Chapter Text

xxviii.

simon

After the dust finally settles around August’s departure, the rest of the school year picks up speed. Simon blinks, and it’s June. Graduation was yesterday. He and his roommate, Other Alexander—who’s actually named Hugo—are packing away the last of their things. Actually, Simon only has a few things to grab besides his clothing. After the last and final living rearrangement, he decided it wouldn’t hurt to add to his room: his music poster, his miniature lava lamp he keeps on his bedside table, and his longboard that resides against the wall between his desk and his dresser. Hugo’s eyes had grown wide once he saw it, almost like he couldn’t believe people actually rode them. Simon thought it was funny, but he’s so glad he was never asked to demonstrate.

“Any summer plans?” Hugo asks politely. He’s standing on his bed, carefully removing the small picture frames from his wall. He has paintings from all over the world, a blend of city streets and skylines and landscapes, places Simon has only dreamed of visiting. During their first week together, Simon had asked him about them. Hugo’s eyes shone passionately as he explained the inspiration behind each painting, as well as his own story about acquiring them. Hugo lost him somewhere in the midst of “summer and winter homes” and “world-renowned, family friends”. He explained that all of the artists had grown up in those cities, so at least he’s shopping local—I guess.

Simon pauses as he’s grabbing his lava lamp. Funny you ask, Hugo, he thinks. I’m actually planning to debut my relationship to the entire world in two weeks with the Crown Prince of Sweden, which has actually been going on since February, but we aren’t allowed to tell people that. What about you?

“Um, I don’t know,” he says. “Working, maybe. Hanging out with my friends.” He shrugs. “The usual.”

“You work?”

“Uh-huh.” Well, not anymore. He’d held a job last summer when he’d just turned sixteen, but Mama wanted him to focus on school, so he quit. He doesn’t know if it would be a good idea—or even possible—to get another job after Midsummer. But he can’t say any of that, and besides, it’s kind of funny the way Hugo stares at him like he can’t decide whether Simon is telling the truth or not.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Simon says, snickering. “It’s not that bad.”

“I’ve never worked before,” Hugo admits. No kidding.

“Well it’s, um…” He shrugs. I don’t know; it’s a job. “It’s whatever. Maybe I can get more decorations for next fall.”

His bag packed and longboard dangling from his fingers, he tells Hugo to have a nice summer then pulls his door shut behind him. The hallway is quiet. Most of Forest Ridge has moved out already. He goes left, even though the exit is to his right. Not only did his room reassignment get him away from his fake boyfriend Nicolas, it separated him from his real boyfriend, too. Now they were at other ends of the hall, almost like somebody tipped off the administration about the Midsummer announcement, and they’re already getting a jump on things.

One of Wille’s bodyguards, the man whose name Simon has never learned, walks out of his room dragging a suitcase behind him. Kristina is expecting him for lunch today, so he’ll be leaving soon. He and Wille will be apart for only two weeks, same as winter break, but this time is different. He’s already missing their nights together, “studying” in Wille’s room in the evenings, cuddling in his bed, simply existing in the glow of each other’s presence. Since the beginning of his etiquette classes in May, Simon has stopped by Wille’s room practically every day. He needed a place to vent about how ridiculous it is to have three drinking glasses or a fork-and-knife code for servers to relay food opinions to the chef or some other unnecessary etiquette rule that he learned that day. Wille always took him in his arms, laughing at every remark, kissing away the half-hearted scowl on his lips, and even joined in on the mannerism bashing sometimes, just for the fun of it. Does it make sense to long for something he had just yesterday?

A door swings open on his left, and the person on the other side moves in a blur that Simon doesn’t make out in time. “Hey,” they say loud enough for the word to echo against Simon’s chest when he recoils in surprise. Nicolas laughs. “Someone’s jumpy.”

“When you jump at me, yeah,” Simon replies, rubbing at his chest as if that can slow his erratic heart. Nicolas slings a bag over his shoulder then grabs the handle of his suitcase and pulls his door shut behind him.

“So,” he says as they continue down the hall, “we survived.”

Simon sighs. “Yeah.” He didn’t realize until just now that he wasn’t completely sure he would. When he learned he’d live on campus, he figured one thing or another would either send him home or back to Marieberg by his own choice.

“And you’re almost an acceptable member of our society,” Nicolas teases. Simon’s friends know about the etiquette classes, but he’s sure word’s gotten out to other students, too. If Hillerska is even half as smart as they say, the announcement in two weeks won’t be much of an announcement.

Simon pretends to be offended. “Gross, no. Only when I have to be.” Nicolas laughs.

“So, Spain this summer is out of the question, huh?” During his first week, Simon spoke to Nicolas’s mother one evening—she’s friendly, asked him a ton of questions about himself and his life, and even invited him to spend a week at their summer home. Simon didn’t think that was a legitimate offer.

“Yeah, probably.” He might be new to the kind of life where optics rule from the front seat, but even he knows spending a week with his “ex-boyfriend” one month after announcing his relationship with his current boyfriend is just a recipe for disaster. He’s trying to avoid any more media scandals until he’s fifty, at least. “Tell your mom thanks for the offer, though. I didn’t think she was serious,” he admits.

Nicolas smiles. “Then you’ll have to meet her during Family Weekend, I guess.”

Simon stops and turns, smiling back at him. “Looking forward to it. Have a good summer, Nicolas.”

“You too, Simon.” Nicolas squeezes his shoulder, then he heads for the door. Simon watches him go.

Wille doesn’t look like he’s in any hurry to leave when Simon reaches his room. He’s sitting at his desk, ankles crossed on the end of his bed, his hands resting on his stomach. His eyes rake over the corners of the room like he’s trying to commit it to memory.

Simon lingers in the doorway. For some reason, he feels like he’s interrupting. Quietly, he says, “Hey.”

Wille looks back at him, smiles. “Hi.”

“I didn’t think you’d be the last to leave.” Simon sits on his bed, right as Wille moves his feet to give him room.

“You’re still here,” Wille points out.

Simon hums. “I didn’t think we’d be the last to leave,” he corrects.

“Yeah, I pictured us being the first out the door.”

“Well, you know. I had so much stuff to pack. It took forever.” Simon lifts his longboard as proof.

Wille shakes his head, grinning. “Yeah, wow, I can’t believe you even finished.” He eyes the longboard. “Do you actually know how to ride that?”

“Uh-huh.” Simon chews his lip. “Don’t ask me to prove it.” Wille laughs. Soft footsteps drift down the hall and stop outside of the door. That must be the bodyguard, which means the only thing left to grab is Wille himself. 

Simon sighs, glancing around the room. He looks at the bed, dragging his fingers along the blanket. He remembers that night Wille called, how scared Simon had been, falling asleep against the wall when he meant to stay awake to make sure Wille didn’t choke or something. He remembers the morning after, the excitement and warmth, then his eyes rise to the sliver of glass peeking through the curtains, and he remembers the dread. At his feet, he sees himself and Wille shortly after the video, Wille’s head in his lap, unwillingly counting the minutes until Wille returned to Stockholm. Of course, that makes him remember Wille’s decision, and the last few months hit him like a snowball to the face.

“What are you thinking about?” Wille asks.

Simon’s fingers are rubbing circles in the blanket. He takes a breath, shaking himself from his trance. “Just—everything.” He looks back at Wille, whose eyes narrow like he’s trying to study him. Simon gives a small smile. “Crazy year.”

Wille quietly pushes the door shut then joins Simon on the bed. Simon props the longboard against the bedpost and slips his backpack off. Once he turns back to Wille, his hands are taken, interlocked in a warm embrace. Simon sighs, pulling Wille’s hands to his lap. Two weeks without holding his hands. It might as well be two years.

“Simme,” Wille says, catching his eye. “Baby.” Simon’s heart skips a beat. In the last few months, they’ve evolved to pet names, and every time Wille calls him baby or älskling, Simon is five seconds away from absolutely melting.

Except this time, he knows where the conversation is heading, so he isn’t quite as taken. “Wille,” he replies evenly. “Baby.” With the start of Simon’s etiquette classes came the beginning of Midsummer discussions, too. He feels like they’ve worked through any possible scenario that could happen, even in the case of a zombie apocalypse (recently explored because Simon thinks Wille is more worried about this than he is, so he wanted to lighten the mood. Good news, it worked that day).

“I just want you to be sure about this,” he says.

“Are you sure about this?” Wille frowns. Simon gives him a small smile, although his knee-jerk reaction is to raise an eyebrow because this should’ve been obvious. Unlike him, Wille wears his heart on his sleeve. “I’m not the one telling the world that I’m not straight.”

Wille’s face falls as his eyes drop to their hands. Simon watches and waits, rubbing circles into the back of Wille’s hands. “I…  am scared about that,” he admits slowly.

“I’m scared, too,” Simon says. Wille looks up at him. “I’m scared because I don’t know how things are going to change, just that they will. I mean, when I come home again… Am I going to have people in suits following me around, too?”

Wille chuckles. “No.”

Simon remembers how angry August was outside of the Headmistress’s office after Wille showed up. “Okay, so if you’re in one room, and I’m outside with the bodyguards, and someone, say… tries to kidnap me” —Wille’s eyes widen, eyebrows scrunched together, mouth parting in question— “would anyone try to save me?”

Wille stares at him like he’s trying to figure out if something like that has already happened, then he shakes his head. “I’m not sure what the actual protocol is, but you are a top priority. And I would make sure the guards know that.”

“Okay,” Simon says. He chuckles, squeezing Wille’s hand. “No one’s tried to kidnap me.”

Wille sighs, a weak smile on his face. “Good. Is that something you’ve worried about?”

“No.” Simon shakes his head firmly. “No, it just occurred to me.” Now that he thinks about it, though…. “But actually,” he adds, a new memory resurfacing, “there is something I need to talk to you about.”

The guards give them more time than allotted, he suspects. When there’s finally a knock on the door it’s Malin, and he thinks she sounds almost apologetic. “We need to leave soon, sir.”

Wille nods. “Thanks, Malin.” He squeezes Simon’s hands one last time before pulling away. Simon watches him walk around the room, making sure he has everything. Once he’s satisfied, he stops in front of Simon. He’s quickly becoming a lost puppy, so Simon pulls him forward by his wrists and rises into a kiss on his lips.

“It’s only two weeks,” Simon says quietly. “We’ve done two weeks before.”

Wille nods slowly. “Better circumstances.”

“Much better circumstances.” He kisses him again. It never feels like enough. “I love you,” he says when he pulls away.

Wille presses his lips into a smile, like he's about to say the funniest joke in the world. “I hope you have a nice summer.” Simon’s eyes roll. He huffs, trying to step around Wille who laughs, catching his arm and pulling him to his chest. Simon cuts his stupid, beautiful laughter off with another kiss.

Simon walks Wille to the car. The housemaster waves as they pass, and the cleaning staff’s warm farewells echo down the hallways. On the front stairs, the Headmistress is waiting to see Wille off. She smiles when she sees them, shaking Wille’s hand and bowing her head. Then she turns to Simon, her smile still in place, though he has a feeling there are different thoughts running through her head now.

She shakes his hand firmly, says goodbye, and bows her head. He tries not to look too surprised when their eyes meet. “You forget he’s not the first young royal I’ve had at Hillerska, just like you’re not the first commoner I’ve seen catch somebody’s eye.” Simon meets Wille’s gaze over her shoulder; he’s just as shocked. The Headmistress politely adds, “Have a nice summer, Simon. I look forward to having you again in the fall—though, I hope you don’t find yourself in as much trouble next year.”

Simon sighs, giving her a small smile. “Me too.”

He keeps his distance while Malin opens the back car door and Wille goes to step inside. Before he does, he looks back and smiles at Simon. “I’ll see you soon.”

Simon nods, lips pressed together into his own smile. “Bye, Wille.”

Before he descends down the hill to the bus stop, he pauses at the edge of the forest to take Hillerska for a final time. He used to hate this sight when he and Sara finally reached the hill’s peak in the mornings. Now, he peers up at the white stone building, the fountain that usually shimmers in the sunlight, the walking path he’s found himself tracing so many times over the last six months—and it isn’t hate that sparks in the pit of his stomach.

Surprisingly, the first week goes by fast. Simon keeps himself busy by hanging out with Ayub and Rosh. When he’s not with them, he’s with Mama at home or visiting Josiah at the café. He tries not to spend his time savoring the last weeks as a normal person. (That doesn’t go very well.)

He and Wille talk often. They text throughout the day, usually when Wille is supposed to pay attention to whatever meeting he’s sitting in on, and at night, they video chat until they fall asleep on the call.

Halfway through the second week, when Wille is telling him about some dinner he attended tonight, Simon lays his phone beside his head and stares at the ceiling instead. He listens to Wille talk about the prime minister’s daughter, who accidentally broke a champagne glass tapping it with her spoon to mock calling a toast. He said her face was blood red the rest of the party.

Simon feels bad for her. If it had happened to him, he’d probably laugh it off, no big deal. She’s supposed to be well-behaved, though. Her dad’s the prime minister. If she breaks one too many glasses, the media might label her as reckless, and that wouldn’t be good.

He frowns. Did he just sympathize with a rich kid he doesn’t even know?

“Simme?” Wille calls. “There’s no way you fell asleep already.”

Simon laughs, grabbing his phone. “What does that mean?”

Wille grins. He’s in his bathroom getting ready for bed. Simon has a perfect shot of his bare chest, the silver cross around his neck glaring under the lights. Simon’s heart sinks; he wants to be there, or Wille here—together, no matter the way. Then, he wants to laugh at how ridiculous he sounds; it hasn’t even been two weeks.

“You just have a habit of staying up late…r than you should.”

“Or maybe you just go to sleep too early.”

Wille rolls his eyes; Simon chews his smile. While Wille lines his toothbrush with paste, he asks, “How was your day?”

Not as exciting, he thinks. “Fine,” he answers with a sigh. “Sara and I went shopping.” Wille’s eyebrows shot up. Simon shakes his head. “Not voluntarily. Mama said if I didn’t go, I wouldn’t be allowed to spend Midsummer with you.” That isn’t true, of course. She knows how important this weekend is. She just needed an incentive, and “can’t go back to Hillerska” felt like too big of a promise to hinge on their ability to shop together, but “dishes for a month” was probably something they’d consider too much.

Wille hums in response, letting Simon know he’s listening even though he’s out of frame, brushing his teeth.

“It was fine, I guess,” Simon continues. “I don’t know. Everything feels different now.” Everytime he feels like he’s not mad at her anymore, he actually sees her, and everything from before flares in his chest like a bad case of the flu.

“She said Felice invited her to a Midsummer party this weekend,” he adds. “Do you know anything about that?”

Wille’s shoulders tense. He looks in the mirror, like He and Himself have just been caught in a secret. Then he shakes his head, humming an “uh-uh” as he leans down to spit.

“You obviously know something,” Simon argues over the running water. Once it shuts off, he adds, “You know you don’t have to keep secrets just because Sara’s involved.”

Wille looks apologetic when he grabs the phone. As he walks into another room, he explains, “Fredrika rented a manor near Gothenburg. Some Hillerska students will be there, including Felice, who invited Sara.”

“Oh,” Simon says. “That’s… fine.” He frowns, still not getting the secrecy.

Wille sighs as he drops on his bed. “I just didn’t want you to feel like you’re missing out.”

They’ve had this conversation before, some time last week. Simon was telling him how he usually celebrates Midsummer, and Wille had gotten quiet, eventually admitting that the most his family will do is a dinner, probably. Simon suspects that’s because of Erik—it’s their first Midsummer without him.

“No way,” Simon protests. “Like I told you before, my highlight of the summer will be seeing you again. You are all that I need.”

A small grin fights its way across Wille’s lips, and as always, his smile is contagious. “Okay,” he says. “Just—remember that when you’re having dinner with my parents.

“Your mom’s going to love me once she sees my perfect etiquette.”

Wille laughs. “I think we’re all anxious to see you pull that off.”

“Your confidence in me is overwhelming.”

“… I love youuu,” he tries.

“I love you too, and I’m going to be the best dinner guest,” Simon declares.

“I have no doubt.” But he makes a face like he does have little doubt, and whether he’s serious or not, Simon flips him off, making him laugh and, eventually, Simon, too.

Two more days.

His hug with Sara is the tightest on Friday morning. Rosh and Ayub stayed Thursday night, so they can be there to send him off. One by one, Simon hugs the four people who mean everything to him, and when he has his arms around Sara, she tells him, “You’re going to do great.” For a split second, his shoulders sink with desperation, and he squeezes her a little tighter. When he feels her hands claw at the back of his shirt, her nails feel like daggers prodding into his spine. He pulls away quick enough to shake loose painful reminders. He moves onto his Mama, hoping nobody has noticed the tension curling between them.

If anybody does, they don’t mention it. Ayub and Rosh are talking to Wille by the door. Mama takes Simon’s face in her hands, a soft smile on her face, and kisses his forehead. “I’m so proud of you,” she says quietly. He smiles—though he also kind of feels like crying, so he pulls her into another hug.

In the car, Simon hides a yawn in the crook of his elbow. It’s barely eight AM; this is the earliest he’s been up since school ended. Once they’re on the road, Simon unbuckles his seatbelt and lays down, barely emitting a sound from Wille, who’s in the middle of texting someone. He simply switches the phone to one hand, using the other to comb through Simon’s curls. He looks up; Wille is already smiling down at him.

He wakes to his shoulder rocking back and forth. “Simme,” Wille whispers. Fingers rake through his hair. “Darling, wake up.” 

They’re in Stockholm. Wille is noticeably tense, turning his phone over in his hand as he stares out the window. Simon already knows why, and he’s trying not to freak out about it. When they arrive at Drottningholm, there will be journalists waiting. A small number, Wille had reassured. Five, at most. Simon doesn’t know what to focus on more—that Wille thinks five is a small number or that Simon’s about to face five journalists when only one was enough to fill his stomach with lead.

He reaches to take Wille’s hand, but Wille is faster, curling his arm around Simon’s and holding Simon’s hand between both of his. “What’s the best way to do this?” Simon asks quietly. Wille takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to fill his lungs to the brim. “Is it… Will it be like the airport?” He’d seen videos of his and Felice’s arrival from the perspective of the media. He remembers how quickly the mood had shifted when Wille seemingly rejected Felice’s hand.

“No,” Wille answers sharply. His jaw tightens. “No, that wasn’t supposed to happen how it did.”

“Okay,” Simon says, more than relieved. Being mobbed isn’t really the biggest concern—it’s the uncertainty in how long he can hold his tongue until he bites straight through.

“They’ll be controlled by guards,” Wille explains. “Once they see us together, they’ll start yelling things—just ignore them.”

“We’re picking up Ms. Nordlund in five minutes, sir,” Malin announces from the front seat.

“Okay,” Wille replies. To Simon, he says, “She’s going to give you a rundown on how to act in front of cameras, but—” He takes another deep breath, squeezing his hand. “Just focus on me.”

“Don’t worry, I can handle it,” Simon says. He can tell Wille is trying to be brave and strong for the both of them. He has to take the weight off—that’s part of the reason he’s here. “We’ll be fine.”

Minou Nordlund is friendly and punctual as always. She sits on Wille’s other wise, pushing him to the middle, and greets them both with a smile. To Wille, she asks, “How are you?” She’s probably talking to both of them, but over dinner one night with his family, Sara suggested that anyone official who talks to them will be addressing Wille. Simon decides that’ll be his rule of thumb—at least until he gets the hang of things.

“Fine,” Wille answers. He looks at Simon and adds, “Nervous.” If he’s speaking for both of them, it’s a major understatement.

“I imagine. This is your first time encountering the cameras, correct?” Minou asks, looking at Simon.

Does yelling at a journalist count? “First time that matters, yeah—yes,” he says.

The next fifteen minutes is less of a rundown and more of a crash course. He knew he’d have to act a certain way, but Minou chains him down with rules; Do’s and Don’t’s that he wants to simultaneously digest and forget when he finally steps outside. Do acknowledge the journalists, but don’t answer any questions unless advised otherwise. Do show you’re a couple, but don’t show excessive amounts of PDA.

Next, she gives interview etiquette—because as soon as they get inside, they’ll sit down to do an exclusive with a woman named Rosenqvist. Simon nods through it, pretending like it’s another regular day for him. As they approach the palace, Wille squeezes his hand, and he knows he’s caught when he looks over—but he smiles like he isn’t.

As expected, there are five journalists waiting outside the main entrance. Simon stares at them across the car. This is really happening, huh? He steps out, and that’s it—life as he knows it is over. He knows it’s not as sad as that sounds, but it is as scary.

He thinks he says, “Ready?” but he doesn’t know for sure. The word bounces around in his head. If we’re being honest here, he isn’t. He’s not sure he’ll ever be ready. They could wait a few weeks, months, let him get better bearings, but he’d still end up here, stomach in his throat. So, ready? No. But sometimes you can’t wait until you’re ready—sometimes you just have to dive head first with what you’ve been equipped with.

Simon smiles when Wille looks at him. “Let’s do it.”

Once the door pops open, white light pours in like lightning. Minou gracefully slips out, smiling politely at the journalists, and turns to us. Wille is next, but as he begins to slide over, Simon grabs his shirt and pulls him into a final, bruising kiss. They pull away with electricity in their eyes, like they’re about to go to war. Simon nods, Wille mirrors him, then Wille is outside, and Simon is taking his hand.

He switches between Wille and the door, trying to ignore the burn of the camera lights against his skin. Wille is in Prince Mode, smiling politely, tugging Simon as close as he can with their hands in an iron grip. The walk inside is the second longest Simon has ever experienced—the first was dragging Wille back to his dorm drunk off his ass, of course. He thinks of that night, then the morning after—then he’s yanking Wille toward him by his shirt collar, rising into a kiss that really sets their audience aflame.

The heavy doors swing shut behind them, and the silence is a dull buzz in his ears. Minou is shaking her head, not at all angry or disappointed. “That’s a Front Page if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Go big or go home,” Simon replies, breathless. “I guess.” Wille chuckles quietly beside him.

Simon has never sat down for an interview before, but after surviving the frenzy outside, this is a cakewalk. Especially since they’re told what to say (mostly). They obviously can’t disclose the truth of their relationship, so they give Rosenqvist the highlights: friends for the first semester (the video was someone being mean; no, it wasn’t Wille, it was actually a guy named Nicolas…), had to distance themselves due to the video, but Wille was Simon’s only friend at Hillerska, so they eventually found each other again.

He doesn’t like the narrative that Simon was the loner who found companionship in The Prince Wilhelm because it sounds too similar to what August had said in the commons that day—but there’s some truth to it, and he doesn’t want to risk messing up the interview when he’s still learning the rules, so he smiles and nods… and he hopes he’s doing this Public Figure thing right.

After, they eat with Kristina and her husband. It feels anticlimactic following the panic attack he’s narrowly avoided for the last two hours. He’s not complaining, though—not when there’s a plate of food in front of him, and he’s not expected to say anything unless he wants to. He listens to Wille instead, who tells his mother exactly what she wants to hear: that the interview went as expected, Simon didn’t embarrass the royal family in front of the cameras, and neither of them are having second thoughts. She looks at Simon during the last part, as if she’s thinking, Yet.

While their plates are taken away by servers, Kristina tells him, “I’ve looked into your request, Simon. Your public records, as well as your parents and your sister, are no longer public.”

He feels the last of the tension in his shoulders disappear. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“I’ve yet to see the true reaction of your announcement,” she continues, looking between them, “but it sounds like everything is going well so far.”

That’s probably as close to a “Good job” as Simon is going to get from her. He smiles in response.

Wille reaches for his phone in his pocket. Ignoring Kristina’s stern look, he clicks it on long enough to check the time then slides it back in his pocket. There were messages on the home screen, enough texts to fill the lower half. Simon frowns.

“We should get going,” Wille says.

Kristina nods. “We should.”

“Get going…?” Simon asks. He doesn’t receive an answer, though Wille grabs his hand under the table and smiles at him. He doesn’t look nervous or worried or anything, so whatever this is, it can’t be that bad. Simon decides to humor him, mirroring his grin, and squeezes his hand tight.

They have to take separate cars to this mysterious other location. It’s not because there isn’t a car big enough to hold the four of them, but it’s against the Rules for the current monarch and the heir to travel together.

“To protect the line,” Kristina explained as they walked toward the cars. There were still journalists outside, rapidly snapping pictures, but Simon barely noticed them. He was too focused on Queen Kristina talking to him as if they were colleagues talking during a break. She’d warmed up to him over the last months—or, maybe the idea of him.

Simon stays off his phone, although his fingers twitch in anticipation of what’s happening in the real world. He watches Stockholm blur past, and he wonders if those who stop and stare are watching between it’s the Royal Motorcade, or if it’s because the prince and his boyfriend are in one of the cars.

“Where are we going?” he asks, looking at Wille.

Wille smiles. “It’s a surprise.”

“And your parents are actually going?”

“They’re leading, aren’t they?”

Simon frowns. “I thought we were just having dinner.”

He shakes his head. “There was a change in plans a few weeks ago.”

“A few weeks ago? And you're mentioning it now?"

“Shh,” he says, coaxing Simon to the other side of the car with his hands. He takes a deep breath, hooking his elbow on the inside of Simon’s arm, tugging him impossibly closer, and intertwines their hands.

“I had the idea a few weeks ago,” Wille tells him softly. “I really didn’t think my parents would agree to it. Honestly, they haven’t been looking forward to Midsummer.”

Guilt burns in Simon’s gut. Not for the first time, he worries they should’ve waited to announce themselves. What if this was Erik’s favorite holiday? What if he was imposing a difficult grievance day?

Wille would’ve said something, though. He would’ve insisted they wait another week or two, and Simon would’ve been okay with anything.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Wille shakes his head. “Don’t be. It would’ve been hard without you, too.” Simon frowns, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. Wille isn’t looking at him, instead staring out the window at a mess of journalists lining the side of the street. They’re off the freeway, clear skies replaced with towering green trees. The silence of their ride is disrupted for a few seconds from the muffled clicking of the cameras.

A minute of silence leads to trees standing further apart and less houses and foot traffic along the road. “Can you at least tell me where we’re going?” Simon asks.

“Haga Palace,” Wille says. “Our second home.” After spending almost a year surrounded by annoyingly rich people, he barely acknowledges second homes—but knowing they’re driving up to a second palace home makes his lip curl. “I know what you’re thinking,” Wille adds, shaking his head as he stares out the window. “Look, it’s better than it was. My family used to have, like, ten homes.”

Simon snorts. Sometimes, it all sounds so ridiculous—Wille is a prince; the prince; he’s going to inherit a country, and Simon has watched him talk to horses the way people talk to puppies.

The trees finally open like a green veil parting for their arrival. Haga Palace shimmers in the afternoon sun, a two story rectangular building with an extra level in the center. In front of it, a fleet of something vivid and restless stirs across the yard like a watercolor painting. There are about two dozen weaving around long, white tables lined with food, a small tower of wood to light on fire later, and a forest of flowers that are, well—everywhere. Standing at the center of it all, a giant prepared to hold the sun for as long as possible, is a leafy pole shaped like an arrow with two open circles on each side.

When the motorcade rolls to a stop, familiar faces step forward to greet them: Felice, Josiah, Nicolas, Sara, Madison, and some other students from Hillerska. 

Felice beams once he and Wille step outside. “Nice of you guys to join us,” she says.

“So, was this the plan all along?” Simon asks, looking between her and Wille.

Wille shakes his head. “The original plan was to just have dinner; that’s what my mother wanted. But once I told Felice what we were going to do today…”

“I figured you guys,” Felice says, “your parents, our parents, us … We should be spending this day together. We deserve a celebration.”

Over their shoulders, Simon can see Linda talking to a group of parents, laughing. Kristina and her husband are making their way across the yard. She nods and at people as she passes, though she doesn’t stop until she and Linda are face-to-face. Linda bows her head, Kristina offers her hand to shake, and after a moment, they smile.

Nicolas approaches with two flower crowns swinging from his fingers. “For the new royal couple,” he says, over-exaggerating a courtesy. “My lords—”

“Shut up,” Simon groans, pushing him away with a laugh. He’s left with the crowns, one yellow and the other purple. He reaches a hand up, fitting the purple crown on Wille’s head. Once it’s straight, he chews his lip thoughtfully and pushes one side down, so it’s lopsided.

“My prince,” he says softly. My beautiful, brave prince.

Wille carefully places the yellow crown, and unlike Simon, he makes sure it sits perfectly atop his head. “My…”

His hand cups Simon’s cheeks; his touch is fire across his skin. “My love,” he admits. “My everything.”

Simon rises on his tiptoes and kisses him. There, on the front lawn of Haga Palace, in front of their friends and families and some of the most famous people in all of Sweden.

Wille tugs him forward. “Come on,” he says, grinning. “I want to show my boyfriend off.”