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“Hello?”
“Hello?”
Simon presses the phone to his ear. Someone is breathing on the other end. Maybe it’s a spam call.
Just as he’s about to hang up, the person says, “Erik?”
“Sorry,” Simon replies. “Wrong number.”
“No! Wait!”
The voice sounds panicky and something about it makes Simon grip the phone tighter. He stays quiet, though, waiting for the other person to say something.
“Please don’t go.” The voice is barely a whisper, and unless Simon’s ears are deceiving him, the person is crying.
“I’m here.” Simon isn’t sure what he was supposed to do, but he doesn’t want to hang up just yet. Something is off though. “Are you drunk?”
The person chuckles. “A little.” Then, after a pause, there’s a sniff and, “I must have pressed the wrong numbers. Sorry. It’s dark. And, yeah, I’m drunk. I— What’s your name?”
Simon only thinks about it for a moment before deciding there’s no harm in answering. “Simon.”
“Hi, Simon. I’m Wille.”
“Hi, Wille.”
The line goes quiet again as Wille breathes. Simon holds his own breath – it isn’t clear what for.
Then Wille says, “I was trying to call my brother.”
“Oh.” Simon doesn’t know what to say to that. “Okay. Do you… want to call him now?”
Wille’s breath hitches. “I— I can’t. He’s dead.”
Fuck.
“Oh. I, uhm, I’m really sorry, Wille.”
It feels odd saying a stranger’s name like that. But it appears to have been the right thing because Wille gives another huge sniff and then lets out a choked, “Thank you, Simon.”
That first phonecall only lasted five minutes. But two weeks later, Wille calls again.
Simon is in the pizzeria with Rosh and Ayub. He blinks down at his phone, something strange happening to his stomach as he listens to it buzz.
“Who the fuck is ‘Wille’?” Rosh demands.
Without replying, Simon snatches the phone off the table and dashes out of the door before answering.
“Hey.”
“Simon. I wasn’t sure if you’d answer. I thought you might have blocked me.”
Simon laughs as a weight lifts off his shoulders. “I did think about it.”
“Well.” Wille’s voice is warmer than Simon remembers. “I’m really glad you didn’t.”
They become a semi-regular occurrence, the phonecalls. And Simon finds himself looking forward to them.
Wille is sweet, and earnest, and not funny in the slightest, but he still makes Simon laugh.
One afternoon, as autumn is racing towards winter, his phone rings. Simon finds himself smiling at the screen before he answers.
“Hey,” he says. “How are you?”
The first sound down the line is a sniff, and it catapults Simon back to that first call almost six months ago.
“Wille? What’s wrong?”
Another sniff and then Wille’s watery voice replies, “Hey, Simon. Sorry. I— I wasn’t sure who…”
“Tell me,” Simon says as Wille trails off. “You can talk to me.”
Wille gives a strange hiccupy laugh. “I know I can. You’re so— Thank you, Simon. You don’t know how much I appreciate you.”
Warmth floods Simon’s chest, but he tries to push it away in favour of consoling Wille. “What’s wrong?”
Wille takes a breath. “It’s the anniversary today. Of Erik’s death.”
“Oh, fuck,” Simon breathes. “I’m so sorry. I— Is there someone there? To be with you today?”
There’s a long pause before Wille answers.
“I wish you were here.”
Mourners gather in the streets of Stockholm to mark the first anniversary of Crown Prince Erik’s death.
Simon’s head darts up as he stares at the TV screen.
It can’t be… Wille can’t possibly be—
He lurches for his phone.
It’s two days before Simon gets hold of Wille.
“Hey, Simon.” Wille sounds better. “What’s up?”
“I know who you are, Wille. You don’t have to pretend.”
There is a long stretch of quiet, Simon holding his breath, waiting for something. Anything.
The line goes dead.
“Excuse me.”
“Sorry.”
The street is busy with Christmas shoppers, snow swirling from the sky as people duck their chins into their scarves and try to get home quickly.
“Can I just get—”
“My bad.”
Simon has one thing left to buy, and then he’s done. He’s just turning into a side street when he hears, “Simon?”
Whipping around, Simon stops, all the breath going from his lungs. Wille, his Wille, is standing on the street corner, staring at him.
“Wille.”
With three big strides, Wille is right in front of him, eyes wide. “I— Your voice. I heard you from—”
Simon tilts his chin up defiantly. “I thought you didn’t want to speak to me again.”
Wille just shakes his head, reaches out, cups Simon’s cheeks with his hands, and kisses him. Simon drops all his bags and reaches up to wrap his arms around Wille. Solid and warm and finally – finally – here.