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Simon’s trying to be okay with staying in the palace more often. He’s put it off as much as he can, but sometimes it’s unavoidable if he wants to ever actually see his boyfriend. Especially since the move to Göteborg. He can’t always expect Wille to come across country to him.
So Simon puts up with the weirdness, and the awkwardness, and the vague, nagging sense that the very building itself objects to his presence. If it does, well, screw it. That only makes him more determined to stamp his presence here every way he can.
What’s harder to put up with is the cold. Ancient plumbing and high ceilings are apparently no match for a particularly chilly Swedish winter. Wille and his parents seem oblivious, wandering around in regular clothing when Simon’s so cold he’s half-convinced he can see his own breath when he speaks.
He only brought one thick jumper with him, and it appears to have vanished somewhere, possibly collected by an over-zealous maid collecting the prince’s laundry. So while Simon was waiting for Wille to finish his shower, he’d raided his wardrobe for a replacement, finding a thick, warm hoodie that’s several sizes too big for him. He can’t remember ever seeing Wille wear it before, but it’s absolutely perfect to wrap himself up in while he tucks his cold legs under the duvet and waits for his boyfriend to return.
“Take it off.”
Simon looks up from his phone in surprise. He hadn’t heard Wille come in. Then his automatic flirty response dies on his lips at the sight of Wille’s face.
“You heard me. Take. It. Off.”
“What?” says Simon, half-laughing in shock. He hasn’t seen Wille’s anger like that in months. Not directed at him, anyway.
“Now,” snaps Wille through gritted teeth. He looks like a different person to the one who’d left Simon alone in bed not ten minutes ago, loving and attentive and carefree.
Silent, disbelieving, Simon pulls off the hoodie and throws it over with bad grace. Wille picks it up slowly, almost reverently, stroking the worn fabric with trembling fingers. He sits down on the edge of the bed, back to Simon, and begins to fold the sweater into a neat square.
“Seriously, Wille. What the fuck?” He’s laughing again, a nervous reaction, because it’s either that or pack up his stuff and leave. All the old anxieties he thought they’d left in the past had flooded back at Wille’s words, reaching down somewhere deep inside and flipping painful switches.
There’s a pause before Wille replies, still not turning round. “It was Erik’s. I took it from his room after…” He trails off, takes in a shuddering breath. “Before the funeral.”
Well, it’s an explanation at least, if not an excuse. Simon exhales, heart rate beginning to settle back down and no longer two seconds away from fleeing the room. He’s still hurt and confused, but he can hear the hurt in Wille’s voice too now. It’s that which makes him slide across the bed to sit next to him, their feet dangling over the edge.
Simon doesn’t get too close though, keeping a careful distance between them as he waits.
“I’m sorry,” says Wille after a pause, and that’s something. He never used to apologise for his outbursts. “I shouldn’t have shouted. You didn’t know.”
Simon looks at his own hands, clasped together in front of him to stop himself from reaching out too soon. “No, I didn’t,” he says eventually, before raising his gaze to Wille’s pale face, seeing the tears in his eyes. “You really scared me there.”
“I’m sorry…”
“Don’t be sorry, just…” Simon sighs. “Explain it to me. Please.”
He’s fearful for a moment that Wille won’t answer, his jaw set and face unmoving. Every instinct Simon has longs to close that gap between them anyway, to take Wille’s hands in his and to forgive and forget. But he waits instead while Wille finds the words.
“I’m scared.”
“Scared?”
“Of forgetting.” He turns to face Simon with a watery, twisted smile. “Because I keep forgetting all the time now. Like this morning, I woke up with you and everything was perfect and I didn’t think about him once. And that’s most mornings now. And then when I do remember, I feel so fucking guilty.”
“He’d have wanted you to be happy,” says Simon, firm but cautious. He can feel himself edging out over a thin sheet of ice, knowing the wrong movement could break the fragile surface at any moment.
They almost never talk about Erik. Considering what happened the last time they tried to have a serious conversation about him, Simon has never been brave enough to raise the subject again. Perhaps that was a mistake, on both their parts.
“He loved you. He wouldn’t have wanted you to be stuck in grief forever.”
“Yeah. Maybe,” says Wille, staring at the hoodie on his lap. Gently, he smooths out the fabric with long fingers.
Simon inches closer, cutting the gap between them in half. “You never talk about him,” he says, greatly daring, and Wille looks up in surprise. “You can, you know. If you want to. You could tell me about him, what he was like. If it helps you to remember.”
“I’d like that,” Wille whispers. As his tears start to fall in earnest, Simon finally pulls him close, pouring every scrap of love and comfort into the hug that he can.