Chapter Text
Wilhelm ordered a palace car instead of going back inside. He had the chauffeur drive him in circles around the city, just killing time, the radio a low buzz in the background, staring out the window as the light from the streetlamps bled together in an orange blur.
Vera texted him.
????
Wjherd u go???
He locked his phone and stuffed it back in his pocket, and asked the driver to do another loop.
At midnight, he requested they park up within sight of the front of the bar.
He almost expected Simon not to show—but he did, looking around him, up and down the street, hands shoved in the pockets of a bomber jacket he’d thrown over his uniform. His eyes fell to the dark tinted windows of Wilhelm’s car and he paused, recognition sliding over his face.
Wilhelm swallowed around the dryness of his throat.
“Wait here,” he said. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
The driver—Johan—nodded. He was used to following Wilhelm’s orders, at all times of day and night. He was paid well for it.
Wilhelm stepped out of the car, hands falling to his blazer button in an anxious, automatic gesture. Simon lifted his hand in greeting.
“Thought that might be you,” he said dryly, as he crossed the street. “Nice ride.”
“We can—if you want.” Wilhelm indicated towards the back of the car, and when Simon raised his eyebrows, he added hurriedly, “just to drive around! It’s private.”
Hopefully his blush wasn’t visible in the dark.
Regardless, Simon shook his head.
“Can your driver wait?”
Wilhelm nodded.
“Then let’s go. I know a place close by.”
“Okay. Sure.”
Simon turned on his heel and led the way. Wilhelm hovered a step behind, uncertain. Like this, he could see Simon’s curls resting against the collar of his jacket, the flash of his earring dangling down. He focused, nonsensically, on that strip of silver. Simon hasn’t had his ears pierced when he knew him. It looked good on him.
He looked round. “Wille? Are you coming?”
Wilhelm jumped, and then lengthened his step, so he was walking beside Simon instead of behind. “Sorry.”
Simon turned off into a side street abruptly. It was dimly lit, the cobblestones uneven, and they were moving away from the direction of the river, where most of the bars and clubs and people were clustered.
“Is this—?” Wilhelm started, following.
Simon spared him a glance. His face was shadowed and angular, jaw sharp. “I’m not going to murder you down a backstreet, Wille. I promise.” His smile twisted. "I don’t much fancy the sentence that would come with that crime.”
Wilhelm nodded, feeling silly, and kept up the pace, but didn’t reply.
A little further down they came to a small cafe, with faded neon signage, still open. Simon paused, and turned to him.
“I’m hungry. We can talk while I eat.”
It wasn’t like Wilhelm had much of a choice. “Okay.”
Simon pushed open the door. A bell rattled above their heads. Inside, there were a few plastic benches and tables and a counter at the back to order from, with a menu above crammed full of bright, block lettering, starting to crack and peel.
At the sound of the bell, someone popped into view from the back. “Simon? That you?”
“Hey, Ayub. The usual?” And then, as if he was remembering that Wilhelm was there, he glanced across at him and jerked his head towards the menu above their heads.
Wilhelm was too busy staring at the face which had appeared fully behind the counter, which—to be fair—was also staring right back, equally shocked. Ayub looked the same as Wilhelm remembered him—kind-faced, a little rough around the edges, his long hair tied back, his eyebrows thick as ever.
“Wilhelm?” Simon prodded.
He shook himself; tried to straighten up and stop staring. “Uh—a diet coke?”
“Right. Ayub?”
Ayub cast a hard look in Simon’s direction—one that promised ‘we’ll talk about this later’ —and disappeared back into the kitchen with a nod.
Simon dropped into one of the benches, sliding across the booth, gesturing for Wilhelm to do the same.
His jeans squeaked against the plastic seating. Simon smirked. He took his jacket off, revealing rolled up sleeves and tan forearms, a few bracelets stacked up his wrists. There was a tattoo peeking out from under his pushed up cuff, on the inside of his arm, that Wilhelm couldn’t make out; blurred inky black lines. He burned to know what it was. What had been important enough to Simon to want to keep on his body forever.
“I come here after every late shift,” Simon said, before Wilhelm even had the chance to ask. Getting out ahead of him. The cafe—sandwich shop, really—was lit by strip lighting, harsh and fluorescent. It made Simon’s bronze skin take on a tinge of green.
He still looked beautiful.
“Ayub bought this shop a few years ago. We moved from Gothenburg together,” he said, reaching to fiddle with the jar of sauces in the middle of the table, rotating it between his fingers.
Wilhelm made an involuntary soft noise of surprise. That Simon had been in the same city for years seemed impossible. How hadn’t Wilhelm sensed it? Felt it every time he set a foot out of his apartment door? Surely he should have known?
“I took the job at the bar a few months ago. Ayub doesn’t need me here all the time, and I wanted some extra income to help support my music.”
“Your…music?” Wilhelm tried to sound collected and cool, but knew he wasn't carrying it off. More dumbstruck than anything. This whole conversation—Simon seated in front of him—felt like something he’d made up, some kind of dream he’d conjured deep in his subconscious and somehow dragged into reality.
Of course Simon was pursuing music. Of course he was.
Simon shrugged. “I’m trying, I guess. Had some interest. A few songs picked up some traction online.”
“They did?”
“You don't have to sound so surprised by it,” Simon huffed, the smallest hint of humor behind his words. “Anyway. I sorta figured I’d run into you. Since you’re such a party guy these days.”
Wilhelm cringed. “That’s not—”
For the second time that night, Simon waved him off. Besides, Ayub was bringing out food—a greasy, stacked sandwich in a plastic basket, along with a side of well-salted fries.
He set down Wilhelm’s diet coke sharply, without looking at him.
“I’m gonna be in the back, Simme,” he said roughly. “Call if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Ayub.”
Simon pulled the sandwich towards him. “You sure you don’t want anything to eat?”
“No,” Wilhelm managed to say. “I’m fine, thanks.”
Simon tore the top off a sachet of ketchup and busied himself smearing it onto his food. Wilhelm felt like he was being suspended on tenterhooks, purposefully left to dangle.
He was still looking down at his plate when he said; “You’re kinda hard to avoid, you know that?”
“Huh?”
He lifted his head. His eyelashes were so thick and so long. Wilhelm wanted to reach out and touch them with his fingertips.
“I open up my Instagram discover page and you’re all over it.” He raised his hand, counting off his fingers. “Art gallery opening parties, brand parties, club nights, film premieres. Got one of you the other day going grocery shopping.”
Wilhelm flushed, leaning back in his seat. Actually, he’d been pissed at having his photo taken when he was running in for some forgotten ingredients. Last month, it was. Usually he ordered his groceries to his door.
“I’m…sorry?”
Simon blinked, then lowered his hand. “Well, you don’t need to apologize for it. I’m just saying.”
“I didn’t even know you were in the city,” Wilhelm returned.
Simon flashed a wry smile. “Your social media is also pretty inactive. So I guess you wouldn’t.”
It was true. Wilhelm tried to stay off social media these days, as much as possible, or at least away from his main account, not wanting to elicit comments from strangers. Somewhere in there, he’d unfollowed Simon, in an effort at self preservation. His number was still saved in his phone, but that was years old, now. He just hadn’t been able to bring himself to delete it.
“I use a stage name,” Simon added. “If you were wondering. Helps when people google search, given—everything that happened. I have a different username on there, too.”
The allusion to the video made Wilhelm wince. And yet it brought back memories, too. Not of that time, but their summer together, Simon groaning in his ear as Wilhelm kissed across his body in rooms with the curtains drawn loosely across the window, keeping out the light of the moon. Everything was still so vivid. The good and the bad.
He blinked, shaking off the memories. “That makes sense.”
Simon took a bite of his sandwich. Wilhelm sipped at his coke. It was watered down and overly syrupy, but it tasted incredible, soothing his dry throat. He glanced over Simon’s shoulder, into the kitchen beyond, where he could just about make out Ayub watching them.
“Simme—” he started.
“We don’t need to talk about it. Honestly. It’s long in the past, isn’t it? We’re adults now. We can draw a line under it.”
Wilhelm shut his mouth. His hand gripped the cardboard of his drink. He so badly wanted to reach across the table and touch Simon’s shoulder—his cheek. To check he was real. His words felt like cotton wool, stuck under his tongue.
“Adults,” he agreed, after a few seconds. “Right. Yeah.” And then, after a few more passed. “I guess we grew up.”
“We did,” Simon echoed.
“You’re happy?”
The simplicity of his question took even Wilhelm by surprise. But wasn’t that really what he thought about it, these last years, whenever the memory of Simon crossed his mind? What was he doing? Did he still think of Wilhelm and everything they’d shared together? He must, surely. What was his life like now? And was he happy without Wilhelm in it?
The corners of Simon’s mouth tipped up. “Yes,” he said. “I have friends here. It’s been good. I like it.” He licked his lips, clearing them of salt, before he asked, “And you?”
Wilhelm stirred the ice in his drink. The straw was starting to go soggy. “London was great. I loved it over there. It’s a great city. Vibrant, you know?”
Simon nodded, but his eyelashes flickered, a sign that he’d noticed the way Wilhelm had ducked his question.
Wilhelm gestured towards his phone, face down on the table. “Can I hear it? Your music?”
Simon chuckled. “It’s on Spotify. You can look later if I tell you my stage name.”
“Please? I always liked it when you sang. You know that.”
His smile wavered. For a few seconds Wilhelm honestly thought he was going to refuse, but then he slowly picked up his phone, thumbed to the app he wanted, before setting it carefully down on the table between them. He had his voice memos open. Wilhelm barely used his, but Simon’s were full. He scrolled and found what he was looking for.
“I go by SOMMAREN.”
Wilhelm’s breath caught. Simon didn’t look up, fixedly messing with the volume bar at the bottom of the screen.
“This is the single I’m going to put out next. It’s not polished or anything, and you need headphones for it to sound any good, but—”
He pressed play.
Reverb-saturated guitar strumming filled the cafe, a tinkling piano picking out notes underneath. Simon’s voice took up the harmony. It was as beautiful as Wilhelm remembered it, smooth and clear and gliding expertly through the lyrics. A drum kicked in and the chorus crept up, Simon’s voice rising and cresting a wave. The song somehow sounded like late summer itself—a long evening unspooling into the dark, full of possibility and excitement. Full of love.
Simon let the song play out until it cut off abruptly at the end. Only then did he look up. “Sorry—I don’t have the actual file on my phone.”
Wilhelm wanted to hear it again. To hear Simon’s angelic voice again.
“It’s really good,” he said, trying to force some normalcy into his voice—not to gush. “Congratulations. It should be a hit, if people know talent when they hear it.”
Simon smiled. “Thanks, Wille.” He paused, biting at his lip. “So, it’s what you wanted, then?”
“The song?”
“Abdication.”
Wilhelm faltered, leaning back in his seat again. He tapped his fingers against the plastic of the tabletop and drew a deep breath in, releasing it again in a slow, controlled exhale. Simon was watching him carefully.
“I guess I thought it would…solve a lot more problems than it did,” he admitted. He hardly expressed those thoughts, these days. What was the point of them? He’d taken the option open to him, and this was the result. His mother was right—he may not be Crown Prince anymore, but he couldn’t escape his family entirely. Not having an official title meant relatively little, in day-to-day life.
He didn’t know why he was telling Simon, in this hole-in-the-wall sandwich shop. Except, of course, that there was still a part of him that still wanted to tell Simon the truth. It was hard-wired, a natural reaction to Simon’s deep, brown eyes boring into his. So warm. So familiar.
Simon held his gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said bluntly.
Wilhelm smiled, the first time in a while. “It’s not your fault.”
Simon finished some more of his food, and then pushed the basket away. “It’s getting late. I should really be getting home.”
“Oh.” An edge of panic crept into Wilhelm’s voice. The idea of letting Simon slip away now that he’d found him again was too horrible to allow, but he didn’t know how to stop it from happening.
The gap that grew between them little by little all those years ago suddenly appeared again, a chasm he didn’t know how to navigate then, and hadn’t learnt to since.
“It’s been really good to see you,” he said softly.
“Yeah. You too, Wille.”
They stood up. It felt like the end of a business meeting—Wilhelm almost offered out his hand. Instead, Simon stepped closer and pressed a kiss to Wilhelm’s cheek—a brief, quick brush, barely anything, before he rocked back on his heels. A goodbye.
“I hope your music does well.”
“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Simon said with a small smile.
Tears instantly pricked the back of Wilhelm’s eyes. He blinked them roughly away.
“Thank you. I—I should be going, too.”
“You’ll be okay to walk back to your car?”
“Of course,” Wilhelm answered, straining to sound flippant.
Actually, he probably shouldn’t be wandering the streets, even a short distance, alone at night. But he wasn’t about to call the car round here and make Simon wait, or god forbid, ask Simon to walk with him. It was clear Simon didn’t want to, and he’d intruded too long, anyway.
Forced his way into Simon’s new life.
Or rather, not new. Just the life he had, that didn’t feature Wilhelm.
It wasn’t his place to try and carve out a space for himself.
“Will you say bye to Ayub for me?” he said.
“Sure, I will.”
“Take care of yourself.”
“Bye, Wille.”
Wilhelm made himself walk out with his back straight. The bell jingled over his head as he left, cutting off when the door slipped closed. One glance back showed Simon still standing in the window, watching him, hands in his pockets, the rectangle window a bright fluorescent pocket in the darkness of the street.
He turned away and walked as quickly as possible back to where he’d left his driver, trying to ignore how every footstep felt heavier and harder than the last.
On Monday morning, rather than dragging himself to the office rooms of the Palace, Wille forced himself to leave his bed to get coffee from the small shop round the corner of his apartment, now desensitized to his patronage, and then simply turned and headed back home. Linnea, the middle-aged woman who managed it, had taken to saving Wilhelm an almond croissant before they ran out, and she always greeted him with a smile.
He had needed that energy this morning.
Armed with his pastry and a hazelnut latte, he felt able to answer his mother’s call. She’d at least learned over the years that he was much more likely to answer if she bothered to call him herself, rather than trying to communicate via a palace employee.
“I see you went out last night—after our conversation.”
Wilhelm set down his croissant on his breakfast bar and sighed. “Yes, Mama. I did.”
He didn’t ask how she’d obtained that information. Perhaps there were photos. Perhaps she’d spoken to his driver. Perhaps she just knew, somehow. She probably had spies all over the city. He didn’t care. He’d half wanted it to get back to her, anyway.
“Wilhelm, really—”
“You were the one who canceled work for me today.”
“I didn’t mean for you to use that as an excuse to continue partying,” she huffed.
Wilhelm sighed. “It was a fashion line launch,” he said. “Not a real party. And I left early.”
Vera had been pissed at him, too. His text thread with her devolved from question marks to a long string of the little frowning face emojis. Wilhelm at least appreciated the clarity it gave to her emotions.
“You should not have gone out at all.”
Wilhelm laughed dryly. “Sorry, did I miss the house arrest order? You should have been more specific, Mama.”
“Wille,” his mother hissed. “I only wish for you to make sensible decisions—”
“I did make a sensible decision. I left before 11pm, actually. Or did your sources not tell you that?”
His mother spluttered. “That is besides the point—”
“Mama, please. I went out. I came home. Do you wish for me to become a hermit?”
“I don’t want you to give anyone any more chances to take any photos like those from before.”
“I’m twenty four years old. I’ll not live like a monk.”
“Wilhelm—”
“Mama,” he cut in. “I was good. The other night was not my usual behavior, I promise. But I'm still going to live my life.”
Queen Kristina sighed. “Wilhelm, you are quite beyond my control, it seems. You always have been.”
Once upon a time, that comment might have galvanized Wilhelm. Now it just made him slightly sad. It sounded a lot like his mother giving up on him. Sometimes it seemed like she had been for several years.
“Well. I’m glad we’re in agreement,” he snapped, temper finally getting the better of him. If she were going to give up, he would too. “Let me know when you deem it acceptable for me to go back to work, Mother. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”
He hung up abruptly, picking his pastry and coffee back up and retiring to the comfort of his sofa, collapsing back into the soft cushions.
Seeing Simon last night had shaken him—badly. He’d slept poorly—fits and starts interrupted by unreal glimpses of bronze skin and the phantom feeling of soft, dark hair between his fingertips. He’d pushed his bed covers off in his sleep—had to rescue them from a pile on the floor in the morning—a punishment for his charged dreams.
He hadn’t dreamed about Simon in a long time. He supposed that would change now.
Vera’s texts were waiting for him, as was a check-in from Felice, but instead Wilhelm opened Instagram. Simon’s artist page was relatively well-followed. There was a small rainbow in his bio.
His photos were a variety of candid photo dumps, clips of songs, and selfies. Even though it felt like snooping, like something he shouldn’t be doing, Wilhelm clicked around, pulling up the photos where Simon’s face was clearest. In a lot of shots, it was almost hard to place the boy Wilhelm had known as a teenager. He looked different, even, from the man he’d met again last night at the bar, smart in his dress shirt and waistcoat. Wilhelm had always sucked at taking photos of himself, but Simon knew exactly how to find good lighting, how to angle himself so his face glowed and his cheekbones stood out. In some pictures, there was a hint of make-up—smudged eyeliner, a smear of eye-shadow, something glossy on his lips. Wilhelm remembered him in hoodies and sweatshirts, normal teenage fashion, and there were plenty of photos where that was still true, but there were also photos where Simon was wearing shirts that showed off his toned stomach—shirts that had ripped off sleeves. Textures and tight jeans and tank tops and layered necklaces that matched the earrings he wore.
Wilhelm had never been tempted to use fashion as a way of advertising his sexuality. Probably, a childhood spent in suits and blazers and formal wear was to blame for that. Even now, when his queerness was an open secret to anyone who paid close enough attention, he kept his wardrobe basic and comfortable. But Simon looked incredible, and Wilhelm kept scrolling, zooming in, marveling at just how beautiful he was.
How sexy, too.
He had a burner Instagram account already set up — WI11_3 —which he mostly used to keep up with Felice posting from Spain and his old London friends, when he did bother to check it. Feeling silly, he pressed follow on SOMMARENMUSIK, and then swiftly exited the app. He didn’t throw his phone away from him, but he wanted to. He resolved to not give in to dramatics.
Surely Simon wouldn’t notice one more follow, anyway. Wilhelm didn’t even have any photos on his page—just a blurry profile picture taken way back when he was at University. Maybe Simon would never see it. Maybe it wouldn’t matter.
He finished his coffee and reached for the TV remote. Without work, his day was entirely his own. It was time to binge 10 episodes of a procedural drama, in the hopes of protecting himself from developing thoughts of his own, for a few hours at least.
His plan failed miserably.
Half an hour later, he had his phone out again, clicking on the purple circle around Simon’s profile picture at the top of his feed, unable to keep his thumb from tapping.
It was a shot of Simon at his keyboard. He’d obviously propped his phone up somehow, the camera focused on his face as he slid his hands delicately over the keys. There was sunlight streaming in from a nearby window; what looked like a living room behind him, full of plants in brightly colored pots. He was just about to start singing when heavy footsteps on the wooden floor interrupted him, and a voice cut in, off camera.
“Simme, what do you—”
The video shook as Simon huffed and picked up his phone, the performance cut short. The voice—deep, masculine, closer now—apologized and laughed, and Simon joined in, bubbly and bright. Wilhelm got a glimpse of blonde hair as the camera swung round before it cut off with a clatter and the video ended.
He stared down at his screen.
He didn’t even ask last night, and of course, what difference did it make? But finding out like this was worse, somehow.
Had Simon seen his follow and posted on purpose? Trying to discourage him from any thoughts he might be having? He’d said he was happy. Maybe this man was the source of his happiness. Or at least some of it.
Wilhelm knew nothing about his life, these days. And yet somehow it felt like a shock.
He closed the app. Locked his phone. Threw it as far away across the sofa as he could.