Archive of Our Own

Rain falls on the tinted windows of the black Audi from a sky the colour of heavy cement as they make their way through the wet spring landscape. Wilhelm’s fingers are linked firmly with Simon’s, just the way he prefers it, his thumb tracing little patterns on the back of his knuckles.   

He looks at Simon who gazes out his window at the late afternoon sliding by, his body slightly tense in the car seat. From the way he grows quieter and quieter the closer they get to Stockholm, Wilhelm knows he’s nervous. 

By habit, he peeks at Malin in the driver’s seat before shifting as close to Simon as his seatbelt allows and resting his head on his shoulder. After a moment he buries his nose in the crook of Simon’s neck and brushes a kiss under his earlobe where he smells like almonds and a pinch of infinity. 

“Du..." he mumbles when they finally start up the driveway to the palace, swallowing down his own nerves that begin to well up. 

Simon’s eyes tear themselves away from the window and meet Wilhelm’s. There’s a tight little smile on his lips.

“Are you okay?” Wilhelm asks with a squeeze of Simon’s hand.

Inclining his head in a little nod, Simon’s smile softens. “I’m just a little nervous.”

With a soothing kiss on the inside of Simon’s wrist, Wilhelm says, “It’s only gonna be us, remember? But we can always book a hotel room if it all becomes too much. I really don’t mind, baby.”

“No, I–” A pretty shade of pink rises in Simon’s cheeks at the pet name that still feels so new. “I wanna do this. I wanna stay here with you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Simon assures him.

The car pulls up close to the main entrance of the private part of the palace, Wilhelm’s childhood home, and Wilhelm can’t help the little loop his heart does in his chest. And Simon leans in and presses their lips together, feeling it in his own.

Wilhelm chews on the inside of his cheek as he steals glances at Simon from where he’s sitting on his bed, textbook open but ignored on his lap. His desk is a mess of worksheets, books, and satsuma peels, his chair occupied by a beautiful curly-haired boy in a t-shirt and yellow-chequered flannel, his cocoa-brown eyes flying over sentence after sentence.

Sometimes Simon hums a little melody to himself while scribbling in his notebook, focused and far away in his homework. There’s a slight scratch to his angel voice, which causes a stir in Wilhelm’s chest and sends sparks through his veins all the way to the tips of his fingers.

The light from the desk lamp mixed with the red glow of the string lights above his bed paints the room in a dim glow which usually makes Wilhelm sleepy. But tonight he feels a familiar weight on his chest that tightens his lungs. There’s something he wants to ask Simon but the words keep wedging themselves into the back of his throat.

He tries to focus on his book but can only keep his gaze on the pages for fleeting moments at a time before it wanders back to Simon. The curve of Simon’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, his lips pouting slightly in concentration.

With a little cough to clear his throat, Wilhelm finally shakes his voice loose. “You know how we get to go home next weekend?”

“Mhm,” Simon hums around a slice of satsuma, jotting down notes.

“I was thinking… Would you maybe, uhm–I mean–” Wilhelm fumbles, running a hand through his hair and closing his eyes for a brief moment in an attempt to calm the nerves clawing at him. 

Simon stays quiet and lets him take his time. While still keeping his eyes on his notebook, he turns his face slightly towards Wilhelm to let him know he’s listening.

With a little inhale Wilhelm decides just to let it tumble out. “Do you want to spend the weekend with me at home in Stockholm?”

Simon’s head snaps up towards him, his pencil abruptly stopping its scribbling. “Home? As in the palace?”

His tone is difficult to interpret and Wilhelm does his best not to let his eyes flicker away. He scratches the back of his neck and nods. “Yeah. I mean you don’t have to, of course, but mama and papa are away on a state visit to The Netherlands from Thursday to Sunday so we’d have it all to ourselves which, I don’t know, I thought could be kinda nice? So yeah, at the… at the palace, yeah,” he stammers.

The corners of Simons’s lips lift, his face softening a bit, and Wilhelm’s heart flutters in his ribcage. 

“”Kinda nice,”" Simon says with a smirk, getting up from the desk. On socked feet, he pads over the carpet to Wilhelm’s bed, takes Wilhelm’s textbook and tosses it onto the mattress before gliding up astride his lap. His knees press against him on either side and Wilhelm lets his hands settle where Simon’s hips meet his thighs.

Simon cards through Wilhelm’s fringe and rests a hand on his chest, absentmindedly hooking his forefinger into the collar of Wilhelm’s jumper. “Aren’t you supposed to go with them, though? You know, royal duties and all that.”

Wilhelm shakes his head. After his speech at the jubilee, The Queen had given him a very firm reprimand, which, honestly, he’d foreseen. But when she wrapped him up in a long, tight hug, it caught him completely off guard. He remembers how his shoulders sank from his ears as the stress slowly seeped out of his body, and for the first time in God knows how long he was in his mama’s arms.

The world and the Crown have done cruel things to his mother before she was his mother. It’s not an excuse for the way she took control and acted on his behalf, but an explanation. Wilhelm can’t forgive her yet, he might not ever be able to, but he… He understands.

“I think mama finally realised that she needs to give me some space and just let me be me for a while now, let me land on my own feet. That I’m—that we—” he corrects himself, “are only 16 and have experienced something traumatic and that she fucked up and made the wrong decisions.” His heart squeezes faintly and he drops his gaze, fiddling with a loose thread on the hem of Simon’s flannel. 

The reactions to his speech had been overwhelming, to say the least. But he’d expected nothing less. What he hadn’t anticipated was the tremendous amount of support from all over the world that had been sent his and Simon’s way. Instagram had overflowed with clips of him looking back at Simon, his eyes saying ‘ I love you. I choose you, always. We deserve to be free.’ He’d been sent so many hearts and sweet messages that he had to delete the app from his phone for a bit, simply to prevent himself from floating away in his giddy mind. Instead, he and Simon sank into each other’s arms, locked themselves up in his room and stayed there for the weekend, just the two of them.

They talked, their words messy and stuttering at first before they slowly but surely untangled and found their way down new, meandering roads as endless as air. They slept, front to back, head to chest, forehead to forehead. And then they kissed and touched, kissed and touched until their lips ached and their bodies felt both heavy and feather-light.

With Simon, a solid, sleep-warm weight only ever a pinkie finger’s space away, he could put his title and his obligations aside and just be what he truly was and had been all along: a hormonal teenage boy choked with adoration and affection for another teenage boy.

In the couple of weeks since, he, his parents, and their team of advisers had spent many hours talking about how they should move forward. It felt ridiculous discussing his love life with such formality, but it was necessary. For once, he was calm, collected, and well-spoken. With his back straight in the chair at the head of the table, he stated his requirements, making his opinion clear that the royal court would benefit from more transparency, that Simon and he wouldn’t keep their relationship a secret or sneak around in order to protect the Crown, that Simon didn’t owe anything to the court, and that he should be kept out of the spotlight as far as possible. And his parents, his mother, accepted it. Maybe he imagined it, but there might even have been a pinch of pride in her eyes.

The pressure and responsibilities of his title still hang off his frame like a coat ten sizes too big. But he’ll be his own couturier, determined to make it fit.

“In the last few weeks she has actually acted like my mother, and it… it feels really good,” he finishes quietly.

Simon’s mouth curves in a fond smile and with gentle fingers skimming his jawline he tilts Wilhelm’s face back up. “Älskling.” His dark, brown eyes crinkle at the corners, and Wilhelm’s lips search for him. 

“I understand if you don’t want to go,” he hurries to say. “I mean after… after everything. But you’ve already shown me where you live and have grown up, and I want to do the same for you. Because I love you, and I want you in my life, and I always feel so lonely up the–”

A press of warm, satsuma-tasting lips cuts him off mid-sentence. Wilhelm takes in a trembling breath through his nose and tangles his fingers in the curls at the nape of Simon’s neck. 

“You sure the crown is okay with having a working-class, fuck-the-monarchy commoner staying for a weekend?” Simon mumbles as he pulls back, equal parts cocky and insecure.

“They’re okay with it.” Wilhelm slips a hand under Simon’s t-shirt and gives his waist a playful squeeze. “You really got carried away with that whole fuck-the-monarchy mentality of yours, didn’t you.”

Simon shakes his head at himself in disbelief. “I can’t believe I just neglected my principles like that,” 

A little smirk weaves its way into Wilhelm’s voice. “I’m not complaining.”

“I bet you’re not,” Simon mutters with a little eye roll before cradling Wilhelm’s cheek and smoothing his thumb over his cheekbone. “I guess you’re worth abandoning a few principles for.” 

Like a love-sick puppy, Wilhelm nuzzles into his touch. “So…” he says gently, searching Simon’s face. “What do you say?”

As if steeling himself Simon takes a deep breath. And then he nods with a soft, loving sigh that draws Wilhelm in like a magnet. “Okay.”

In his purple hoodie and yellow backpack, Simon looks awestruck and out of place as Wilhelm leads him through room after room. The private part of the palace could somewhat resemble a home if it wasn’t for the endless hallways, the sky-high, decorated ceilings, the doors embedded with elaborate 24-carat gold ornaments, and the countless rooms that barely ever see the presence of a living being. 

Wilhelm really can’t blame the way Simon’s shoulders have risen towards his ears in intimidation, the way his body seems to curl slightly in on itself as though it’s trying to convince him that he’s a foreign object in the process of being rejected. More often than not Wilhelm feels like that himself.

As they pass through the third drawing room, Simon comments, “So this is what our tax money goes to, huh?” 

And Wilhelm barks out a laugh at the absurdity of it all. Silently declaring the tour over, he finds Simon’s hand and tugs him along to his room.

“Holy shit,” Simon breathes as they enter. The polished floorboards creak faintly under his feet as he places his backpack by the bed and starts wandering around, taking it all in. He gingerly runs the tips of his fingers along the mantelpiece, lingering for a moment at the photo of Wilhelm and Erik frozen in a moment of brotherly love and playfulness, before turning back to Wilhelm “This is your room?”

Letting his gaze roam the space, Wilhelm sees it through Simon's eyes, the luxurious king bed, the obnoxious crystal chandelier, the tall windows looking out over the vast lake, not to mention the designer couch and the large flat screen TV in the adjoining room visible through the double doors. He shoves his hands into his pockets to stop himself from nervously picking at the skin around his thumbnails and exhales a sheepish hum.

“Your room is the size of my house,” Simon says in astonishment.

Wilhelm presses his lips together in a little smile to stop himself from laughing. ”Well, you’re tiny, everything looks huge to you.”

Simon shoots him an unimpressed look. “Fuck you, I’m not that short.”

With a soft smile, Wilhelm closes the door to his room and pads up to Simon, inviting himself into his personal space. He’s half a head taller than Simon and he revels in their height difference and how Simon has to tilt his face to look him in the eye. 

Crossing his arms over his chest, Simon raises his chin at him. “Be careful with your next words.”

A swarm of teeny tiny bird wings, feathered and light, tickles the inside of Wille’s ribs, and he combs through Simon’s hair, tucking a few locks behind his ear. “Tiny and feisty,” he says. 

Simon brings his hand up to his neck in a throat-slitting motion, his forearm grazing Wilhelm’s chest with how close they’re standing.

Wilhelm just watches the silky curls sift through his fingers and bounce back into place. The words slip out of him in a mesmerised whisper. “And perfect.”

Something melts in Simon’s expression. He unfurls his arms and brings his hands into Wilhelm’s, interlacing their fingers. By beautiful instinct, their faces come together until they’re connected at the tips of their noses.

“You’re perfect,” Wilhelm repeats with a whisper because how could he not? 

Simon looks at him and says it sincerely and effortlessly, as though he has said it his whole life when in reality it has only been three weeks, “Jag älskar dig.”

And god. Those words. Those three words. Wilhelm needs them like he needs oxygen to breathe. “Say it again,” he whispers, his heart fumbling in his chest. 

Brushing a kiss against the left corner of Wilhelm’s mouth, Simon murmurs, “Jag.” Another lands on the right. “Älskar.” And a third is pressed firmly against his lips. “Dig.”

Wilhelm is so in love he feels nauseous. What a lovesick tragedy he is.

Their mouths meet halfway and it makes something thick and sticky run down Wilhelm’s core. He curls his fingers into the thick fabric of Simon’s hoodie, bunches it up around his chest and peels it off Simon’s outstretched arms. Wilhelm’s jumper soon follows, landing in a melted pile beside Simon’s.

Simon guides Wilhelm’s arms around his middle and throws his own around Wilhelm’s neck, pulling him close. His bare waist is the perfect size for Wilhelm to cover with his hands and it has both of them sighing when he does. A slightly frayed boxer brief elastic peeks out over the waistband of Simon’s jeans, and as Wilhelm starts to back Simon towards his bed he snakes the tips of his fingers under it, digging them into the top of the soft swell of him.

When they land in bed, Simon all but gasps against him, releasing a hand from Wilhelms’s neck and burying it in the sheets. He runs his palm over the silky-soft fabric. “Am I floating on a fucking cloud?”

Wilhelm drops his forehead onto Simon’s sternum with a little laugh. His chest is smooth and sweet-smelling, the faint, familiar scent of fabric softener from his shirt clinging to his skin. “It’s bamboo,” Wilhelm mumbles, almost embarrassed.

“Why are you getting shy now?” Simon chuckles, wrapping his arms around Wilhelm’s neck.

Groaning, Wilhelm grinds his forehead harder against the breastbone under him. “Because it’s all so ridiculous.”

“Oh, poor you.” Simon tugs on a fistful of Wilhelm’s dirty blond hair. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you to sleep in the softest sheets ever made in a room the size of a small apartment. My heart goes out to you.” 

Wilhelm finally comes out of hiding and rests his chin on Simon’s chest, peeking up at him through his eyelashes. Despite Simon’s slightly mocking tone, there’s a teasing, light-hearted glint in his gaze that sparkles along with the reflection of the dim light on the bedside table. He’s golden, Wilhelm thinks. Golden and divine and his. It makes something warm meander through his veins.

Raising himself on his forearms, he cages Simon in. He’s a breathtaking mess of dark, dark curls spilling over his forehead and coiling around his earlobes; of slightly chapped lips the colour of which could easily make Wilhelm cry; of playful eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

Wilhelm leans down and hovers just a breath from Simon’s mouth. He brushes a soft “Fuck you” against Simon’s bottom lip.

Simon’s lips part in a breathy laugh, “Yes, please.”

He has Simon’s sugar tongue in his mouth within seconds, lapping up every little exquisite sound.

The fact that this is part of his life now—Simon’s body pressed flush against his own, the obscene sound of their lips latching on and letting go in long lingering kisses—sends shivers down his spine. In an ideal world, his being able to have this—another boy in his bed, their clothes discarded messily on the floor—shouldn’t feel so revolutionary. But here in this place that has carried tradition and expectations and stiff formalities for centuries and centuries, it does. It feels groundbreaking. And so, so right.

Hands travel across the long plane of Wilhelm’s back up his nape and into his hair, and the ache at the pit of Wilhelm’s stomach starts leaking into his legs, his chest, his arms in thick, syrupy streams.

He runs his palm over the lean lines of muscle on Simon’s torso before snaking a hand around the small of his back, pressing against his tailbone to get him closer. Simon’s pulse is heavy against his tongue when he sucks a kiss into the junction between his neck and shoulder.

“Wille,” Simon mumbles, pulling gently on his locks to get his attention. “I know that no one can see us up here, but could you please…” He nods in the direction of the curtains.

Wilhelm’s heart pinches with the knowledge that this will follow them around for a long, long time. 

He kisses Simon long and hard before pushing off the bed. In his longing haze, he nearly trips over Simon’s hoodie on the floor, making Simon snort.

“Shut up,” Wilhelm shoots back over his shoulder, unable to suppress a smile as he makes his way to the windows to close the curtains. The white, flowy fabric covers his messy-haired reflection and the darkness behind the rain-soaked panes. And then it’s just them. Simon and Wilhelm. Wilhelm and Simon. When the curtains are closed they’re safe, safe with each other. And that’s how it’s going to be for now.

Every word but pretty leaves his vocabulary when he turns back towards Simon, a honey-dark work of art draped in his expensive cream sheets. The lamp on his bedside table paints his collarbones in deep shadows and liquid gold, weaves into his curls and accentuates his cheekbones. And his bedroom eyes, dark, starry pools of want, draw Wilhelm back like a moth to a blazing candle flame.

Wilhelm’s heart trembles in awe at the thought that he’s getting to explore Simon in every light, getting to see how his skin reacts to every touch and how it feels on every surface of his body. He knows that pale morning light turns his complexion the colour of a warm cup of milky tea; that his chest flushes rosy-red with every open-mouthed kiss; that the insides of his thighs–Wilhelm’s favourite places to lick–are smooth and firm.

When the world saw a short moment of them at their most intimate, everyone—as if they suddenly thought they knew all about them—expressed opinions neither of them had ever asked for. But the world will never know the devastatingly gorgeous sounds Simon exhales against his neck when he’s in the pit of pleasure, or the star map of chocolate birthmarks on his left hip, or the feeling of his breath swirling against his earlobe when they’re cheek to cheek. They’ll never get the sight of his trembling muscles or hear his fond laughter when Wilhelm knocks his elbow into the wall while trying to manoeuvre his long limbs around in the tiny Hillerska bed. 

Even though Wilhelm is far from there yet, he’s going to know and understand Simon better than anyone else. 

With a little smile and a stretch of his torso that makes Wilhelm’s mouth water, Simon reaches down into his backpack and pulls out a bottle of lube and a packet of condoms. Then he leans back in the sheets, unzips his pants, and waits for Wilhelm to come over and finish undressing him. 

Wilhelm’s hands itch to touch. His feet take him back to bed, and he wastes no time hooking his fingers under the waistband of both Simon’s jeans and underwear, watching goosebumps rise on the expanse of Simon’s thighs as he strips him bare. 

There in his bed, Simon is so devastatingly gorgeous, and when Wilhelm hovers over him and tells him how stupidly in love he is with him, Simon looks at him as though he won’t ever tire of him, won’t ever get enough.

His hands travel down Wilhelm’s stomach and find the button and zipper of his jeans. And Wilhelm physically can’t remove both of his hands from Simon at the same time, has to always touch him somewhere, so he clumsily pushes down his jeans one-handedly. He almost succeeds in undressing himself fully until a pant leg gets stuck around his ankle. He kicks his foot sharply behind him, but the denim only flails around with his movements' urgency.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he mutters, reaching down to tug harshly at the stubborn fabric, which draws the most wonderful, toothy, crinkly-eyed laugh from Simon. 

“You’re such a disaster,” Simon grins, his head tipped back and his cheeks blossoming pink. 

And Wilhelm’s legs fucking buckle a little at how lovely he is.

He strongly contemplates just letting his jeans be, but he really doesn’t want to look at his clothes for the rest of the weekend, just wants to look at Simon, Simon, Simon, naked and beautiful under him, so he reaches down, gives them a sharp tug, and tosses them somewhere far into the room. His underwear doesn’t cause him as much trouble and soon enough he lets Simon draw him back down by the neck. 

“And I’m obsessed with you,” Simon mumbles against his spit-slick lips with a smirk that Wilhelm wants to bite into. So he does.

His watering teeth sink into Simon’s bottom lip and the sound, oh, the sound, it pulls from the back of Simon’s throat, needy and indecent, makes him hungry, greedy for more. So he sucks Simon’s lower lip into his mouth, relishing the supple structure of it against his tongue.

Bitten and puffy, Simon’s lip bounces back when he lets go. Wilhelm leads with his mouth, smearing wet, sloppy kisses from the hinge of Simon’s jaw down the hard line of his sternum. Simon’s muscles react with goosebumps under the attention of his lips and the graze of his teeth, and when Wilhelm nips at his hip bone, he exhales a “Fuck” and works his fist into Wilhelm’s hair, his tugs always on the delicious side of painful. 

The want in Wilhelm’s belly unfolds like the purest white orchid. He loves Simon’s body and he loves the things it does to his own.

Although he’s still an absolute beginner, he’s also a very quick learner when it comes to this. In the safest places of his mind, he catalogues every little swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers, and every hollow of his cheeks that rewards him with Simon’s incoherent sentences and breathy yeses.q

From his place between Simon’s legs where he works him loose and pliant, he hears Simon purring his name. Fucking purring. The humming sound it punches from his throat makes Simon smile down at him through half-lidded eyes. Wilhelm licks and kisses his love into the softest places of him, watching under heavy eyelids how Simon slowly falls apart, how his mouth and mind grow slack.

When they’re finally connected it’s too much and not enough, never enough. 

A sigh escapes Wilhelm at the sight they must be making. Lanky, fair-skinned limbs covering a toned, caramel body; lips dragging down columns of sweaty necks; scent-molecules mingling together. Wilhelm wants Simon to touch him everywhere, everywhere, everywhere and it’s almost as if Simon reads his mind because he touches him everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. Droopy, foggy, unfocused eyes drink in every little birthmark and childhood scar. Wilhelm has missed Simon desperately, in a wild almost primal sort of way, and what he feels for him beats words. There could be angels walking the earth, and he’d still only have eyes for Simon.

Pinning Simon down with rolling hips, Wilhelm makes sure the scent of his sweat and cheap supermarket vanilla shampoo lingers in his luxury, dry-clean-only sheets. And Simon takes his name in his mouth and exhales it against his lips, neck, shoulder, for Wilhelm and Wilhelm only.

“Wille…” Simon breathes, sliding his palms over the slopes of his shoulders and clawing at the top of his spine. From the way he curls into him in pleasure, Wilhelm knows he’s on the brink.

Manoeuvring Simon’s legs around his hips and looping his own arms around Simon’s neck, they’re as close as they can physically get. Chest-deep moans flow from Simon’s mouth into Wilhelm’s, curling on his tongue and settling in his teeth. Still, he wants Simon closer, wants to hand him his soul, wants to unzip his body, crawl inside, and nestle up in the valleys of his ribs, wants to settle down somewhere deep in his chest so he never misses a thing. Love me, his heart whispers to Simon’s, and Simon’s whispers back, I do.

He finds who he is in the crooks of Simon’s body, finds all the soft places and human spaces inside himself. It feels mind-numbingly liberating. And his entire being undulates with it.

Dotingly he brushes his nose along the shell of Simon’s ear, whispering praise and affection and honey-sweet words. From the way Simon smiles against his neck he knows he will tease him for it later, but so be it.

When Simon lets him know that he’s about to come, tossing his head back against the pillow and displaying where Wilhelm’s mouth has left its blooming stamp on him at the base of his neck, the present moment becomes slippery and starts escaping Wilhelm’s grasp. Stars and suns plunge through the darkness behind his eyelids. Time stretches into hazy slow motion as his release takes flight. 

Simon follows him mere moments later, his breath catching sharply in his throat just before he lets go with shuddering sounds and tensing muscles. It’s a type of death that doesn’t end in a tombstone and raw pain. Like this, they could die again and again.

Digging his nails into Wilhelm’s shoulders, Simon mumbles a string of “stay, stay, stay,” as if Wilhelm was ever planning on leaving. He wants to stay right here inside Simon forever.

Sticky-chested they crumble against each other like ragdolls, Wilhelm tucking himself under Simon’s chin. A feathery touch down the bridge of his nose makes him tip his face up towards Simon in a half-stupefied state. The edges of his vision pulse in sync with his slowing heartbeat when he cracks his eyes open, their gazes locking in different shades of shimmering brown.

“Du är så fin.” Simon’s voice is barely above a whisper, the curve of his cupid’s bow irresistible and right there for Wilhelm to kiss. “Så fin.”

Wilhelm stretches his neck and catches Simon’s lips with his own. “You are.” His gaze stays glued to his lips for a few long moments before shyly meeting Simon’s again. “Was it good for you?”

Simon rolls his eyes and wraps his arms around Wilhelm’s head with a laugh. “Yes, it was good for me, you idiot. Does it not look like I just had the best sex of my life? ”

“Just making sure,” Wilhelm smiles, his cheek prickling with equal parts bashfulness and pride against Simon’s collarbone.

“You’re ridiculous.” When Simon pinches his side, Wilhelm’s hips give an involuntary jerk and their oversensitivity draws a wince out of them both.

Reluctantly, Wilhelm leaves the comfort of Simon’s body, sorting himself out a bit and slipping on his underwear before heading to the bathroom down the hallway to get a washcloth. A warm contentment has settled in his chest, and in the mirror he sees how it gives his cheeks a fresh, healthy glow. He can’t help the dopey smile on his lips. 

Back in his room, Simon looks much the same–content and fucked-out. Happy. He gives a little chuckle when Wilhelm cleans up his stomach and chest.

“Are you hungry?” Wilhelm asks, suddenly realising they haven’t had anything to eat since the snacks during the car ride.

“Starving. You know, you’re actually a terrible host, you haven’t even offered me anything to drink,” Simon teases.

Wilhelm swats at his chest with the washcloth. “Excuse me for getting distracted.”

Simon cups his cheeks and draws him back to his slightly puffy mouth. “Alright, you’re excused.” 

He makes as if to get out of bed, but Wilhelm stops him with a squeeze of his shoulder. “I’ll fix us something to eat. Let me spoil you.” Because he can, he picks up Simon’s purple hoodie from the floor and pulls it over his head, shrouding himself in Simon’s scent of almonds and washing powder. “You just stay here and look pretty.”

Sporting a pair of full-on glimmering heart eyes, Simon sinks back into the pillows. “No problem.”

With a kiss pressed against Simon’s stomach and a soft, “Älsker dig,” against his mouth, Wilhelm heads to the kitchen. 

He feels it immediately. The shift. The change in atmosphere. The place is still quiet and imposing, but in some way it feels less hollow. Less lonely. The air flows into his lungs without force.

In the kitchen, he moves around with ease, heating two plates of leftover vegan bolognese, filling a jug of water and carrying it all back on a tray.

They eat slouching against the headboard, and if Wilhelm is still wearing Simon’s hoodie because he wants to keep Simon shirtless, then sue him. He has the best lawyers in the country anyway.

Their bare legs tangle up under the covers, and Wilhelm, wiping his mouth with a napkin and tossing it on the floor, leans his head back and unabashedly drinks Simon in, in all his messy, beautiful teenage boy glory. Reaching up, he twists a few of his curls around his fingers. “I love your hair.”

A little smirk lifts the corners of Simon’s mouth. “Speaking of hair, tell me, how did you conclude that ”I got a haircut” was the best opener to go with when you saw me again?”  

Wilhelm slumps over and presses his face hard against Simon’s chest. “Don’t,” he groans, embarrassed by his own social incompetence.

Simon runs his hands through his hair with a laugh, messing it up even further. “I like it. A lot.” 

His touch makes Wilhelm crawl back into Simon’s personal space. Something tugs at a place behind his breast bone and his eyes find their way to the picture on the mantelpiece. “It’s more like Erik’s now,” he mumbles.

Arms come up around his shoulders in a tight embrace and Simon presses a kiss to his forehead. “I think it’s very you .”

But Wilhelm barely hears it over the rushing of blood in his ears as his mind conjures up images of his and Erik’s last hug and how he had buried his nose in his big brother’s shoulder, refusing to let go. He can almost smell the familiar sweet wood of his cologne.

“I wish he was here,” he whispers, unable to stop the prickling tears welling in his eyes.

Slipping a hand under his hoodie, Simon starts tenderly scraping his nails up and down his back.

“I still feel like such a shit reserve.” A single tear slips from Wilhelm’s lashline and swims onto his chest where it gently seeps into the fabric of Simon’s hoodie. And then another follows. And another. “Erik fit the role so much better than me. He was so… good at it, so calm and confident in everything he did. How the fuck am I ever gonna fill out his shoes? How am I gonna give official speeches or make small-talk with Heads of States at fancy dinner parties when I can barely even speak in front of the class without stumbling over my words.” Taking in a deep breath, he fills his lungs with Simon’s scent to calm himself. “My… my anxiety…” He still finds it difficult to say the word out loud. “It's just fucking–I mean who wants a Crown Prince with anxiety?”

Simon carefully guides them down until they’re both on their sides, face to face. He gently cups Wilhelm’s cheek, smoothing the pad of a thumb over the damp, delicate skin under his eye.

“I do,” he says. “And probably a lot more people than you believe. Baby, anxiety permeates our generation but it’s still not talked about enough. I don’t think it’s the shortcoming that you think it is. A Crown Prince suffering from anxiety would bring the royal family much more down to earth. People will look at you and see themselves, they’d see a person and not just a stupid, lofty title. They’d see the person I see.” He pushes a few locks of hair away from Wilhelm’s forehead. “Hopefully they won’t try to seduce you when they figure out how great you are.”

Instinct takes over and Wilhelm loops his arms around Simon’s waist. Their chests align, his heart thump, thump, thumping just a few inches above Simon’s. “They wouldn’t succeed no matter how hard they tried.”

“No, ‘cause you’re always so damn oblivious,” Simon smiles.    

A little huff leaves Wilhelm’s lips but he’s too tired to retaliate. He squeezes a hand in between their bodies to rub at his sternum. “My feelings, they… They get so big in my chest and it makes it hard for me to put them into words, but I really–I’m working on getting better at communicating them, and I think my therapy is helping.”

Simon laces his fingers through Wilhelm’s.

And suddenly a wave of self-consciousness washes through Wilhelm. He lets out a little watery hiccup of a laugh. “God, sorry. I hadn’t planned on getting all depressed tonight.”

“Wille, it’s okay. Don’t apologise.” 

Wilhelm closes the tiny gap between them and kisses Simon once, twice, three times, seeking his sweetness and gentle comfort before quietly nudging him to roll onto his other side. Soon they’re chest to back, curved against each other like a quotation mark.

With his nose buried in Simon’s messy curls, Wilhelm presses his lips to the nape of his neck. They lap into silence, minutes sauntering by to the soothing sound of rain against window panes. Wilhelm focuses on the rise and fall of Simon’s stomach against the flat of his hand. 

“He’d be proud of you,” Simon says then, drawing Wilhelm’s hand up to his lips. “I really wish I could’ve met him.”

Soft puffs of breath caress Wilhelm’s knuckles and the back of his eyes starts prickling anew. He presses his face against the top vertebra of Simon’s spine. “Me too.”

In the past months, he has been walking along two parallel tracks. On track one, he is wrecked with grief over the loss of his brother. On track two, he is falling head over heels in love with Simon. He has been constantly oscillating between two opposite ends of his emotional spectrum, losing everything along the way. 

But the soft brush of Simon’s hair against his forehead is a reminder that they found the road back to each other. It was dark and rugged, but they found it. Simon is here now, right there against his chest, helping him unfold his lungs with his mere existence. 

“Thank you,” Wilhelm murmurs, swallowing around the achy lump still in his throat. “Thank you for… For giving me a good memory here after everything that’s happened. For making this place feel a little less lonely. I feel like it’s a bit easier to breathe here now.” 

His teenage sincerity oozes out with every syllable, and if it wasn’t Simon lying in his arms he’d probably feel sheepish and insecure. But it is Simon. And Simon is something to him that nobody else will ever be. “I love you,” he whispers.

Simon curves his back to get impossibly closer. “I love you, too.”

Wilhelm wants to merge the two tracks he’s been following, craves to let Simon fully in, needs to find out what hope tastes like, the specific kind that will tell him everything is going to be okay. 

“His room is down at the end of the hallway,” he says in a quiet voice. “I want to show it to you sometime… If you’d like to see it.”

Simon squeezes his hand tight. “I’d like that, yeah.”

And hope tastes tooth-achingly sweet.