Chapter Text
Wille's POV
Wille lets out a sigh that feels like it's been building since May. He's attending his fifth wedding this summer. His best friend, Felice, is getting married to some girl. Perhaps her name is Sara. Felice was always mentioning her but Wille never really listened to deeply. He's just going to support his best friend.
The suit is orange. Not a nice orange, either. It's the color of a traffic cone, or a caution sign, or something you'd feed to a prisoner before an execution.
"I look silly, Felice."
Felice is behind him in the mirror, adjusting his own cuff links. He doesn't look up. "You look fine, Wille."
Wille tugs at the lapel. "I look like I'm about to direct traffic at a children's birthday party."
Felice finally meets his eyes in the glass. "You look supportive. That's the look you're going for, remember?"
"Yeah..sorry. It's just that this is my fifth wedding this summer and I'm just so tired of it all! And I keep seeing the same fucking guy at every. Single. Wedding." Wille complains. The last part doesn't sound much like a complaint since he might be catching feelings for this mystery guy.
Simon's POV
Simon is helping Sara carry around stuff for the wedding. He's carrying three garment bags, a duffel with Sara's shoes, and a small cooler she insisted on bringing. His arms are full, his neck is starting to ache and he's pretty sure one of these bags is dragging on the ground.
But he's trying. Anything for his sister.
Simon already knows what he wants to wear. He's going to wear a dark purple suit. He tried it on four times last week. He's going to be the best-dressed man at this wedding and he's going to enjoy himself.
Maybe someday it'll be him walking down the aisle or standing in front of an altar. He pictures it — him in a black suit, his mother crying in the front row, the lucky guy he's going to marry standing at the altar or walking down the aisle, beaming or completely nervous. Sara would give a speech about them growing up together. Everybody will have a fun time and dance and—
He walks straight into Sara's back.
"Simon!"
She stumbles forward, catching herself, and whirls around with a look that could peel paint. One of the garment bags slips from his grip and onto the hotel carpet with a soft thump.
"Sorry" he says and he's not sure if he's apologizing for the bump or for getting caught dreaming.
They take everything to Sara and Felice's room, not knowing that Felice is in there with someone else.
Simon pushes the door open with his shoulder, arms full of Sara's things.
"Felice?? Are you here? Sara is refusing to come in since she thinks —" he makes air quotes after putting the stuff down, even though no one can see him do it — "seeing the bride before the wedding is bad luck."
He turns around and stops yammering.
There's Felice, okay. Fine. And there's a guy in an orange suit that looks like it's actively fighting him. Felice is straightening the guy's collar like he's a groom and not a groomsman (although in this case he would be a bridesmaid for Felice except he is Felice's Maid of Honor).
Simon's mouth opens. Closes.
"I didn't know you had company," he says and his voice comes out a little too light. He looks at the guy in the suit. "I'm Simon. I'm Sara's brother. I'm —" he gestures vaguely at the bags, at the door, at the whole situation —"I'm going to stop talking now."
Simon practically runs out of the room in embarrassment. He rushes back down to meet Sara in the banquet hall.
Wille's POV
Wille's heart is going a million beasts per second. He just had an encounter with the mystery guy.
"Simon…Simon..Simon..Simon..Simon.."
He's murmuring it under his breath like a prayer, like a secret he's just discovered and can't stop turning over in his hands. There's a heat creeping up his neck, spreading across his cheeks. He's smiling. He's pretty sure he hasn't stopped smiling since Simon walked out of that room.
A finger pokes his cheeks.
"Earth to Wille! Are you alive?"
He blinks. Felice is staring at him with wide, knowing eyes.
"You look like you just saw the love of your life." Her voice goes up an octave. "Oh my fucking god!! Wille!! Are you in love with my future wife's brother?!" Felice practically squeals at this.
Willie makes a sound that's somewhere between a groan and a whimper. He sits down on the edge of the bed — hard — and buries his face in his hands. He nods.
Felice gasps.
"Oh my god. Oh.My.god."
"I know" Wille says into his palms. His voice is muffled. His face is on fire.
He lifts his head, and the words come tumbling out before he can stop them."He's just so perfect and awesome and pretty and cute and did I mention PERFECT?! And his name is Simon!" he says it like it's the most beautiful word he's ever heard — "Which makes him even more perfect!"
Felice stares at him for a long second. Then her expression softens into something warm and almost maternal. She wraps her arms around him and pulls him into her shoulder.
"You've got it bad," she says, and she sound way too pleased about it.
Simon's POV
Simon is having a crisis.
He's standing in the middle of the dressing room in his dark purple suit.
"Simon. Simon."
He blinks. Sara is waving a mascara wand in his face.
"I asked you three times if this looks even. You've been staring at that wall for five minutes."
"Sorry." he says, but he's already drifting again.
He didn't get his mystery guy's name. He walked into that room, saw the most beautiful man he's ever laid eyes on— orange suit, stupid, orange suit, why did it look so good on him — and he just. Froze. Said something dumb. And left
I'm going to stop talking now.
Who says that? Who walks into a room, sees a guy who looks like he was carved out of sunlight, and says I'm going to stop talking now?
Simon presses the heel of his palms into his eyes.
"You're doing it again." Sara says.
"I'm fine"
"You're not fine. You've been weird since you dropped off the bags. What happened?"
Simon drops his hands. Looks at his older sister. Considers lying.
"There was a guy," he says "In yours and Felice's room. In a suit."
Sara raises an eyebrow. "A suit."
"An orange suit."
Sara's other eyebrow goes up to join the first one.
"He was so hot, Sara. I didn't even get his name. I just stood there like an idiot and then I left."
"I think I know his name."
Simon perks up and turns to her so quickly. "Really? Sara please I beg you, give me his name!" Simon almost gets on his knees
"Fine, okay! His name is Wille. There! are you happy? He's Felice's best friend and he's Felice's maid of honor, just like how you're also my maid of honor. Plus you'll get to stand on the altar with him too."
Simon's whole face goes pink.
Wille's POV
Wille is going to bite his nails down to the bone. He's standing directly beside Simon — Simon, whose name he knows, whose name he's been whispering to himself for the past hour. He glances over to his side. The perfect curve of his skull. The way his purple suit fits across his shoulders like it was made for him. Which it probably was.
Wille's hand drifts up to his mouth. He catches himself. Drops it. Then brings it back up again.
Just look. One look. He won't even notice.
But he will. Simon will turn around and catch him mid-stare, and then he'll know. He'll know what Wille has been thinking about him all afternoon, that he's been repeating his name like a mantra, that he's already planning their future in his head.
The doors are still closed. The music is still playing. Simon's shoulder blades shift under the purple fabric, and Wille's heart stumbles over itself.
Don't look. Don't look. Don't—
He looks.
Simon's POV
Simon feels like before he consciously decides he does — a weight, a presence close enough to notice the heat of another body. He's been trying to steady himself, fold the panic into his chest and breathe through it, but then he senses movement beside him and the world thins.
He turns, almost without meaning to, a slow pivot that makes his sleeve whisper against his side. Wille's face is unnervingly close, earnest and flushes, eyes fixed on him like he's been caught mid-prayer. For a second Simon can't place the expression — is it fear? Awe? Adoration? It's all of them, tangled.
Wille's hand is half raised to his mouth, nails between his teeth, and when their eyes meet Simon's breath hitches. He expected surprise, he expected embarrassed, maybe a look that said sorry-we-just-met — not this open, ridiculous, stunned worship. His own chest answers with something hot and quick and utterly idiotic: the urge to smile.
"Hey," he says, voice low only Wille can hear. It's ridiculous in the best way, the most ordinary word, and it lands like an invitation. He lets the corner of his mouth tilt, a tiny crooked thing that doesn't give away anything except that he's pleased.
Wille goes even redder, if that's possible, and start to look like he might melt into the carpet. Simon Swallows and realizes he can either step back into the sensible life — sister, ceremony, duty — or he can lean into whatever this. The purple suit makes the choice feel less fragile. He reaches, very carefully, and taps Wille's shoulder — not a patronizing pat, a real, deliberate contact.
"You're staring" he says, half-grin now, teasing enough to chase off some of the panic. "It's fine. I don't bite."
His pulse thuds a selfish, hopeful beat against his ribs. The doors still haven't opened. Around them, the world hums on, but in the small space between them Simon finds he doesn't want the music to start just yet.