Work Text:
Simon has finally found two minutes to be alone, lingering by the punch bowl, ladle in hand, taking some deep breaths to centre himself, so he hears the commotion before he sees any of it. Lots of shouting, and jeering, and a tremendous crash of crockery, like someone has thrown a hundred plates onto the floor at once.
He jerks around, craning his neck to see where the noise has come from. Everyone is rushing to crowd around the dessert table, and as Simon pushes his way past his classmates he sees his ex-whatever-the-hell-they-had-been, and his current whatever-the-hell-they-are-now having an all out brawl on the parquet floor, wrestling and shoving handfuls of the huge cake they’ve knocked over into each other’s faces. He watches them sliding about in the mess, completely dumbfounded as Marcus yanks Wille’s ridiculous Regency era wig down over his eyes and Wille claws at Marcus’ chest, kicking and flailing.
Simon has seen Wille angry before, obviously, but this is something else. He’s like a different person, the head butting party prince who got Wille sent to Hillerska in the first place.
Some of the older boys finally intervene and haul Marcus up and away by his shoulders.
August steps between them, physically blocking Wille from throwing another punch, “Stop it! Fucking stop this now!”
Marcus snarls something unintelligible. Wille shoots him one more glare before he storms out, tailcoat billowing, strawberry gateau smeared all over his wig and his waistcoat and his tights.
Simon should really go and see if Marcus is alright. This is a date, after all. He thinks he might’ve agreed to sleep over at his apartment tonight as well, but Wille was dancing with Felice during that conversation, and Simon was a bit distracted. Anyway, he should definitely go to him. To Marcus. Help him to get cleaned up.
He finds Wille on the steps outside, wiping cake residue off his face with a fancy handkerchief.
He raises his hand the minute Simon opens his mouth to speak, “Just don’t, OK? Fucking don’t.”
“What happened to ‘your boyfriend seems really nice?’” Simon folds his arms, “What the hell was that about?”
Wille shrugs, “He was rude. He pissed me off.”
“So you hit him?”
Wille rolls his eyes up to the heavens, more embarrassed than exasperated.
“Tell me what the fuck he said to make you go off like that!” Simon’s trying really hard not to yell, but this closed off, surly, lips set in a thin line Wille is really trying what little is left of his patience.
“It doesn’t matter, Simon.”
“Of course it does.”
Wille’s shoulders slump, defeated, “It was something about you.”
Oh. Simon hadn’t been expecting that. He’d maybe secretly hoped that Wille would be jealous, seeing him and Marcus together, but he hadn’t expected Marcus to actually goade him.
“He said he could see why I went for you,” Wille clenches his jaw, not looking at Simon, not looking at anything, “he said you were a sure thing.”
Simon opens his mouth, closes it again, “Well I haven’t had sex with him,” he says it off handedly, casually, swallowing down his hurt and holding his chin up in defiance, “it’s literally none of your business, but I haven’t. And I’m not going to.”
“OK.”
“OK?! Wille, you just shoved someone through three tiers of jam, sponge and buttercream to defend my honour, and all you can say is ‘OK’ when I tell you you’re the only one who’s”
“I don’t know what to say!” Wille fires back, “I don’t know how to behave around you!”
“So you chose physical violence?!”
Wille just huffs, shrugging his shoulders again. The look of abject misery on his face knocks the wind out of Simon’s sails and he sits down next to him on the steps, shoulders and knees touching, leaning into the warmth of his body even though he knows he shouldn’t.
“Thank you for sticking up for me,” he mumbles, staring down at his shoes.
“I really tried, Simon,” Wille is quiet for a moment before he finally looks at him, “I really tried to be happy for you.”
“I know.”
“But when he said that I just…” he sighs heavily.
Simon nods.
“You don’t deserve that.”
Simon doesn’t know what to say. He takes a shaky breath in, hands fidgeting in his lap, “I’m just trying to move on.”
“I can see that.”
Fuck. Wille’s face is really close to his. Did he turn at some point? Move closer without Simon realising? His eyes drop to Wille’s lips before he can control himself. His face is still so beautiful, even smeared with frosting.
“Everything just went wrong between us.”
It sounds weak, even to his own ears. He’s leaning forwards, and Wille is leaning forwards too. He brushes Simon’s nose with his, gentle and reassuring, giving Simon time to back out, but Simon only nuzzles even closer. When their lips finally meet everything is soft but electrified, new and familiar, over way too soon. Simon kisses him again, deeper this time, opening his mouth and reaching up to clutch at Wille’s ruffled collar. He can feel Wille smiling against his lips and it spurs him on, makes him fumble and cling and climb into Wille’s lap, kissing him breathless.
They only break apart when Simon hears a voice in the distance. Marcus. Marcus calling his name over and over. He scrambles off Wille’s legs and tugs at the front of his trousers, hastily trying to rearrange himself, “Shit!”
“It’s fine,” Wille squeezes his arm, “go!”
Simon gives him an apologetic smile and runs off up the steps.
“Where were you?” Marcus asks.
Simon hopes his face doesn’t betray him. He hopes his lips aren’t swollen from kissing Wille so much, “Had to get some air.”
“Well the choir performance has been cancelled. The whole fucking party is over, actually, thanks to that dick.”
“Oh. Right.”
“So we can leave any time,” Marcus smiles expectantly, taking both of Simon’s hands in his, “I really need a shower, but after that I’m yours for the night.”
“Yeah, um,” Simon wriggles his hands free and shoves them in his pockets, “I think I’m just gonna go home. This was a lot.”
Marcus’ smile falters, “I thought we had plans.”
“Yeah. Sorry,” Simon looks away, “I’m not really in the mood any more.”
“I didn’t have to come here tonight,” Marcus sighs dramatically, “I didn’t have to waste my time with these assholes. I did that for you.”
“What? So now I owe you?”
“I didn’t say that. Why do you always have to twist everything?!”
“I’m not! I…”
“Look,” Marcus cuts him off, “we both know you’ve made some bad choices, but this constantly needing to be the victim thing is a bit immature, don’t you think?”
Simon scowls, “I don’t ’need to be the victim.’ You’re the one who fought with Wille! You’re the one who made this big scene, and”
“Hang on,” Marcus blinks at him, “how did you get cake on your shirt?”
Fuck. They’ve reached the light of the doorway. Simon looks down at himself, mortified when he realises. His shirt and blazer are streaked with icing at the front. There’s jam on his thighs where he straddled Wille’s legs. “Um…”
One screaming match and a very long walk home later, Simon slumps down onto his bed. He only just has the presence of mind to strip off his sticky uniform and toss it onto the floor before he crawls under the covers.
Wille’s sweater is still under his pillow. The one he took when he thought Wille wasn’t coming back. He presses the soft wool into his face and inhales deeply, trying to draw out every last molecule of Wille-ness hidden within the fibres. Kissing him tonight felt so good. Simon wishes Marcus hadn’t been around. He wishes they’d gone back to Forest Ridge, that he’d helped Wille wash off all that frosting in the shower.
His lips twitch into a smile at the thought. He settles on his side, hugging the sweater tighter as he falls asleep.