Work Text:
The first time the thought crosses Wille’s mind is during a lazy Sunday afternoon. Simon is on the floor of their shared bedroom, song-writing journal splayed out in front of him, guitar in hand, and curls ever so beautifully backlit by the sun beaming in through the window.
Wille has known since very early on in their relationship that music was something incredibly important to Simon–he would catch Simon humming and singing to himself while cooking or tapping out rhythms on his lap.
He’s never really had the desire to hear. Despite his oral upbringing, he’s more than accepted his Deafness and can certainly enjoy music in his own way. Something about Simon, though–something about seeing his boyfriend in his element, creating music, and doing what he loves makes him wish he could experience it in the same way.
Wille lingers in the doorway for a while before Simon looks up from his notebook.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” He signed lazily. Wille smiles but hesitates. “What’s up?” Simon asks, noticing.
“Sometimes I wish I could hear you.” Simon blinks, taken off guard — not hurt, just caught by surprise.
“Hear me?” He treads carefully with the question.
Wille nods, eyes soft. “It’s not that I wish I wasn’t Deaf or anything, you know I’ve more than come to terms with that… It’s just–” He pauses, hands lingering in the air as he searches for the words, “Singing and music are so important to you, I wish I could experience it like you do.” Simon’s face softens, and he sets his guitar down, the strings letting out a faint hum as it rests against the carpet. He pushes himself up to sit cross-legged and pats the space on the floor in front of him.
Wille doesn’t hesitate. Once he’s close, Simon reaches for his hands, holding them lightly in his own, thumbs brushing over Wille’s knuckles like he’s grounding himself. His expression is quiet, thoughtful.
“I don’t know what to say,” he signs honestly. “I’ve never really thought about it like that before.” Wille gives him a small smile, sinking into his shoulders, a little embarrassed now that the words are out. But Simon’s grip tightens slightly, reassuring, not pulling away.
“I don’t think that’s a bad thing, Wille,” The one hand still covering Wille’s brush over his knuckles again, “You can be proud of your Deafness and still want to experience my singing.” Wille smiles softly, freeing one of his hands as well.
Wille smiles softly, freeing one hand. “I know, it’s just… part of me feels like I’m betraying all the work I put into accepting my Deafness,” he signs, hands slowing as the words grow heavier. “Growing up oral, lip-reading, hiding my Deafness because of my parents—it took a huge toll on my self-image. Now it feels like I’m going backward.”
Simon watches him for a moment, expression unreadable–not because he doesn’t understand, but because he’s feeling it all. Then he shifts, brings Wille’s hand to his chest, and holds it there.
“I know I don’t fully understand, but I don’t think you’re regressing,” he signs slowly, holding Wille’s gaze. “You’re just... wanting. And that’s not the same thing.”
Wille blinks at that, a little caught off guard.
Simon keeps going. “You’re allowed to want things. Even things you can’t fully have. It doesn’t make you less Deaf, or less proud of who you are.”
There’s a long pause. Wille doesn’t respond right away. His eyes flicker down to Simon’s chest, where his hand still rests. He can feel Simon’s heartbeat under his palm–steady, grounding.
After a moment, Wille signs, quieter: “I think I just want to feel close to you. In your world.”
Simon’s heart squeezes. He doesn’t say anything more–just leans forward and presses a soft kiss to Wille’s forehead.
Then, as he pulls back, he signs, “Let me think on it.”
Wille tilts his head, confused. “Think on what?”
Simon shrugs, but there’s a little glint in his eyes now, something determined. “Maybe there’s a way for you to feel it. The way I sing. The way I mean it.”
Wille opens his mouth like he wants to protest, but then closes it again. Simon’s not offering some grand fix. He’s not trying to “solve” anything. He’s just... reaching back.
He nods. “Okay,” Wille signs. “Just don’t make it corny.”
Simon grins. “No promises.”
Over the next few weeks, Simon works relentlessly on finishing his song. He decided that if he was going to learn how to interpret a song for Wille to experience, he wanted it to be one of his own. It felt extra special–it felt…right.
Once Simon completed his song, he immediately turned to the internet to learn more about song interpretations in sign language. While Simon was fairly proficient in his signing, mostly thanks to having had a Deaf boyfriend for the past year, he was aware that interpreting songs in sign language wasn’t just about turning the lyrics into their signed equivalents; it was more about conveying the feeling , the message.
What he didn’t realize, however, was how difficult it could be to learn. He thought that using his own song would make it easier because he knew the meaning behind all his lyrics; he wrote them, of course, he did. But he soon realized that figuring out how to convey his song accurately in sign language was going to take a lot more effort.
More than once, he found himself signing out a line only to realize it didn’t feel right — too stiff, too literal. The rhythm didn’t flow naturally, or the signs lacked the weight he wanted them to carry.
So, he kept tweaking. He watched dozens of interpretations online, pausing and rewinding to catch the way certain performers used their faces–the tilt of a brow, the softness in their eyes, the subtle movements between signs that weren’t words at all, just emotion.
He even texted Sara, who had Deaf classmates in her college ASL club, asking if she knew anyone who might be open to giving him feedback. She didn’t pry–just sent him a few names and reminded him to bring snacks if he was going to ask for their time.
Simon ended up sitting in on a workshop Zoom call one evening, watching people interpret popular songs together, breaking down not just what the lyrics said, but what they meant. He barely said a word, just took notes and paid attention.
It was humbling. And honestly? A little overwhelming.
There were nights he almost gave up–when he practiced in the mirror for hours, only to feel like he looked ridiculous. He’d get stuck on a line for half an hour, fingers cramped and mind racing, thinking, What if this comes out cheesy? What if it doesn’t land at all?
But then he’d think about Wille’s hand on his chest. About the way Wille looked at him that day on the floor, like he wanted to reach into the music and wrap himself in it, not to hear it, but to feel close.
And suddenly, the effort didn’t feel like pressure. It felt like a gift.
Finally, after nearly three weeks of brainstorming, workshops, and feedback from the local Deaf community in Stockholm, he was sitting on the bed, laptop and notebook laid out in front of him. He was rehearsing one of the verses again, trying to perfect it, when it was like the final piece of a puzzle fell into place. The weeks of work he’d put in finally all clicked together in his brain to form a full, complete picture, and suddenly he just knew.
Simon didn’t want the moment itself to be too rehearsed or planned. He wanted it to be special, of course, but he knew if he planned it all out, it would just feel manufactured, and that is definitely not how he wanted it to go. He didn’t want Wille sitting on the couch expecting some performance, waiting for a big romantic gesture; he wanted it to feel like them.
So he waited, not for a perfect time, but for a quiet one.
It happens on a Wednesday evening, almost by accident.
They’d spent the afternoon running errands, then made dinner together–nothing fancy, just pasta and garlic bread–and now they’re curled up on the couch, Wille’s feet tucked under Simon’s thigh, a blanket pooled around both of them.
The TV is on, volume low, but neither of them is really paying attention. Wille’s half-scrolling on his phone, and Simon is absently flipping through his notebook, fingers tracing the edges of the pages.
He doesn’t know why, but it just hits him, suddenly. This is the moment, this is what he’s been waiting for. He waves in front of him, catching Wille’s attention. Wille doesn’t say anything, just scrunches his nose in a way that Simon has come to learn is his way of asking ‘what’s up?’
“I’ve been working on something… for you,” Wille’s eyebrows raise in surprise. Simon’s hands hang in the air, searching for the words before he continues.
“It’s probably easier for me to just show you instead of explain.” Wille turns slightly, setting his entire focus on Simon, signaling him to continue. And so he did
The song unfolds slowly–Simon’s signs flowing from one to the next like he’s pouring the lyrics directly from his chest. His face does half the work; brows furrowing on certain lines, softening on others, like his entire body is in conversation with the music, even though no sound fills the room.
He doesn’t rush. He signs slowly and deliberately, barely blinking, his hands moving through the air like he’s painting it with meaning. There’s a rawness to it, an honesty that makes Wille’s chest ache.
Lines about connection, about feeling seen, about how love doesn’t have to be loud to be heard. Simon’s body does more than sign; it communicates. He shifts closer with each verse, like gravity’s pulling him toward Wille. Like this is a language that’s only ever meant to exist between them.
When it ends, Simon doesn’t say anything. He just lets his hands drop to his lap and exhales slowly. Wille’s eyes are glistening, the faint glow of the TV bouncing off his tears, somehow making him look even more beautiful. Even more vulnerable.
He doesn’t say anything, just leans forward, gently cupping Simon's face, kissing him like it means everything. Eventually, Wille pulls back enough to sign, clumsily but clearly
“That’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me.”
Simon smiles–small, crooked, overwhelmed in the best way. He doesn’t try to speak, doesn’t even sign anything right away. He just lets himself feel it; Wille’s hand still warm on his cheeks, their foreheads close enough to touch. The air between them heavy with something unspoken and full.
Finally, Simon reaches for Wille’s hand and laces their fingers together.
“I was so scared it wouldn’t come out right,” he signs, thumb brushing over Wille’s knuckles. “That it wouldn’t be enough.”
Wille shakes his head, eyes never leaving him, “It was more than enough.” A pause. Then, teasing, “Even if it was kind of corny.”
Simon laughs silently, the breath leaving him in a little puff, “You like corny.”
“I like you ,” Wille corrects, pressing their joined hands to his chest.
They sit in that quiet for a while–TV still flickering softly in the background, but neither of them cares. Eventually, Wille leans back, pulling Simon with him until they’re tucked side by side again, sharing the same blanket, the same breath.
“I can’t believe I ever thought I needed to hear your voice to be a part of your world.” Simon looks up, not quite sure how to respond. “Seeing you show it to me in my way was more special than anything I could have heard. Thank you.”
Simon doesn’t answer right away. He just shifts closer, pressing his face into the curve of Wille’s neck, and lets out a long breath–like he’s finally exhaled something he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
He signs, against Wille’s collarbone, slow and sure, “Thank you for letting me show you.”
Wille’s arms wrap around him instinctively, pulling him in tighter. They stay like that, tangled up, not needing anything more than the warmth between them.
Outside, the city moves on–cars passing, lights flickering behind windows, someone’s music playing a few doors down–but in their little apartment, in this soft corner of the world they’ve made together, everything feels still.
There are no more words. No more signs. Just two boys, and a silence full of love.