The one person who somehow, even when he was a kid himself, understood that I needed to just play, shoot the ball against the garage door and into the goal at the field behind our house. 

Because when he was gone, so was hope. Hope that there’d be days when I’d have it easier, because Erik was doing worse and my parents would focus on him and let me give just 95% in training instead of the usual 100%. Hope that because he’d made it to England, to the team we loved, it wouldn’t matter as much if I didn’t. Or if I took longer to get there. If I wasn’t sure if it even was what I wanted anymore. 

My parents, my mother, because she’s always been the stricter one, the more focused one, the one who calls the shots, focused all their energy on me. On making sure that I’d follow in Erik’s footsteps and make the family proud. That I’d be the shining star we both were supposed to be. And that’s a lot of pressure to put on a teenager who’s just lost his brother, his best friend, the most important person in his life. 

There were times when I thought I couldn’t make it. Actually, there were times when I knew I couldn’t make it. When my anxiety would be so bad I couldn’t even make it out of bed, or if I did, I couldn’t see the ball I was supposed to pass. Times when walking on the pitch felt like I was trying to climb Mount Everest. When I’d throw up when I had to put on the national team jersey because I feared I could never live up to the expectations or when I’d nearly pass out because everyone wanted me to be like Erik, wanted me to be Erik. There were times when all I did was pray it had been me in that car instead of him, because I knew he’d be able to deal with it all better even if I was gone. 

By the time I turned twenty the weight of everyone’s, not just my mum and dad’s, expectations had become so much I was ready to quit football. I very nearly did. I think I only continued playing because it’s the only thing I knew how to do, and despite everything that I’d been through, I was good at it. 

I’m happy I continued, because despite everything, I love football. It’s given me so much. It’s given me experiences I couldn’t get anywhere else. It’s given me emotions bigger than words can describe. It’s given me people I’m happy to call friends and who feel like a sort of family. It’s taken me to some amazing places with those people. We’ve lived through things no one else has, things no one else would ever understand. The lows and the highs. 

It’s taken so much from me too. In a way I think football has taken my family from me. My parents will never see eye to eye with me when it comes to football, not fully. And it has taken my brother. It’s easy to wonder what life would be like if he hadn’t lost control of that car on his way to training. I still do it, over a decade later. However, the most important thing football has taken away from me is a part of myself.

Because football has always been my life, I’ve never been able to fully be who I am, or who I think I am, know I am outside of it. And all hope of being able to do that died the same day Erik did. It sounds harsh, but it’s the truth. I don’t blame him, I could never do that. I like to think he’d have been there for me, outside the pitch, like he was when we were kids. Been my biggest and loudest supporter.

This season hasn’t been an easy one. I haven’t played to my full potential, and I can’t even blame injuries for it all. Anxiety, no matter how well I’ve learnt to deal with it over the years, has been a constant presence in my life this season. But, for the first time in years, I feel like I am finally walking with hope in my heart again. Because there’s someone who has made me hope, has let me hope. It hasn’t been easy, far from it, and I can only blame myself for that. I didn’t make it easy and I almost fucked it all up and lost the best thing that’s happened to me, the best person in my life. All because I couldn’t be, wouldn’t allow myself to be who I am. All because of football, the way it is, because I was too scared by what others would think.

Hell, I did fuck it up. Badly. I did lose him for a while. Those were some of the worst weeks of my life. 

Yes. Him. 

Writing that one word is the scariest thing I’ve done in my life. 

At the same time, it’s the best thing I’ve ever done in my life. Because it finally allows me to be who I am. To drop the pretence and stop hiding. To love who I want. And oh, do I want to love him. With all my heart, out in the open, proudly. Because he deserves it. Miraculously enough, he wants to love me too and nothing in this world has ever made me feel happier, more blessed. Not any of the trophies I’ve won. Not even signing for Islington. I’m sorry Royals fans, but I’m sure if you too have been fortunate enough to find the love of your life, you understand. 

I know it won’t be easy going on from here. I know there are people who will hate me, just because of who I love. I know there are people who’ll stop coming to the matches, who’ll stop supporting Islington, who’ll probably send me death threats and abuse online. Who think it’s my fault if we don’t win the title this season. (Maybe it is my fault, because like I said, I haven’t played like I know I can.)

I am not going to stop loving him because of those people. 

And Royals fans, I hope you don’t stop loving me. You can, if you want to, I can’t stop you. However, I know you. I know our community. I’ve seen how passionate you are, how deeply you care. I know it’s selfish to ask, but I hope you can care for me the same way you care for your fellow fans, for the community in our part of town, for everything we’ve built together over the years. How you care for this club so many of us are fortunate to call family and home.

A player I admire, one of the legends, once said: When you start supporting a football club, you don’t support it because of the trophies, or a player, or history; you support it because you found yourself somewhere there - found a place where you belong.

I know with this article I’m making history. I never really wanted to, but someone has to be the one to take the first step, to be the first one to do it. I am going to be proud to be that person. And I want you to know that I’m finally able to do it not just because I know he’ll be by my side, walking through the storms and making sure I’m not alone, but because I found myself here. 

In London. At Islington. With you. You gave me a place where I belong, where I want to belong for many years to come. 

When Erik chose to support Islington, maybe out of spite, maybe because he found himself somewhere in the club, he gave us both a place where we belong, as ourselves, as the two kids from Stockholm who grew up with football and pressure and expectations like very few kids do. 

I am forever thankful for him for giving us home. Here, with you. I want to make him proud of that, of me, every day for the rest of my life, even if he isn’t here to see it. If I’ll manage to give you, Royals fans, even a fraction of that hope, whatever it means to you, my brother gave me, it’s going to make me very happy.

Islington Forever.

Yours, Wille

“...sleeping. I’m going to let him, he’s probably exhausted even though he’s been trying to pretend otherwise.”

Wille thinks he must have fallen asleep for a moment when he’s pulled back to the present moment by Simon’s voice, barely above a whisper. He’s wrapped in the blue blanket that is usually thrown over the back of the couch and he doesn’t remember pulling it down himself.

“Yeah, I’m so proud of him. It’s fucking monumental.” A beat of silence before Simon continues. “Sara, how many times have I told you this? He did it for his own sake, not for me. I would have never asked him to do it.”

Wille blinks his eyes open, slowly realising Simon must be talking on the phone. He pulls his arm from under the blanket and takes a look at his watch. Has he really slept for almost four hours?

“I know you think I shouldn’t have given him another chance but look at us now. I’ve never been happier in my life.” A pause. ”I can’t wait for you to meet him, to get to know him.” Simon’s voice drifts in from the kitchen area, punctuated by an exasperated giggle. “Sara, please. It’s too early for that. I don’t think we’re quite there yet no matter how much I love him. Yeah, he’s the one. But we’ve got the rest of our lives, we don’t need to hurry.”

Wille doesn’t know what Simon’s sister says on the other end, but smiles as he hears Simon laugh, clearly forgetting for a second to keep his voice down. “Fine, yes. When the day comes. I promise. It’s not something we’ve even talked about yet. I don’t know if he’d even want to—” 

Wille slowly sits up on the couch, starting to feel bad for eavesdropping on Simon’s conversation with his sister. It’s at that same moment that Simon turns around and spots Wille. 

“Oh, he’s awake.” He says on the phone, listening intently for a while. “Yeah, I’ll see you on Saturday. Is mama still coming up for dinner as well? Great. I love you too, see you soon.” Simon hangs up the call and walks to the living room, perching to sit next to Wille. 

“Did you sleep well?” he asks, his hand moving to stroke Wille’s ankle. It makes Wille sigh, Simon adding just the right amount of pressure to relieve the twinge he still sometimes feels in the joints after not moving for hours. 

“Yeah. I did,” Wille answers and is startled to realise it’s been weeks since he’s felt so rested after waking up. His eyes flick to his phone still resting on the table, the screen lighting up, the word ‘Mamma’ flashing on it.

“It’s been going off non-stop for the past three and a half hours,” Simon tells him. Wille swallows past a lump that’s started to form in his throat. He doesn’t want to know how many missed calls he has from his parents, from their staff, how many messages have come in while he was asleep. At the same time he wants to know, wants to ask, but feels too anxious to figure out what he wants to ask first.

“How’s…” is all he manages to say. 

“From what I’ve seen, the response has been overwhelmingly positive. Pretty much every news outlet is quoting the article. People are saying you’re brave, that you’re the kind of role model they want their kids to look up to. Your club’s statement is pretty wonderful,” Simon answers, his voice gentle. But Wille can hear the edge there’s too. 

“But?” he presses, looking at Simon, trying to search for the answer in his eyes. 

“No buts,” Simon is quick to say. A little too quick for Wille to believe him. 

“There’s negative comments too. I know there are. What do they say?” Wille asks, even if he’s not entirely sure he wants to know. It’s not strictly against the deal he made with Silva. Simon shakes his head, trailing his hand along Wille’s calf.

“You don’t need to know them. They don’t matter,” he replies.

“Let me guess. ‘Bringing political agendas to football, it’s against the nature, I won’t be a fan anymore, there’s nothing to celebrate about this, you’re disgusting’,” Wille says with a strangled voice. He’s heard it all before, but he’s always tried to pretend it’s not directed at him. But this time it is. 

Simon shakes his head again, his eyes shining a little. “They don’t matter.” He repeats, firmer this time. “The only thing that matters is that you did what you felt you needed to do.”

Simon’s words finally make it sink in. He’s done it. He’s come out to the whole world. That it’s all real now. “I did it,” Wille laughs out, suddenly feeling giddy. 

“You did it,” Simon confirms, a grin spreading on his face. He leans forward to capture Wille’s lips, the kiss gentle and sweet. Wille lets his tongue run along Simon’s lip before licking into his mouth, wanting more. 

“Simon…” he all but whines when Simon pulls away. The other man chuckles, getting up from the couch and offering Wille his hand. 

“Come on,” Simon beckons him and Wille takes his hand, letting himself be pulled up. He nearly stumbles over his feet when Simon starts to walk and tugs his hand.

“What are you—” Wille starts to ask, but Simon cuts him off.

“We’re celebrating,” he simply states as he leads them towards the bedroom and oh. Okay. Wille can get on board with that. 

Once they tumble across the threshold to the room, Wille wastes no time in getting his hands on Simon. He lets go of his hand and wraps his arms around the other man’s waist, smirking when he comes easily as Wille pulls him closer. Simon loops his arms around Wille’s neck and brings their bodies together, making sure not to leave an inch of space between them. Wille dips his head down to find Simon’s lips again, the kiss a lot more heated this time. 

Simon sways them sideways a little, as if they were dancing, as he walks them to the foot of the bed, his hands tugging at the silky strands at the nape of Wille’s neck. Wille feels the backs of his knees hit the edge and Simon untangles his hands long enough to push Wille on the bed. 

Wille crawls up on the bed, letting his head rest on the pillows and watches in confusion when Simon doesn’t follow him, instead remaining standing where they’d stopped. He cocks an eyebrow and a sly smirk spreads on Simon’s face as his eyes rake over Wille’s body. He knows his erection is already evident against the light fabric of his sweatpants and he can’t help but grin too when Simon’s eyes stop at the bulge for a second.

“What are you—” Wille begins to ask again, but Simon shakes his head, bringing his hand to rest on Wille’s ankle. 

“I am going to make you feel good,” Simon simply answers and finally gets on the bed, his knees coming to bracket Wille’s hips. He leans down and plants a tender kiss on Wille’s forehead, right by his hairline. Then another on the scar on his cheekbone, followed by a kiss on his jaw right below his ear, then a little nip of his earlobe. Simon’s mouth trails a path along his jaw, up to the other side. His breath is ghosting warm over Wille’s skin when he whispers into his ear. “I am going to make you feel so good, better than ever before.”

The words make Wille’s breath hitch, a promise of what’s to come making his cock twitch and he bucks his hips up, wanting to feel Simon. Simon, infuriatingly, lifts himself up at the motion. “Patience.” He murmurs against Wille’s neck, his mouth moving lower at a pace that simultaneously feels heavenly and like sweet torture. 

Simon’s hands tug at the hem of Wille’s shirt and he lifts his upper body to allow Simon to pull off the piece of clothing. As soon as Wille’s torso is naked, Simon pushes him back against the mattress, latching his mouth to the juncture where his shoulder meets his neck. Wille tangles his fingers into Simon’s curls, desperately needing to hold on to something. 

Slowly Simon moves his lips lower, sucking at Wille’s collarbone and licking over the tiny mark that appears when his teeth meet the skin. “Okay?” he asks, his voice sounding hoarse and Wille meets his eyes, drowning in the deep brown shining with desire. Wille nods, more than okay with anything Simon is doing to him. The other man drops his mouth back to Wille’s chest, his hands stroking along his sides. When Simon’s lips reach the spot over Wille’s heart he stops for a blink of an eye, as if thinking of something. Then he lets his teeth graze the skin, applying enough pressure to suck a small mark into the smooth skin. When he deems his work done, Simon lifts his head just enough to lock his eyes with Wille’s. “My love. Mine.” Simon says and the words send shivers down Wille’s spine, igniting sparks all over his body, causing a sensory overload Wille didn’t expect. He throws his head back, his grip in Simon’s hair tightening just a smidgeon. 

“Yours,” he breathes out. His heart, his body, his soul, his everything. It’s all Simon’s. 

Simon smiles against the skin of his chest before his lips continue their journey. His tongue comes to flick over Wille’s nipple. “ Fuck , Simon. Please .” He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, just knows he wants more. More Simon. 

The other man takes his time, as if trying to make sure he manages to kiss every single inch of Wille’s torso, every mole and scar littering his upper body. Wille hears his own breath turn more and more laboured, quiet moans and whines escaping from his lips the closer to his navel Simon makes his way. 

“Simon, please ,” he’s begging now, his cock straining against the material of his boxers, craving friction, wanting to be touched. 

“Patience,” Simon repeats, his breath hot against the skin right above the waistband of his sweats. Simon’s hands come up his sides, his fingers dancing across his ribs before he drags them down to Wille’s hips, the touch so featherlight for a second Wille thinks he imagines it. 

When Simon hooks his fingers to the waistband of Wille’s sweatpants he lifts his hips, giving the other man space to pull them down. But instead of returning to his previous position like Wille had expected once the pants fall to the floor, Simon sits back on his haunches and lifts Wille’s leg up. He kisses the top of his foot, seeming to take extra care to kiss his ankle, the bone and the tendon, smiling against the line his sock has pressed into the skin. 

Wille whines as Simon’s lips map his leg, groaning when his mouth comes into contact with the tender skin of the inside of his thigh. Simon lets go of his leg, propping it up on the bed so he can hold on to Wille’s knee while he moves down and presses kiss after kiss to the white flesh, tortuously slowly inching closer to where Wille wants his mouth. When Simon’s nose nudges the leg of Wille’s boxers Wille keens, his hands fisting into the sheet under him. 

“Okay?” Simon asks, the question barely more than an exhale against his skin. But Wille can feel his gaze, somehow knows Simon is looking at him even if his own eyes have been screwed shut. Wille breathes out shakily and opens his eyes.

“Yes. So okay,” Wille answers, Simon’s dark eyes trained on him and a hungry look appearing on his face. Wille wills himself to keep his eyes open, to watch as Simon sucks on his thigh, hard enough to leave a bruise. Wille whines, the sensation nearly overwhelming. He lets go of the sheet and palms his cock through his boxers, unable to hold back any longer. 

Simon’s hand is on his immediately, pulling it away. “Simon, please, I need to. Please. Please ,” Wille begs, his voice gruff, coloured with want. 

“Soon,” Simon says, lifting up from where he’d been resting his cheek against Wille’s thigh, like he was taking a break from trying to commit every part of Wille’s body into memory. 

Wille whines again, the sound more high pitched this time. It makes Simon laugh, the sound dripping with honey and adoration and love. Eventually Simon takes mercy on him and pulls down Wille’s boxers, making them join the rest of his clothes on the floor. Wille shivers and moans when the slightly cooler air of the room hits his cock. Simon swats his hand away when he tries to give his cock a tug, to get some relief. 

“Nuh-uh, I’m doing that,” he hums, his hands planted on Wille’s thighs. His thumb grazes the mark he’d left there and Wille thinks he might die if Simon doesn’t touch his cock soon. Simon is still kneeling between Wille’s legs and Wille lets his hand cup around his ass. Simon presses against the touch, but shakes his head a little when their gazes meet. “Not today. I’m sorry.” He sounds apologetic when he says it. 

“Don’t be, it’s okay,” Wille says quietly, hoping the look on his face confirms his words. He doesn’t want to hurt Simon and they did take their time making love yesterday, so he isn’t surprised that Simon is feeling sore. “But you are still wearing too many clothes.” Wille says, his fingers coming to tug at the waistband of Simon’s pants. 

Simon smirks and scoots down from the bed, making quick work of undressing himself while his eyes never leave Wille. Wille looks as more and more of Simon’s skin is revealed, itching to touch the bronze planes of his body. As soon as Simon is naked, he crawls back between Wille’s legs. His hands find their places on Wille’s thighs again and he noses the hair above his cock. 

Wille moans, low and guttural. “Simon, please,” he pleads, again. 

Simon presses a chaste kiss at the base of his cock, then to his balls and finally, finally, wraps his lips around the head of Wille’s cock. Simon lets go of Wille’s leg to find his hand and brings it to the back of his head, knowing how much Wille likes to card his fingers through his curls when they’re like this.  

Wille lets his head fall against the pillows, letting his body respond to the way Simon takes him in deeper. Lets himself relish in the sensation that spreads through him, alighting all his synapses when Simon pulls off to lick the underside of his cock, to swirl his tongue around the head. A loud gasp leaves Wille’s mouth when Simon lowers his to lick a stripe over his balls and plant a kiss on his perineum. “Fuuuuck, yes , yes,” he babbles, the feeling coursing through his body pushing him closer to the edge.

Simon takes him in his mouth again, wrapping his cock in the wet heat and sucking. Wille is sure Simon is using every trick he knows, his hand wrapping at the base to cover what his mouth cannot. “Oh god Simon, yes, fuck, yes, like that,” Wille utters, his words barely making any sense when Simon bobs his head up and down. 

Wille opens his eyes and nearly chokes when he finds Simon looking at him, his gaze unwavering, fixed on Wille as his mouth and hand keep working him closer and closer to the edge. Simon licks a long stripe along the side of his cock, his chin glistening with spit. It makes Wille bite his lip, to muffle the loud moan he lets out at the sight.

Simon stops, his hand gripping Wille’s thigh a bit harder. “Let me hear you,” he then says, his voice rough in a way Wille’s never heard before. Wille releases his lip and pants when Simon glides his lips over the head of his cock. 

”You’re unreal,” he manages to say as Simon smiles and licks his lips. His mouth envelops Wille’s cock again and Wille has to fight not to buck up. His eyes are screwed shut tight but he’s vaguely aware of Simon’s hand leaving its place on his thigh and reaching for something. When he hears the familiar sound of a cap opening, he realises Simon has grabbed the lube from the bedside table. 

Simon’s other hand comes to grip Wille’s hip and when a slick finger brushes over his hole, he understands why. The sensation sends a jolt of pleasure through his entire body and for a moment he tenses, so close to his peak. 

“Okay?” Simon sounds wrecked and Wille’s mind has gone hazy, screaming in ecstasy with Simon’s every touch. But right now Simon isn’t touching him, apart from the hand still pinning him down by his hip. Wille whines, needing more and tries to grind down to meet Simon’s fingers, to thrust up to get his mouth back on him. “Wille, are you okay with this?” Simon’s voice pierces his consciousness and some part of his brain tells him he needs to answer the other man, that they’re toeing a line here, that this is something they’ve only talked about before. 

“Yes,” he manages to choke out. “Yes, please. Fuck, Simon, please.” Wille knows he’s begging, but he’s so close and he needs to feel Simon again. 

“Okay,” Simon says and drops his lips back to cover the head of Wille’s cock. His finger brushes against his hole again and Wille thinks that if this is how he dies, he’s going to die a happy man.

Simon takes him in slowly, letting the wet heat of his mouth envelop Wille almost fully. His finger massages the ring of muscle and the still slightly cool lube makes Wille shiver. He can feel his climax building, all thoughts leaving his mind and he only barely manages to find his voice to warn Simon. “Simon, I’m so close, I’m gonna—”

Simon lifts his hand from his hip to untangle Wille’s hand from his hair, intertwining their fingers and bringing their joint hands to rest above Wille’s heart, above the mark he’s sucked there earlier. Then Simon adds just a tiny bit of pressure when his finger brushes over Wille’s hole and he sucks, hollowing his cheeks and doing the little trick with his tongue that always drives Wille crazy. It’s what tips him over, sends the waves of pleasure crashing over him and makes his mind fill with pure bliss. 

Wille feels Simon swallow around him, their ragged breathing filling the room. He doesn’t know for how long he blacked out but when he finally starts to come to and peels his eyes open, Simon is looking at him, the same way he’s had his eyes fixed on Wille all night. Slowly he gives Wille’s cock one last suck, dragging his tongue along when he pulls away. He lets their hands rest on Wille’s chest, pressing Wille’s palm against his wildly beating heart. Wille swallows, panting heavily at the sight in front of him. Simon’s hair is tousled, his chin covered in saliva, lips redder than Wille’s ever seen. Debauched, Wille thinks, the word suddenly popping to his mind. 

Simon clears his throat, his voice raspy when he speaks. “God, you’re so beautiful.” He says and untangles their hands to bring his clean hand to brush away the hair that’s sticking to Wille’s sweaty forehead. He pushes up to catch Wille’s lips in a hot open-mouthed kiss, and Wille moans, licking into Simon’s mouth to taste himself. Then Simon pulls away and moves up to straddle one of Wille’s thighs when he reaches over to the bedside table again, on his side of the bed now, to grab a glass of water. He motions Wille to lift his head and it’s about all Wille can do, his limbs feeling like jelly, like Simon’s rendered him boneless. Simon lifts the glass to his lips and Wille drinks, some of the water spilling to his chin. 

Simon smiles when Wille’s done and raises the glass to his own lips, gulping down the rest of the water before setting the glass back on the table and brushing his mouth with the back of his hand. He flexes his jaw, sighing a little. Wille lets his eyes roam over Simon’s body, taking in the way he’s perched on his thigh, cock hard and leaking. Wille blindly searches for the lube, not wanting to look away from Simon for a second. When he finds it, he pours some on his hand, his fingers shaking a little with the aftermath of his orgasm. He’s still reeling, not quite back to his senses but he knows he wants to get Simon off. 

He warms the lube between his fingers before wrapping his hand over Simon’s cock, the other man throwing his head back. He gently strokes up and down a few times, revelling in the noises Simon’s making, the way he’s grinding against his thigh ever so slightly. 

Wille flicks his thumbs over the head of Simon’s cock and marvels as Simon arches his back, thrusting into Wille’s grip. Wille grabs Simon’s hip, wanting to make sure he doesn’t fall over. He startles a little when Simon’s hand covers his, making their hands move faster. Simon moans lowly, his panting breath matching Wille’s from before. Wille lets Simon set the pace, sensing the other man is close to his peak. “Yes, yes, Wille, fuck, yes, god,” he babbles, grinding down a little as he makes their hands pick up even more speed. 

With one more loud broken moan Simon comes, Wille’s name spilling from his lips over and over again as he paints their hands and his own stomach with his seed. Simon’s fingers lose their grip when his head falls back, his mouth hanging open as he gasps. Wille lets his other hand come to rest on the small of Simon’s back to hold him up as he pumps Simon through his climax. It’s the most beautiful thing Wille’s seen in his life and he thinks he’d gladly spend the rest of his life like this, watching Simon ride through his orgasm. 

Slowly Simon starts to come down from his high and slump against Wille’s hand. Wille glides his hand upward to Simon’s waist, guiding the man down to rest against his chest. He doesn’t care about the mess between their bodies, just wants to feel Simon as close as possible. Simon shifts down a little, stretching his legs to be more comfortable and Wille moves his hand to the space between Simon’s shoulder blades. 

For a long while they just lie there embracing one another, Simon’s hand finding its place over Wille’s heart, their breaths slowly returning to a natural rhythm. Simon is warm and pleasantly heavy against him and Wille thinks there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. 

“That was…” Wille starts, trying to find the right word for what he’s feeling, what Simon made him feel. He thinks everything doesn’t quite encompass it all. 

“Intense,” Simon whispers, eyes closed, his voice still husky.

“Mind-blowing,” Wille settles for, because that’s exactly what it was. Something he’s never experienced. Definitely intense too, which makes him just a little worried. “Are you okay?” He asks Simon, hoping his hand on the man’s back feels soothing more than anything else.

“Yeah. So amazing. You sounded and looked beautiful,” Simon replies with a small kiss pressed on top of Wille’s collarbone. 

Wille’s brain still feels too hazy to come up with a response, so he just pulls Simon even closer to himself. 

“Thank you,” he says after a while, his voice quiet and gentle and Simon hums against his skin before replying.

“What for?” he asks, rubbing his cheek into Wille’s shoulder.

“For giving me a second chance,” Wille answers, his hand petting the sweaty curls at the nape of Simon’s neck. “I, uhh, overheard when you were talking to your sister,” he offers as explanation. 

“Oh,” Simon breathes the word against his neck and it makes Wille shiver. He feels the sheet sticking to his sweaty back and wants to cover them, but he also doesn’t move. So he doesn’t, just brings his other hand to brush patterns into the skin of Simon’s waist. 

“You were worth it. You are worth it,” Simon says after a beat of silence.

“I hope so. I try to be,” Wille responds and Simon hums again. Wille can feel his smile pressed into his skin.

Simon squirms a little, shifting so he sees Wille’s face. Wille turns his head so their gazes meet. “Can I ask you something?” Simon inquires and Wille gives him a small nod. “How much, uhh, how much have you talked about your mental health? Publicly, I mean. Because the things you wrote about…”

“I haven’t really,” Wille answers. He knows it was another risk he took, admitting everything he’s struggled with. Being more vulnerable than he’s ever been, giving the haters even more ammo. “But I… I decided to be open. That if I told people it’s something I’ve been living with, mostly learned to cope with… Maybe it could help someone. Help them see it’s okay and that you can still make it.” He knows Simon won’t judge him, but he still feels like he’s exposed and raw, like it’s something that will make people see him differently. 

“It will. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re so brave, I’m so proud of you,” Simon tells him. His thumb brushes over Wille’s cheekbone and only then does Wille realise a tear has rolled down his cheek. “How about the other thing? When you said you’d hoped… that you’d hoped you’d be gone instead of your brother?” Simon’s voice quivers just a bit and it breaks something in Wille’s heart. 

“I was sixteen and so alone and broken and… lost, I guess. I never did anything. I’d never do anything,” he rushes to assure Simon. He wants to make sure the other man believes him. “My coach at the time made me go see someone, talk to a counsellor. And it helped, eventually. I owe him a lot. To both of them. They even made me get meds to help me deal with… everything.” 

“Do you still take them?” Simon asks, his eyes so full of compassion and vulnerability.

Wille shakes his head. “No. I stopped pretty soon, they were making me feel like… shit. I hated them, hated how numb everything was.”

“Will you promise to tell me if you ever feel like… like you need to talk to someone, a professional?” Simon isn’t exactly pleading, but Wille can tell this is important to him.

“It’s quite literally written on my contract. I have to,” Wille tells him. No need to mention the fact that he spent weeks last year ignoring that exact clause in his contract, that he only spoke after the manager forced him to.

“But you won’t be playing forever. Please, promise me,” Simon insists and Wille knows he’d do anything Simon asked him to.

“I promise,” Wille says, trailing his fingers over Simon’s face to smoothe away the worry that’s making him frown. “You promise me too.”

“I promise,” Simon responds without a pause. He leans in closer to kiss Wille and Wille feels himself melting into it, into the gentleness and reassurance he feels. “I love you.” Simon says when he pulls away and shifts to prop himself up on his elbow, resting his head against his palm.

“I love you too,” Wille replies. He finds himself a little surprised at how easy it is to talk to Simon about his past, about what he’s struggled with. How easy it is to swear he never wants to make Simon worry. 

“Sorry, I kind of killed the mood,” Simon groans, dropping his head to bury his face into the sheets and it makes Wille laugh. 

“You didn’t. I’m still feeling pretty blissed out and that’s what matters, right,” he says, feeling a little silly saying the words. His stomach growls and it makes him laugh again. “Though I guess I could eat something.”

“Yeah, me too. Something from that Vietnamese place?” Simon suggests. Wille nods, already reaching for his phone when he remembers it’s in the living room, full of messages and calls he wants to keep ignoring for a while longer so he can bask in the euphoric feeling he currently has. 

“You order,” he says to Simon, turning to embrace the man once again. 

“The usual?” Simon asks. Wille nods against his neck, leaving a trail of kisses down it and enjoying the way Simon’s breathing quickens. “We should probably shower first. I’m all sticky.” Simon tells him, half-heartedly pushing him away. The way he tilts his head back to reveal more of his neck undermines his other actions. 

“Mhmm, in a minute,” Wille murmurs against his sensitive skin, noting the small gasps leaving Simon’s lips. 

“Wille,” Simon whines. Leaving one more kiss to where his neck meets his shoulder Wille pulls away and waits for Simon to move. Slowly Simon lifts himself up and extends his hand for Wille to take. Together they stumble into the ensuite to wash away the mess they’ve made, giggling into each other’s mouths as their hands roam over arms and stomachs and chests, gentle fingers massaging shampoo into hair and wrapping fluffy towels around one another. 

The dinner arrives an hour and a half later.

*****

Wille sighs as he hands over his phone. It’s something the team has agreed upon before big matches, that everyone stays off their devices for the hours leading up to the kick off. He’d managed to send a quick ‘good morning, thank you, love you’ in response to Simon’s ‘good morning, good luck for today, love you’ before the knock on his door came. At least it gives him an excuse to ignore the increasingly frustrated messages from Jordan, telling Wille to please reply to his mother because she won’t stop calling him in an attempt to get to her son. Wille had told him he’d call her eventually, soon, not willing to commit to more than a vague timeframe. 

Wille’s ignored almost all messages that have come in the last few days. He’s sent a short message to Felice and checked what Silva had compiled for him to read. All the other messages and unanswered calls he’s left to be, not sure if he’ll ever check them. He hasn’t seen more than a few words of what his mother had messaged but those few words were enough for him to get the gist of what she was thinking. 

Instead he’d spent the previous night watching Simon’s interview after he’d retreated to his hotel room. Had watched the other man talk about his new single, his upcoming EP, explaining that there was still an album in the making but that the EP felt more like what he wanted to share right now. The interviewer had asked about the mood of the songs and Simon had just smiled, acted coy but Wille could see the smirk underneath when he’d said he’s been enjoying working and spending time in London. 

The team piles into the bus and they spend the short ride to the stadium in near silence. Everyone seems extra focused, knowing this is the biggest match they’re having this spring. They might be playing some big teams in the upcoming weeks, but every single one of them knows that this is the game they absolutely must win. That if they want to keep the title race alive, keep their dignity, they must finish today as winners. 

As they sit down in the dressing room, pulling on their match jerseys and adjusting their boots, the manager sets his usual whiteboard aside. “Alright guys, this is it. You know how much the next ninety minutes matter.” Aitor says, his gaze sweeping around the room, looking at his players. 

“I don’t need to tell you what to do. You are going to go out there and win. You are going to go out there and imagine every single one of our supporters is that girl - or guy,” the manager says, glancing at Wille, “you want to go home with today. You are going to convince them they are going to want to go home with you and never with anyone else.”

Wille bites his lip to keep himself from chuckling. They’re all familiar with the manager’s pep talks and analogies, but this one might be the strangest, and most endearing, yet. A chorus of murmurs rings through the room, the players nodding a little. 

The beginning of the match is tentative, like everyone is testing the waters to see where they stand and what they can get away with today. Slowly things start to flow, the way they move forward feeling more and more natural. Finsbury’s defence is scrambling to keep up, their tackles growing a little more reckless. Wille dodges one and goes down near the edge of the box, knowing full well his opponent did not touch the ball. He hears the referee blow his whistle and smiles. 

Christian walks up to him. “You want to take it?” he asks, holding the ball out to Wille who nods. Wille knows both of them could score from this distance, but appreciates the captain allowing him to take it. He sets the ball down, watching as Finsbury position their men into a wall. 

“From the right?” he asks Christian, both of them eyeing the players and the goal in front of them. 

“Yeah, if you curl it a bit there’s no way the keeper is going to get it,” Christian confirms and Wille nods again. 

He waits patiently for the referee to signal he can take the free kick. He hears the sounds of the stadium, no matter how much he tries to block out the noise. He’s heard the Finsbury fans, heard what they say and as much as he’d like to think they’re not affecting him, he knows they are. If it were any other situation, he’d almost admire how clever the fans are with their insults, veiling them in a way that makes them get away with it. The referee isn’t going to stop the match easily and neither is any of the players, the match is too important to them all. 

But they’re not making him embarrassed or angry or frustrated. Okay, they are making him a little angry, but he realises it’s a good kind of angry. The kind of anger that simmers under the surface, making him want to make them angry in return. To show them he isn’t going to care about how much they hate him, hate who he is, to show them he is good at his job and he’s going to make sure they regret picking the other club to support. 

He takes a step back, then another, and applies enough force to send the ball curling past the men standing before him. Before the keeper can even try to reach the ball it hits the back of the net, the goal so easy he feels like he’s playing in the park, on some Sunday five-a-side. Wille lifts his gaze up to the sky for a brief moment before grabbing the front of his jersey and kissing the badge above his heart. Then he grins and opens his arms, welcoming his teammates who come running to him, screaming in joy as they hug him. 

The score stays the same well into the final minutes of the second half, everyone growing a little frustrated. Wille finds himself running up the right flank when Santiago’s cross finds him, seeing Temi make a run for the box and Wille cuts past one defender, then another, ready to pass when he suddenly finds himself on the ground, lying flat on his back. 

The referee blows his whistle and digs out a red card from his pocket, sending off the last player that took Wille down. Then he points at the penalty spot and Wille knows. Knows they’ve won this, knows the downright terrible track record the Finsbury goalkeeper has with penalties. Temi comes up to him, the ball in his hands. 

“You’re going to take it,” Temi tells Wille and Wille can feel a small jolt of shock go through his body. He’s taken penalties, plenty of them, but he’s not Islington’s first choice, not when Temi has scored every single one he’s ever taken during his career. “Come on Wille, you won it, you’re going to take it.” 

Wille takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He thinks of the way they used to practise with Erik, replicating all the ways they’d seen their idols take their penalties. And it hits him then, he suddenly knows exactly how he wants to take this one. He’s never done it before, not in a match, but it was his favourite to score when Erik was trying to block his shots. Unexpected and arrogant even, but also risky. He knows he has to make it. 

He sets the ball down, staring at the keeper who is doing everything within the rules to distract him. Wille is pretty certain the man is going to dive to the right, expecting Wille to use his strengths and go for what is safe. The referee blows his whistle and Wille can hear the other kinds of whistles coming from the stands. Wille runs up a little and stops and in that millisecond the keeper goes to the right. Wille connects his foot with the ball, making sure it lifts up just right, the way he’s practised so many times as a kid, and chips it in right down the middle. The force with which it lands in the goal makes the net balloon and the stadium erupts. 

Wille stares down the Finsbury fans behind the goal and lifts his index finger to his lips, enjoying the way they’ve fallen silent. He doesn’t even have time to turn before his teammates are embracing him again, the roar of the spectators drowning out their words. He knows the celebration will make it to the highlights and it makes him grin. He knows somewhere August is watching, will have to watch him celebrate and it gives him satisfaction. That he gets to have this while his cousin doesn’t know what the future holds for him. He jogs towards the bench and meets Aitor at the edge of the technical area, giving him a quick high five before they take their positions for the last couple of minutes. 

He loves it. Absolutely loves the way the loudspeakers are blaring the songs when they walk around the pitch after the final whistle, the fans so jubilant he fears for a moment the stands might give way under their jumping. They have won, they have taken the three points and they are still very much in the race to win the whole league. It’s going to be their season, Wille thinks, they’re finally going to take it.

“Hey Man of the Match, go get your award,” Henry shouts at him with a huge grin on his face and Wille falters, surprised even though he’s not sure why. He’s scored both goals, it’s only logical they’d give him the award. But it’s been a while since he’s gotten one, and it suddenly feels like the first time again. He accepts the prize and smiles for the photos, later depositing the object next to his bag in the dressing room. 

As they climb back to the bus to head to the training centre, the assistant hands them their phones back. Wille sees a bunch of notifications on the screen, pointedly ignoring them all and swiping to his chat with Simon. 

Simon

Congratulations 💜

Just so you know, you’re my Man of the Match every time

Where do you keep the trophies though, I don’t think I’ve seen a single one

Wille laughs and shakes his head when Henry gives him a questioning look. The message confirms what he’d thought earlier, that Simon’s never even opened the door to his guestroom. Because that’s where he keeps them, secretly thinking the awards are usually quite ugly and opting to keep them out of sight. He tells Simon as much and receives an exasperated ‘oh my god’ in return, followed by a voice message that makes Wille plug in his earphones and grin like a lunatic as he listens to Simon ramble about the win, about how well Wille played, about how happy and proud he is, how he hopes he could have been there to watch it instead of having to do promo in Stockholm. Wille knows Simon loves his job, loves what he does and wouldn’t change it for anything, but his words make Wille feel all warm inside. Make him feel truly wanted for the first time in his life. And it feels even better than the victory on the pitch.

Chapter Text

Wille stares at the off-white ceiling of his hotel room. He’s pretty sure it’s the exact same room he’s stayed at several times before and there is nothing noteworthy about the ceiling, but he’s doing everything he can to distract his thoughts from the match tomorrow. The game of chess with Temi had been fine for a while, keeping his mind occupied, but once they’d retreated to their rooms for the night Wille’s thoughts had started to wander and he cannot quiet his mind.

The past month has been everything but easy on the pitch. Sure, they had won the Cup two weeks earlier and it had given the team a confidence boost even if they had needed a nerve-racking penalty shootout to secure the thing. They’ve won the league matches too, sometimes scraping together the much-needed points at the very last minutes. 

He’d like to think the exhaustion he feels is only due to the long season, plagued by his injury and not being able to be there for his teammates. But he knows better. The last few weeks have taken their toll on him and he wants nothing more than to play one last match this season and then not think about football or anything related to it for the next six weeks. 

The initial response to his coming out had been mainly positive from what he can tell, because there is only so much Jordan and his team have shared with him, opting to keep Wille away from social media as much as possible. Their supporters had stood by him, though he guesses the win in the derby had helped with that - given them something they had wanted, something that kept them buzzing for a good week. The letter he’d received from their LGBTQIA+ supporter club had been extremely touching and he’s not above admitting he’d cried when he’d read it out loud to Simon over one of their numerous phone calls. 

But. There had been the match four weeks ago. The one his mind keeps circling back to when he’s left alone with his thoughts. The one he’d played after he had finally accepted a call from his mother. He had hoped by then she would have come around, at least tried to see things from his point of view. Instead she had chewed him out for all but throwing her under the bus, saying the way he’d written about his childhood and the training methods his parents had used had put her under the scrutiny of the Swedish federation. That there might be an investigation, though it wasn’t what Wille had intended, hadn’t even thought might happen because it was all in the past.

The fact that she’d been more concerned about her own career and position was what had hurt Wille the most. She had barely acknowledged that he’d told the whole world he’d found someone he was madly in love with, only saying in passing she hoped Wille knew what he was doing to his career, how he could say goodbye to lucrative final years of playing in some insignificant league on a scorching hot desert thousands of miles away. As if that was something Wille had ever wanted to do. 

Her indifference, her acting like she always had ever since he’d told her about who he was all those years ago had sent him spiralling and he’d spent the night fighting against a panic attack in vain. He doesn’t know why he’d expected the conversation to go any different, why he had hoped she’d finally show some compassion and understanding, and be the loving mother she had never really been to him. 

He’d felt like shit afterwards, and in hindsight he knew Simon had been right when he’d said Wille shouldn’t be playing the following day. He hadn’t wanted to admit the panic attack to Simon but the man had figured out something wasn’t right, had read him like an open book and called him out on it when Wille had insisted he was just tired. Then Simon had held and comforted Wille, whispered sweet nothings in his ear until he fell asleep. He hadn’t told the team and stepped on the pitch as if nothing had happened.

And it had been a disaster. It was the worst match he’d played all season. He had been on edge all day and walking on the pitch had only made things worse. He couldn’t focus on anything, his mother’s voice constantly ringing in his ears. Then he had heard the words from the stands. At first they’d just criticised his playing, which was fair, because he had been putting on a horrible performance. But then they’d started to get more personal, insinuating that whatever he was doing on his own time was affecting him. That maybe his partner should keep his hands off of Wille until the season was over because clearly he couldn’t even walk straight anymore, let alone play like a man. It was the sneering tone, the way they had somehow managed to pack several insults into one sentence that had snapped the final frayed nerve Wille had had left that afternoon. 

‘Shut the fuck up’ he’d muttered under his breath, more to himself to get his mind focused on the game but he had been facing the crowd. And of course they’d picked it up and started to taunt him even more. When he’d heard someone say maybe they should find whoever his partner was and make sure he stays away so they can get one of their best players back, Wille was ready to jump into the stands and fight the person. He knows Christian had heard it too and signalled Aitor to sub Wille off, clearly sensing that Wille would soon do something he’d regret later. It was the first time he’d stormed off to the dressing room in the middle of a match without suffering from an injury instead of finding his place on the bench for the remainder of the game. The manager had later cited health reasons as grounds for his substitution and Wille had started the following week in a long session with Boris instead of packing his bags and leaving the country like he’d wanted to do for a moment. He took some solace in knowing that the stewards had identified the people shouting the poorly veiled threats and given them a three-year ban to their matches, both home and away.

He’s played better since, back at his normal level. A goal in the dying minutes at the match the following week had gotten the supporters rallying for him again and made him feel better too. Wille knows he’s biased, but the last three matches they’ve played have been some of the best football they’ve shown all season. And they have one more left, the one that will determine if it’s all been worth it or for nothing. They’re trailing two points behind Halewood United and the odds are not on their side, but Wille knows anything can happen in the ninety and some minutes they still have ahead. 

A buzzing sound pulls him from his thoughts, startling him slightly. He scrambles to grab his phone from the bedside table and a smile quickly spreads on his face when he sees Simon’s name on the screen.

“Hi,” Wille greets when he swipes to accept the video call. “You made it.”

“Hi, I did. Though we were delayed for over an hour. I’m going to be so happy when I don’t have to constantly fly to that wretched airport,” Simon grumbles a little in response. Wille can’t see it clearly, but he’s guessing Simon is sitting on the couch judging by the way he’s leaning back. “But I’m here and that’s all that matters. One of your neighbours ran into me on my way in.”

Wille suddenly feels his heart leap to his throat. “Did they…?” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking, or why. It doesn’t matter. In less than 24 hours everyone will know they’re together. They won’t need to hide or sneak around like teenagers anymore, won’t need to spend all their precious little time together holed up in Wille’s flat. 

“She very graciously wished me good night when we bumped into each other in the elevator,” Simon tells him and doesn’t look bothered by the encounter. “To be honest, it’s not like this is the first time I’ve passed by one of your neighbours. Almost a shame you’re moving out, it seems like they all know how to mind their own business.”

“Mmh,” Wille hums. If someone had asked him a couple of months ago what he thinks of his flat, he wouldn’t have said he has any emotional attachment to the walls. But now that he’s slowly packing up his things he thinks he might miss the place a bit. “I do love our new place though.”

“Me too. Though I still think we need to hire someone to take a look at the garden,” Simon says. It’s a conversation they’d had when they had agreed upon getting the place. Simon had come up with plans for the little batch of greenery after seeing it for the first time. Wille has been trying to tell him they need to live there at least one summer, to see what the previous owners have planted in the part that looks like a vegetable patch. “You might be many things, Wille, but you’re not a gardener.”

“No, but I’m curious. They seemed like a lovely couple who have tended to the place with love,” he says in response. “Besides, we’ll have years to figure out what we want to do with the garden.” His smile grows wider when he says it and sees Simon mirror the expression, nodding slightly. 

They both fall silent for a moment, Simon seemingly lost in thought. Wille watches his face, tries to decipher the look in his eyes. 

“So, what happens tomorrow?” Simon asks after a while, pushing a stray curl away from his forehead. 

“Depends,” comes Wille’s answer. 

“On?” Simon presses. 

“On whether we win or not,” Wille says after a pause. They both know they’re not just talking about the outcome of the match, even though it matters too. 

“Start with what happens when you win,” Simon tells him. Wille feels an even wider smile pull up the corners of his mouth despite everything, Simon’s choice of words not escaping him.

“Well. There might be a pitch invasion. In which case… we’ll probably run to the dressing room until the stewards manage to clear the pitch. I’m not hoping for that to happen, no one does, and I’d like to think our supporters are better than that, but I’ve seen emotions take over so…” Wille starts. He’s won trophies before, but never this one, not in England. “If that doesn’t happen, there’s all this stuff they’ll bring out. Like a little stage and this champions backdrop, very much like at the Cup final. And there’s the trophy too. I don’t know if they’ve brought in the original or the copy, but yeah.” His heart clenches a little when he thinks about it all. He wants to live and experience it, badly. 

“And if you don’t win?” Simon inquires, his eyes boring into Wille’s. 

“There’s going to be a couple of speeches and then we’ll just hang out on the pitch with family and friends afterwards before going home. The team dinner is scheduled for Monday in any case.” Wille’s a lot more familiar with this situation after the seasons he’s spent playing in London. 

“How do you feel about it? And don’t say fine, it’s not true,” Simon asks and Wille gives out a small chuckle because Simon’s right. He’s not actually feeling fine. 

“Anxious, I guess. But not all in a bad way, if that makes sense. And it’ll ease tomorrow when we get to the stadium,” Wille explains and Simon nods. “Excited too. This is the closest we’ve gotten in years and everyone wants to win no matter what it takes.”

Simon hums and nods again, but before he can say anything Wille continues. “Above all, I just want this season to be over. It’s been… so much, in so many ways. I just want to spend the next weeks doing nothing, seeing or speaking to no one but you.”

“Doing nothing, huh?” Simon asks with a quirked eyebrow and a smirk.

“You know what I mean,” Wille laughs, because they’ve spoken about their summer plans in great detail over the past weeks and Simon definitely knows what Wille means. The grin on Simon’s face confirms he does. 

Another brief moment of silence falls between them and Simon’s look turns pensive. It hits Wille then, that he has no idea how Simon feels about coming to the stadium. Not after what Wille’s told him about the disastrous match. He’s not shared in detail what the people had said, but Simon had pried enough information out of him that he wouldn’t be surprised if Simon is feeling apprehensive.

“How do you feel about tomorrow?” he asks then, eyes tracking every emotion flickering on Simon’s face. 

Simon sighs before answering and runs a hand through his hair in a gesture Wille recognises as one he himself tends to do when he’s nervous. “A bit anxious too, I guess?” 

Wille nods and waits for Simon to continue.

“It’s just… Obviously I want to be there for you. With you. But given everything you’ve told me about what’s happened… I’m not scared or anything, but I guess I hate not knowing how people are going to react. Even if it’s not that many people,” Simon explains. 

Wille understands where he’s coming from. He knows how to handle the supporters and as much as he wants to say it’ll be fine, he can’t be entirely sure that’s true. “It’ll be fine,” he still says anyway, willing himself to believe it. “I mean, most of the time the supporters don’t care who someone is dating or married to, it’s not like it impacts the way we play.”

“Most of the time,” Simon replies flatly. Wille winces a bit.

“Everyone who matters is going to love you. I love you,” he rushes to say, because that he knows to be true. “Besides, the supporters are mostly background noise at that point. And… well, they should be the ones who stick with us through thick and thin, and they shouldn’t care about anything but how we play.” Wille’s not sure his words are making things any better, but he sees Simon nod and takes it as a positive sign.

“It’s getting late. I should let you get some rest so you can go and win tomorrow,” Simon says softly then. Wille nods even though he doesn’t want to end the video call just yet.

“I missed you,” he tells Simon. “I know it was only three weeks but…”

“I missed you too. We’ll see each other tomorrow,” Simon’s voice has grown even softer, as if he was trying to lull Wille into sleep.    

“Mmh. I can’t wait. To be with you,” Wille hopes Simon picks up everything that goes unsaid in his words. Judging by the gentle look on the other man’s face he does and Wille is aching to caress Simon’s face, to hold him in his arms. He’s tempted to count the hours until he can do that again. 

“Me neither. What time are they taking your phone tomorrow?” Simon questions, already familiar with the pre-match routine that the team has agreed upon whenever the game holds more significance. 

“We’ve got breakfast at 8.30, so when we go down for that,” Wille answers.

“Okay. Go get some sleep now,” Simon tells him.

Wille yawns and concedes he should do just that, even if he’d like to keep the call going until the morning. “Mmm, okay. You get some sleep too. I love you.” 

“I love you. Sleep tight,” Simon says softly before hanging up.

Wille sets his phone on the table next to the bed and strips down to his boxers before slipping under the covers. He lets the exhaustion wash over him and tries to relax his body into the mattress. Simon’s parting words replay in his head when he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.  

*****

The following morning it takes Wille a moment to understand the buzzing sound he hears is in fact his phone. He reaches to pick it up from where he’d put it on the bedside table the night before. A smile spreads on his face as he notices it’s Simon again, though he wonders how and why the man is up already. He swipes to connect the video call. 

“Hi, what’s up?” Wille asks, glancing at his watch to see he’s still got almost an hour until he needs to make it downstairs for breakfast. 

Simon doesn’t say anything, just clears his throat a bit before starting to sing. “ Cumpleaños feliz, te deseamos a ti, cumpleaños mi Wille, cumpleaños feliz .” His voice sounds a little rough, as if he woke up mere minutes ago and judging by the way he’s only barely half-sitting against the headboard of the bed, it could be possible. The smile on his face is radiant though. “Happy birthday my love.” 

Wille feels choked up. It’s been years since someone’s sung for him on his birthday, at least in a way that’s been more meaningful or more than just for fun. “Thank you.” It’s all he manages to say, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes, but he sees Simon nod and smile even wider. 

“Can’t wait to celebrate tonight,” Simon tells him, with a smirk and a hint of suggestion in his voice. 

It makes Wille laugh brightly. “I like the sound of that,” he replies and watches as Simon stretches on the bed. “You keep doing that and…” he says, voice dropping lower and his eyes roaming over the naked skin he sees on the screen. 

“Yes?” Simon asks with a raised eyebrow, feigning innocence as he positions the phone so that Wille can see even more of his chest.

“God, you’ll be the death of me,” Wille answers. He can definitely feel the sight in front of him affecting his body and closes his eyes, slowly breathing in and out. He tries to count if they’d have time for… something, anything. Tries to figure out how unwise it would be. He hears Simon chuckle quietly. 

“Mmh, hopefully not anytime soon though. I have plans for tonight, birthday boy. Bought you a cake and everything,” Simon says and Wille sucks in a quick, shallow breath before a laugh escapes his lips. “You go win that match now. I’ll see you in a few hours. Love you.” Simon signs off and ends the call before Wille can react, leaving him to sit on the edge of his bed.

He feels warmer than a few minutes earlier, bets there is a pink flush colouring his cheeks and chest. He makes his way to the bathroom and splashes some cold water on his face until his heart rate returns to normal and he can look at himself in the mirror without the blush returning. It still surprises him how much his body reacts to Simon, to just his words, every time the other man teases him. He hopes it’ll never stop, though he guesses he needs to learn to control himself a bit better to avoid it happening with other people around. 

Wille makes his way down to the breakfast hall a bit later, handing over his phone to the assistant manager as he enters the room. As he sits down with his plate of food and a cup of coffee, Aitor walks up to him and with a nod asks if he can sit down next to Wille. Wille gestures to the chair beside him, wondering what the manager has in his mind.

“I’d like to make you captain today,” Aitor says without a greeting and Wille nearly chokes on his scrambled eggs. He coughs and takes a long sip of water.

“What?” he eventually gets out.

“Christian picked up a niggle yesterday and he doesn’t want to risk it and Daniel is suspended,” the manager offers in explanation. “I know you haven’t worn the armband that many times, but you deserve it.” 

“I— Oh. Sure, yeah. Okay. Are you sure?” Wille stammers out. Aitor nods, everything in his expression telling Wille he’s just informing him of the decision instead of really asking. “Okay, I’ll do it.” Then a thought hits him and his eggs lose their taste. “I won’t be making a speech though.”

“You don’t have to, Christian has one ready,” Aitor assures him and Wille nods. He can do it, it’s not going to be that different from the national team. Hell, he knows his teammates here a thousand times better than those at the national team, he knows exactly what they expect and what he needs to do and say to them. 

“Excellent. I’ll let the guys know so the armband will be there with your kit,” Aitor tells him as he gets up from the chair and grabs his coffee. “Happy birthday, Wille.” He salutes Wille with the mug before walking over to where the rest of his management staff is sitting, no doubt going through the final preparations for the match. 

*****

The atmosphere at the stadium is electric, buzzing with anticipation. The seats have filled up well before the kick off and when the team jogs out to the pitch for their warmup the roar that greets them is loud enough to make their ears ring. The sea of flags blocks sections of the stands from view.

Wille tries to keep his eyes unfocused on his surroundings as much as possible, willing himself to see nothing but the balls they’re passing, the stretches the physiotherapist is making them do. But it’s hard when the supporters are singing their chants already, the noise booming around the stadium. He looks at the men next to him, sees how they’re all trying just as much to not be affected. They’re all trying to pretend it’s just another match, not something that will determine if their club’s name will be engraved onto a trophy only a select few get to hold. 

When they file back into the dressing room to listen to the manager’s pre-match speech Wille looks around the room. Looks at the names written over their seats, at the crest painted on the floor, at the club motto written over the doorway. They’re all things he’s seen countless times over the years, but today they seem to bear more significance than ever before. He takes in a deep breath and sits down, pulling off the training top.

“This is it guys. The most important 38th game you’ll play. It hasn’t been an easy season, but you’ve fought and you’ve made it this far. I believe in you. I believe that you can win this one more game and that a bit of luck will be on our side,” Aitor starts his speech and Wille’s never heard the dressing room be as quiet as it is at the moment. It’s as if they all have stopped breathing even, afraid that any sound might break the spell they’re under. 

“When you go out there today, you play for every single supporter we have. For those that are here today, for those that are at the pub watching with their mates. For those that are watching at home, for those that love this city because they love you. When you go out there today, listen to the crowd. When you get the first ball, the first tackle, listen to them. I know you’d run through a brick wall for them if I asked you to, and you know they will do anything they can to help you win today. So when you score, look at their faces. Look at the emotions, look at how much it means to them. This is my club. This is your club. This is their club. Some of them have been supporting this club longer than any of you have been alive, longer than I’ve been alive, and they’ll support this club long after you’ve stopped playing. So when you go out there today, give them your all. I don’t ask for much, but I ask you for that,” the manager goes on, his voice tinged with emotion in a way Wille doesn’t remember hearing ever before. “Go there and give them everything you’ve got.”

The players erupt in cheers, clapping with the staff standing behind the manager, the noise in the room loud enough that Wille thinks it might travel down the hallway to the away team’s dressing room. He adjusts his socks and pulls the laces of his boots a little tighter, letting his fingertips brush over the freshly stitched initials on his boots, the EA on the right one, the SE on the left. He picks up the captain’s armband and slips it over his sleeve, adjusting it so it sits comfortably around his arm. 

Wille closes his eyes, steadies his breath and counts to ten before rising from his seat and walking out of the dressing room. He takes his place at the front of the line, David gently slapping his back when Wille pulls his shoulders back. The referees nod to him and the captain of the other team and before Wille knows it, they’re walking out of the tunnel and onto the pitch, the club anthem blaring out of the loudspeakers and drowning out all the other noise. 

He shakes hands with the referees and the other captain, wins the coin toss and picks the side of the pitch the team is already waiting on. When Wille walks back to his teammates and the ten men form a circle around him, huddling down, he stops thinking. He lets instinct and feeling take over when he leans down, the other men following suit and starts to speak. “So, this is it. I’m sure Christian would’ve had some eloquent speech for this moment, but I don’t. I just want to say that I love you guys and whatever happens after the final whistle, I know we’ve given everything we’ve got and I’ll be proud of you. I know I can trust you to give your all. Let’s go win this match!” 

The beginning of the match is nervous, their opponents very well aware of what there is at stake and capitalising on every moment of hesitation the Islington players might show. It takes them a good ten minutes to get properly in the swing of things and start making their advantages towards the goal. The first shot goes wide, the second one the goalkeeper catches easily, but the third one sees them go into the lead when Oliver nicks the ball to the back of the net in the aftermath of a corner. The roar on the stands is so loud that even minutes later Wille struggles to hear what Aitor is shouting in front of their bench. 

Then the noise suddenly dies down, as if someone pulled a plug somewhere to signal the party is over. Wille’s heart plummets, because it can only mean one thing - Halewood have scored too and as it stands, they stay ahead in the table by those two points. He takes a breath and directs Lukas to run up with the ball, to feed it to Jonathan who is making his way towards the goal. The cross goes wide and Wille sighs before giving the two men a thumbs up. 

The first half ends with Islington in 1-0 lead and as much as he’s itching to find out what the score of the other match being played up north is, he resists, knows no one would tell it to them even if they asked. He lets his gaze sweep the stands as he walks back to the tunnel and spots the person he’d been looking for. Simon is sitting deep in conversation with Christian’s fiancée and Temi’s wife, dark glasses shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun. Wille can’t help but smile when he spots a flash of familiar royal blue under his jacket, feeling happy that Simon had kept the jersey they’d given him all those months ago. He’s sure there are already photos circulating on the internet, speculating why Simon’s watching the game in that particular company, fastest of the commenters surely putting two and two together. 

Wille sits down on his seat and watches as the assistant manager pulls up one video clip after another, telling them where they need to improve in order to stay ahead in the game. He’s pretty sure no one else is really paying any attention either, knowing once the fifteen minutes are up they’ll walk back on the pitch and throw themselves in the game letting instinct take over instead of following some agreed upon pattern. They’ve done it before, it’s what works for them - they know each other, they know what works against a team like this. 

And it does. Eight minutes after they’ve returned to the pitch Temi scores a brace that makes the entire stadium scream louder than Wille’s ever heard. He lets himself forget the weight the match holds, playing like it’s just one more regular match they need to win on their way to glory. 

The crowd keeps roaring and the closer to 90 minutes the clock ticks the louder they get. Wille can’t make out the words they keep singing and shouting, the wall of noise surrounding him from all sides and making it nearly impossible to tell his teammates where they should be on the pitch. They keep pushing forward towards the goal as much as they can, but if there isn’t a defender on the way then the goalkeeper manages to stretch his fingers to push the ball away. 

Their final attempt is a free kick right from the edge of the box. Wille knows it’ll go in, can see the way the ball will spin in the air before landing at the back of the goal as soon as he takes the kick. He’s in a daze when the referee blows the whistle right after. They’ve won the match, but he has no idea if the other game is still going on. 

The league table pops up on the screen and Wille holds his breath when he and every single one of his teammates and the supporters stare at it, willing the ranking to change from 1. Halewood United 2. Islington FC to the other way round. What feels like an eternity later the words ‘final standings’ appear above the list of clubs that’s stayed unchanged. It’s over. They did everything they could but it wasn’t enough. They’ve lost the title by two points. 

Wille sits down on the pitch and wraps his arms around his knees before dropping his head down. He knows he should be there for his teammates, but he’s exhausted and from the corner of his eye he can see them have similar reactions when the words and numbers on the screen sink in. He hears Henry curse under his breath next to him. They were so close, so agonisingly close. The sudden silence at the stadium feels louder than all the noise preceding it. He feels numb. Stupidly the only coherent thought he can latch on is that at least the result will make his parents happy and he bites the inside of his lip so hard it hurts. 

At first the applause is just a faint echo. Then it grows louder and louder until it must be all of the 60,000 people who have come to support them today standing before their seats clapping. Wille lifts his head and looks around, sees the slightly bewildered looks his teammates are wearing. He swallows around the lump in his throat, because never did he expect this. That the fans would be cheering for the team like this despite the title slipping away from their reach. 

Wille stands up and motions his teammates to join him as he slowly starts to walk around the pitch, keeping his eyes trained on the people at the stands. He looks at their faces like Aitor told them two hours earlier, sees the emotions they’re feeling - sadness, defeat, resignation. But something else too. Pride, support, love, Wille realises. It hits him then, that the supporters are proud of them despite the loss, knowing it’s the best campaign they’ve played in several years. 

The players round the pitch, Wille’s hands aching from the constant clapping. When they come to a stop and gather around in the middle of the pitch Aitor walks up to them and gestures to them to form a circle. Wille wraps his arms around Henry and Santiago’s shoulders and leans in just a bit when the manager starts to speak.

“I know you’re disappointed right now. I am too. But in a few days you’ll feel proud of everything you did this season, of everything you achieved. I am proud of you. You all gave everything you had, not just today but throughout the entire season and there isn’t more that I can ask for. It wasn’t enough today, but we’ll take this feeling and this work, everything we’ve done and achieved so far and build upon it next season. We take a break now and when we come back, we’re coming back stronger and more determined than ever before. Because in a year, we’re lifting that trophy. We know what it takes and we know we have it. I believe in you, in every single one of you,” Aitor says, looking around the circle of men around him and nodding to them. 

The team lets the words wash over them before breaking their circle, allowing the manager to step up to the stadium announcer to give a similar speech to the supporters still filling the seats. Wille zones out a bit, the words not really registering in his brain anymore. He watches as Christian picks up the microphone too, voicing the players’ thoughts and feels happy he doesn’t have to be the one speaking right now, because he’s not sure he could make it. He’s not sure he’d manage to find words to form sentences of the jumbled mess of thoughts and emotions bouncing around his brain at the moment. 

Wille looks around, watches as the seats around them start to empty as the supporters head home. He takes a deep breath and tries to think back to the past few weeks, how they’ve done absolutely everything they can to be here today, almost as the best of the league. Somehow he manages to string together enough words to make through his post-match interview, choosing to focus on telling the pundit how proud of the progress they’ve shown he is instead of replaying the day’s events. 

He waits for Oliver to be done with his own interview before they walk back down the tunnel towards the dressing room, idly chatting about their upcoming holiday plans. They push past their teammates and their families making their way to the opposite direction, ready to enjoy the late afternoon sun on the pitch. Only when Oliver comes to an abrupt stop and his mouth hangs open just a little comically does Wille direct his gaze to what - or who - the man is looking at. 

Simon’s crouching down and intently listening to what Santiago’s son is explaining to him, nodding and interjecting with a word or two in Spanish whenever the little boy looks at him expectantly. Santiago and his wife look just a touch starstruck and when Wille looks at his teammate he sees him minutely shake his head and mouth something that looks a lot like ‘are you for real?’. Oliver mumbles something similar next to him before giving Wille a wave and striding to hug his girlfriend. 

Santiago gently tugs his son’s shoulder to get his attention and says something in rapid-fire Spanish that Wille doesn’t understand but that makes Simon laugh. It’s at that moment the other man glances over the boy’s head and seems to clock in Wille’s presence. Simon straightens up and smoothes the shirt that had bunched up a little, turning to face Wille with a smile bright enough to rival the sun spreading on his face. Wille feels a grin tug up his own lips and scoots to the side as Santiago steers his family down the tunnel. 

“Hi,” Wille greets Simon and finally does what he’s been wanting to do for months: he steps up to wrap his arms around Simon’s waist and gives him a quick kiss, nothing more than a peck on the lips. A surge of joy rushes through him and he feels a little light-headed. He can do this now. This is something they can do whenever they want now.

“Hi,” Simon replies, his smile growing even wider before it falters slightly. “I’m sorry you didn’t win it,” he says, his fingers sneaking to the back of Wille’s neck to card through the sweat-soaked strands. Wille nods, a wave of sadness washing over him before he pushes it aside. 

“It’s okay. I mean, it hurts, it’s going to hurt for a while, but I’m so proud of everything we’ve achieved this season,” Wille says and the soft look in Simon’s eyes seems to say he’s understood Wille’s words are more than just about football. 

Simon hums, his fingers still soothingly tangled in Wille’s hair. The sounds around them seem to dim, like they’ve entered a bubble of their own even though Wille is vaguely aware of the people coming and going around them. “What were you and Hector talking about?” he asks then, resting his forehead against Simon’s.

“Oh! He asked me what I do and it didn’t impress him at all,” Simon answers and Wille chuckles. “But then I told him Sara works with horses and he told me he is going to become the best horse rider in all of the universe and win all the competitions. He told me he’s getting a pony for his birthday.” Simon laughs a little, clearly having enjoyed listening to the boy ramble about his love for horses. 

“Not sure his parents know about the pony,” Wille can’t help but laugh, thinking back to all the times he’s had to listen to exasperated Santiago hoping his son would develop another interest.

“Yeah, I got that impression from his mum. He’s a cute kid though,” Simon says, a little glint of something Wille can’t interpret in his eyes. “Shall we then? I was led to believe I’m getting to see this place properly today.” Simon pulls away from the embrace and Wille doesn’t whine. Simon chuckles and takes Wille’s hand, tugging it gently when he walks past him and towards the tunnel. 

Wille’s breath catches in his throat and he stays glued to the spot when he realises what the other man is wearing. Simon turns to look over his shoulder and a smirk plays on his lips when he notices Wille staring at his back. At the ‘ANDERSSON 8’ printed on the back of the shirt he is wearing. Wille blinks once, twice and the name stays unchanged. 

“What— how—,” Wille’s not sure what he’s trying to ask, still too dumbfounded by seeing his own name on the jersey. He’s seen Simon wearing his clothes more times than he can count anymore, but this is different.

“I was told it’s tradition to wear your partner’s jersey to the final home match of the season,” Simon explains with a grin on his face. Wille nods, squeezing Simon’s hand still firmly clasped in his. “And you had this one at home. Actually the only Islington one I could find, though there were a ton of other shirts.” Simon lifts his eyebrow in a silent question.

Wille nods again, feeling overwhelmed. He rarely keeps his match-worn jerseys, doesn’t usually have any emotional attachment to them. However, he’d opted to keep the shirt he’d worn at the derby the previous month, had wanted something tangible to remind him of the match alongside the award he’d received. Wanted to remember how significant that game had been for him. “I love you,” he simply says. He’ll explain it all to Simon later, once it’s just the two of them because he knows Simon will call him a sap.

“I love you too. Come on now,” Simon replies a little impatiently. Wille laughs and starts to walk towards the pitch, letting their intertwined hands swing between their bodies. 

The stands are more than half-empty by the time they finally walk out of the tunnel, most of the supporters opting to leave the stadium as soon as they can. They step up to the sideline, Wille catching a ball that’s strayed from where Daniel’s son had been playing with it. He kicks the ball back to the boy and smiles when he expertly catches it.

He then turns to look at Simon, takes in the wide-eyed look the man is sporting. “It looks so much bigger from here,” Simon half-whispers, his eyes darting from the stands to the small groups of people scattered around the pitch. Wille catches the moment the people who’ve stayed are starting to notice them. He squares his shoulders and grips Simon’s hand a bit tighter. 

“You’ve played at a venue this size. Bigger, probably,” Wille counters.

“Yeah, but it’s different when there’s a stage and all you can see is a mass of mostly faceless people,” Simon explains, shaking his head a little. His thumb is drawing tiny circles into the skin of Wille’s hand, the gesture both reassuring and comforting. “Can we go and walk around a bit? I want to see what you see.” Simon asks and Wille takes a step forward.

They walk towards the centre of the pitch where Christian and his fiancée are chatting with Aitor and his family. “Oh, by the way, Aitor’s daughter is a massive fan of yours,” Wille murmurs under his breath when they’re just out of earshot. Simon’s response is something between a groan and a sigh. “You could have warned me a bit earlier,” Simon says before a genuine smile returns to his face. Wille knows he loves meeting fans and the complaining is just for show.

He’s proven right when Simon immediately strikes up a conversation with June, though the girl is blushing and tripping over her words so much it feels Simon is doing most of the talking. Wille exchanges a few words with the others, giving up on trying to follow what Simon’s saying, the few sentences of Spanish he’s managed to learn over the years not getting him very far. He wishes Christian a speedy recovery from the minor injury he’s dealing with before the captain bids them goodbye and heads towards the tunnel to catch up with Jonathan. 

Slowly the pitch is starting to empty, the players and the staff making their way back inside the stadium. Wille stops Simon when they walk past the home end. “This, those people over there,” he says and jerks his head towards the stands that are still almost full, “they’re the reason we do this every week.” 

Simon nods. “Your front row.” 

Wille hums, the comparison quite fitting. He lets his gaze sweep over the rows of seats, the rows of people standing there well after the match has ended. His eyes catch a sign a young teenage boy is holding. ‘Wille, can I please have your shirt?’ the rainbow coloured letters are asking. He gives Simon’s fingers a squeeze before untangling their hands and walking to where the boy is standing with presumably his mother. He jumps over the ad board and pulls off his jersey, the sleeve momentarily catching on the armband he forgot he was still wearing. He nods to the boy standing a few rows up and tosses the shirt to him. He smiles when the boy shrieks in happiness when he catches the piece of clothing. 

He turns to climb back over the board to meet Simon waiting for him near the corner flag. Wille doesn’t miss the very unsubtle way Simon’s eyes rake over his body and he tries hard not to smirk. As soon as he comes to a stop next to Simon, the other man loops his arms around his neck and pulls him closer before rising to his tiptoes to give Wille a heated kiss.

“Simon, we’re in public,” Wille manages to breathe out, his voice a little rough when they break apart. 

Simon nods, his eyes shining dark with what Wille has learnt to recognize as want. “Mmm. Your fault for walking around looking like that. ” His fingertips graze the armband still securely in place around Wille’s arm. “Think they’d let you keep this?”

“You’d like that, huh?” Wille’s fairly certain they would. Even if they didn’t, he’d slip the armband in his bag after seeing the way Simon nods and bites his lower lip, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “God, you’re…”

Simon simply hums when he disentangles his body from Wille’s and grabs his hand as they start walking towards the tunnel again. “I’m sorry that that’s probably going to be all over the internet soon,” Simon says a little sheepishly a moment later. Wille can’t help but laugh.

“Probably? Did you forget who you are? It’s going to be everywhere ,” he says, almost expecting a surge of panic to paralyse his body. Instead, something warm spreads through him. “I think there’d be a lot worse ways to tell the whole world I get to be with you.” 

Simon comes to a halt in front of the bench, reaching for Wille’s other hand too and interlacing their fingers. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much though?” he asks, his eyes searching Wille’s for an answer. “I just… want everyone to know how happy you make me. How proud of you I am. How much I love you.”

“I love you too. And it isn’t too much, you could never be too much, you make me so happy. This day is— It’s kind of hard, knowing every passing year I’m getting much older than Erik ever got to be. And losing the title hurts. But with you here it’s tolerable. Reminds me that in the end it’s just a job. That there are things that are more important,” Wille knows he’s rambling, but he can’t make himself care. Not when Simon looks at him with soft eyes and brings his hand up to gently caress his cheek. “You,” he whispers before Simon uses the hand on his cheek to tilt his head down for another kiss.

“I think I’ve seen the place now. Let’s go home, Wille,” Simon murmurs in the space between them. 

Wille lifts his head just enough to glance around. He takes in the green of the pitch that will be in immaculate condition in a couple of months when they start another season. The bright blue seats that will again be filled with spectators, not a single one of them empty. The bench where his teammates will be ready to live through yet another 90 minutes with all their hearts. 

He turns his gaze back to Simon. Simon, who is going to be there with him, for him. Simon, with his arms always open for another embrace. Simon, with his gentle, warm eyes looking right into Wille’s soul. Simon, who forgives and understands and wants him. Simon, with his heart so full of love Wille sometimes still has a hard time grasping it. Simon, who he gets to spend the rest of his days with. Simon, who makes him feel whole and loved and for whom he’d do anything and everything. He’s not sure he has the words to convey all the emotions he feels for the other man. But he hopes Simon understands anyway. 

Wille takes a tiny step closer, bringing their bodies together. He locks his eyes with Simon’s and leans slightly against the hand still on his cheek before squeezing Simon’s hand and saying, “I’m already home.”