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Summary
Simon was no idiot, either. He felt it when he would walk into practice (often late, with Felice in tow), Wille’s eyes burning the back of his neck. But really, it was nothing. There were no stalled conversations in the hallway, no real exchange. Simon had his head in the music; Wille, in his ass.
Nothing, except for the night before the concert, where Wille stumbled into Felice’s parents’ kitchen, drunk out of his mind, muttering an “oh, it’s you,” and colliding into Simon, making him catch the both of them on the edge of the counter. He still remembered the electricity in his body that slipped around when he saw the corners of Wille’s mouth go wide, his eyes glinting in the blue light.
Or, Wille turns up in Stockholm after moving back to America for years, and Simon still doesn't know what to do about him.