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On the day they move in together, Simon wakes up all jittery with excitement like it’s Christmas.
They’ve agreed to meet at a café to get some much-needed fuel before the move. Sara sits opposite him, their willing helper for the day. He’s sure she regrets the decision already.
He presses his forehead against the window, as if it will make Malin’s car appear out of nowhere. The glass is cold against his skin. He’s aware of Sara watching him intently with amusement as she sips her latte.
“What?” he says, not even looking at her, rolling his forehead against the glass. He feels giddy like a kid.
“Look at you. It’s only been a few weeks and you’re staring out the window, like, ‘when will my husband return from the war?’”
That makes him extricate his face from the window. She smiles and shakes her head at him. The worst part is, she isn’t even wrong. He feels extremely ‘when will my husband return from the war’, if that’s an emotion that it’s even possible to feel. Except the war in question is Wilhelm being stuck at the palace, and the answer, he thinks with a rush, is any second now. He makes a face at her and flicks his straw, watches the way it spins around in his glass. He’s not even going to think about the husband part. That’s too much for 11am in the morning.
Unconsciously, his knee has started bouncing under the table, and Sara nudges him lightly with her foot. “Simon, can you chill? It’s only Wille.”
“I am chilled, thank you, Sara.”
“You have a lot of energy for a chilled person.” she observes dryly.
With a monumental effort, Simon sits casually back in his seat, reaches for his iced tea and takes a long, calm sip. “See?” he says smugly. “Chilled.”
Sara hums approvingly. “Good, because they’re here.”
Simon is not chilled. Simon has never been less chilled in his life. He shoots upright so fast he nearly bangs the underside of the table with his knee. Setting his drink down, and pointedly ignoring his sister shaking her head at him, Simon watches the car roll up to the kerb. A sleek, expensive-looking black thing with slightly tinted windows. It parks, the doors swing open, and Wille and Felice clamber out, deep in conversation.
Felice looks elegant as always, in a lace shirt, flared jeans and heeled boots. He has to wonder who wears heels to help someone move in. Still, as he watches her jump out, hop up onto the kerb and navigate around a grate without taking her eyes off her phone, he has to concede that she, of all people, is probably capable of it. She seems to be texting with one hand and using the other to passionately gesticulate at Wilhelm. Who is looking inconveniently sexy right now.
Simon grins at what he’s wearing; an oversized white t-shirt, with the word smörgåsbord inexplicably emblazoned across the front. The sleeves have been cut off to turn it into a muscle tee, the arm holes jagged at the edges and deep enough to offer a glimpse of the black mesh tank top he’s got on underneath. Simon remembers this t-shirt very fondly; he was the one who took the scissors to it, on the floor of his room, egged on by Wille. It was during what Simon has dubbed as his rebel phase, post abdication. He’s also wearing baggy grey jeans with an unnecessary amount of pockets, earrings, and an expensive-looking pair of sunglasses. The whole ensemble makes him look, frankly, much cooler than he is. Simon is very much in love.
The diner doors open with a swish and a jingle of the bell. Wille and Felice, it turns out, are bickering. They don’t even stop as they approach the table; they just work their greetings into it.
“Sorting by colour is a stupid system.” Wilhelm is saying, pushing his sunglasses back into his artfully messy hair. He leans down to kiss Simon’s cheek. “Hi, my love. I’m just saying it doesn’t make organisational sense, and it makes it harder to find what you’re looking for!”
Felice, simultaneously, is setting her bag down and squeezing Sara’s shoulder in greeting. “Right, but by colour is so much more aesthetically pleasing, and looks more organised.”
Wilhelm tuts. “Shove over, please, älskling.” he taps Simon, then slides into the booth next to him. “What’s the point of it looking organised if it’s not organised? Simon, back me up here.”
Simon blinks at him, taken aback by the energy they’ve brought to the table. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Your boyfriend,” Felice declares, pointing a manicured nail accusingly at Wille, “organises books by author, and I think organising by colour is better.”
“I’m sorry, I’m with Wilhelm.” Sara chimes in immediately, then touches Felice’s hand lightly when a betrayed look is sent her way. “Alphabetical makes more logical sense.”
“Simon?” Felice says expectantly, drumming her nails on the table. They make a satisfying clicking sound. Simon shrugs.
“I have no opinion. I’m Switzerland.”
“Which means he agrees with me, and he’s saying that out of loyalty to you.” Felice shoots at Wille smugly.
Wille frowns at her, nods thoughtfully, then fixes Simon with the softest look. “Very cute if true.” Then he slides his arm around Simon’s waist and kisses his temple, while Felice mimes gagging in the background. “Missed you.” he whispers into Simon’s hair. He smells gorgeous, like lemon and sandalwood and vanilla. Simon swears he doesn’t swoon.
A waitress comes over to serve them. Her face does something complicated when she sees Wilhelm; flickers through about twenty distinct emotions in a couple of seconds. It’s almost impressive. She’s then aggressively polite to all of them for the whole interaction. She thanks Wille after he orders, and calls him ‘sir’ in a slightly bewildered tone, with a bob of her head. He suspects she’d bow if Wille asked. Felice has her lips pressed together, respectfully trying to stifle a laugh. Wille is very still against his side; Simon squeezes his knee. Wille looks at him, and his lips start to twitch. As soon as the waitress is gone, Simon leans up to murmur, ‘thank you, sir’, in Wilhelm’s ear. Wille swats at Simon and breaks into a grin, and the whole table dissolves into giggles.
***
Within an hour, Simon is filled with visceral rage for whoever decided it would be an acceptable idea to get an apartment on the third floor. Because the universe hates him, the lift is broken, and he has to lug box after box up endless flights of winding stairs. And, of course, there’s no air conditioning in the stairwell. Wilhelm, extremely unhelpfully, is being relentlessly chipper about the whole thing. He keeps peering over the top of whatever box he’s carrying and sending these wide, toothy grins at Simon, bounding up and down the stairs with seemingly infinite energy. He’s like a puppy. It starts to become problematic when he begins grabbing at Simon on his way past, squeezing his waist, trying to tickle him, lunging in to kiss his cheek. It would be very cute if Simon wasn’t currently sweating through his shirt with the July heat, his legs screaming with the exertion of climbing up and down. Actually, Wilhelm is in a similar state; white shirt greying with sweat under the arms, a sheen on his face, his hair wet at the edges and falling into his face. Simon doesn’t get how Wilhelm isn’t feeling grumpy and overstimulated right now; he definitely is himself.
The fifth time Wilhelm tries to reach for him as they pass, he dodges and sets down the box of kitchenware he’s holding. “Aren’t you tired?” he huffs.
Wilhelm shrugs, panting a little. “Yeah. I can collapse on our sofa when we’re done, though.” Then a smile breaks out on his face, and he’s beaming at Simon, face all lit up.
Simon narrows his eyes at him, inexplicably suspicious. “What are you grinning at?”
“Our sofa, Simon. Ours.” He slides closer and puts his hands on Simon’s waist, squeezing. He bends down a little to put his face at Simon’s eye level, eyes wide and earnest and happy. “Our apartment.”
Simon grumbles, “Our apartment with a fucking broken lift.”
“Yeah,” Wilhelm nods, grinning infuriatingly (he looks gorgeous when he smiles like that; Simon can admit that even if he’s feeling pissy). “But it’s our broken lift.”
“Oh my God,” he groans. “You’re so annoying.”
Something sparks in Wilhelm’s eyes and he walks forward a couple of steps, effectively pinning Simon against the wall. “Am I now?”
Simon’s cheeks heat, his stomach swooping a little, but he won’t give in. He lifts his chin defiantly. “Get off me, idiot, you’re so sweaty.” he complains, aiming for maximally pissed off. It’s unconvincing, even to him.
Wilhelm leans even closer; Simon can feel his warm breath on his face. It smells like mint. They’re so close it should be disgusting; the air is too hot between them, and they’re both sticky and breathing heavily. His chest is kind of heaving from exertion, and it presses into Wilhelm’s with each inhale. “You really want me to leave you alone?” It’s not a line, he’s not teasing - when Wilhelm says shit like that he really means it. He’s checking in. Always so respectful of Simon’s boundaries.
Simon abandons the pretence and gives in, shaking his head. Their sticky foreheads meet, press together. Slowly, Wilhelm’s hands migrate from his waist. One curls around to press possessively on his lower back; the other slides between the wall and his head protectively. Simon can feel Wilhelm’s knuckles against the back of his head, brushing his hair. Wilhelm’s eyes are watching his carefully, with clear intent. His stomach does its best impression of a rollercoaster ride.
“I want to kiss you. If that’s okay.” Wilhelm says in a low voice. Simon has to really tilt his chin up to meet his mouth; he swears Wilhelm grows an inch every time he sees him. Their lips meet in a soft crush, warm and damp like wet petals. Wilhelm parts his lips and takes Simon’s bottom lip between them. Simon shudders.
“Absolutely not.” Felice calls, picking her way up the stairs in her heels and clapping her hands disapprovingly. They break apart sheepishly. “Please, no making out in the stairway. Stay on mission, Wille. Boxes to move, furniture to assemble.”
Wilhelm turns his best puppy dog eyes onto her. She looks entirely unimpressed. The click of her heels echoes against the stairs as she marches past and grabs Wilhelm’s arm, hauling him up the stairs with her. He throws a bashful grin at Simon over his shoulder, which he barely has time to return before Sara is next to him, shooing him back to the car to fetch more bags.
***
They get maybe a third of the way through unpacking in the five hours before Sara and Felice have to head off. They feed each other slices from the pizza they had delivered, and bicker over screw sizes while assembling furniture. Simon just barely manages to whisk away a certain box, the contents of which he really does not want his sister to see, before she opens it.
After they leave, Simon collapses on the sofa and dramatically declares that his leg muscles hurt too much to move for the rest of the evening. Wilhelm perches on the arm of the sofa and strokes his sweaty hair until he eventually dozes off.
He wakes up bleary and disoriented, blinking the room back into focus. Wilhelm’s gone. Stripping off his jeans and socks, he pads barefoot through the apartment in his boxers to search for him.
He finds him in the bedroom, freshly showered, laying out trinkets on the one shelf they’d put up. Simon’s eyes fall on a smooth, round rock placed in the centre of the shelf. He remembers it. It’s from the lake by Hillerska; Simon had picked it up on their first kind-of date and pressed it into Wilhelm’s palm. Maybe it was just an excuse to touch his hand; back when they had needed excuses. “Look. It’s perfect for skipping.” he’d pointed out. Wilhelm had nodded thoughtfully, but didn’t throw it; he’d pocketed it, smiling softly. Simon had no idea he still had it.
“Hi.” He joins Wilhelm at the shelf, nodding approvingly at the other trinkets he’s lining up. A photo of the two of them at Pride in a small frame, sporting huge, stupid smiles; the tiny glass statue of a frog that was Wilhelm’s last birthday gift from Sara. Wilhelm nudges a shoulder against his gently. “Hi yourself.”
He straightens the frame a little and then shifts to stand behind Simon, hooking his chin over his shoulder, arms around his waist. Simon can feel him smiling. “Muscles still hurting?”
“A little.”
“I ran you a bath.” Wilhelm says. “But if you don’t want it I can-”
“You’re sweet,” Simon interrupts, “thank you.” He tries his luck. “Will you get in with me?”
“No.” Wilhelm says, and buries his nose in Simon’s neck, inhaling deeply. It makes Simon’s chest do funny things. “If I’m going to be naked with you, I want it to be somewhere we can make the most of it.”
Simon turns in Wille’s arms so he can run a finger along Wille’s chest suggestively. “I mean, we can-“
Wilhelm cuts him off. “Not in the bath, Simon. Water is terrible lube, and I don’t want to get it all over the floor. Plus we’d get all wrinkly.”
Simon bursts into laughter. “You have a very unique brain.”
“Thank you?” Wille says uncertainly.
Simon does go to the bathroom, after a brief interlude for some admittedly slightly handsy kissing, and has to bury his face in his hands for a second. Wilhelm’s lit candles, all scented, and the bath has a mountainous cloud of bubbles floating on top. The air smells sweet and perfumed, and there’s even clothes folded and laid out for him after, and towels, all warming on the radiator. It’s so unexpectedly lovely that he feels a bit overwhelmed.
When Simon eases into it, the water is hot; steaming, turn-your-skin-red hot. In other words, his perfect temperature. Wilhelm remembered. It’s probably engrained in his brain, from the one disastrous time they’d tried to share a bath; Simon had run it, forgetting that some people aren’t accustomed to the water being furnace-hot. Wilhelm had stepped one foot in, yelped and jumped straight out, tripping over himself in his haste. If Simon hadn’t caught and steadied him, he might have face-planted the floor. They took separate baths after that.
He relaxes back in the water and lets it lap at him, swallowing the remaining tension from his muscles. Wilhelm knocks tentatively, asking if he can come in and keep Simon company. There’s no question; of course Simon wants him there.
Wilhelm sits sprawled on the floor, long limbs splayed out to the side. He rests his arms and chin on the edge of the bath; it makes him look young and innocent. They make idle chat; Wilhelm brought chocolate with him, and he feeds it to Simon. Occasionally he reaches out to stroke Simon’s wet hair back, absently, like he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. Simon throws a wet hand over the side of the bath to hold onto Wilhelm’s, lets Wilhelm play with his damp fingers. The only light in the room is candlelight, shifting and dancing, shadows gathering in the corners. It lends the room a sense of unreality, everything hazy and smelling sweet. It makes him feel docile, calm.
“This is really so special to me, Simme.” Wille confesses, rolling his chin back and forth against the cool porcelain of the bath. “I’ve never had a place that’s really mine.”
That’s true, Simon supposes. Hillerska was temporary, and tainted with expectations and memories. The room he grew up in was vast, palatial, and near-wholly impersonal. It’s hard to fill a space that big, to make it yours when it’s already full of history. “That’s… kind of sad.”
Wilhelm’s mouth twitches almost imperceptibly; happy or sad, Simon can’t read it. “It is what it is.”
“Okay, and I’m sad about it.” he maintains. “You deserved to feel at home once before you were 20 years old, Wilhelm.”
“Maybe,” Wilhelm says. “But Simon, seriously. I’m so happy now.” And he kisses Simon’s hand.
***
When Simon gets out, Wilhelm insists on helping him dry off. He hands Simon his sleep clothes, gorgeously warm from the radiator. Then he stands back and openly admires Simon as he pulls on shorts and one of Wilhelm’s t-shirts, oversized even on Wilhelm; it reaches halfway down Simon’s thighs.
“There.” Wilhelm breathes in the softest tone. “You look so cosy.” And then he’s picking Simon up, strong hands under his thighs; Simon makes a surprised noise then giggles, pressing the sound into Wilhelm’s temple as he wraps his legs around Wilhelm’s waist. He’s carried into the bedroom, effortlessly, like he’s featherlight. Wilhelm is so strong. Simon would love to pretend it doesn’t make him hot all over, warm even under his skin. He’d love to put that strength to use.
Gently, Wilhelm lays him down on the bed and crawls over him, dipping down to kiss him. Simon’s hands slide into his hair, mussing it up. Wilhelm’s lips and tongue move slowly and fever-warm against Simon’s; the room glows with the light from Wilhelm’s salt lamp. It sends shadows and pools of light slanting across the angular lines of Wilhelm’s face. He’s so beautiful, and he’s here, with Simon, and he’s not leaving. Not ever. Simon wants him so badly.
“Are you going to fuck me now?” Simon asks. Wilhelm sighs and dips to kiss his neck.
“Can I?” he pants. So wanting. Simon can feel that he’s already halfway hard. “I’ve been wanting to.”
“You were thinking about it?”
“Mhm.” Wilhelm hums, teeth grazing his collarbone.
“When?”
“Is it bad if I say all day?”
Simon reaches for him, and pulls him up for a shuddering kiss, catching Wille’s top lip between his. They kiss, and kiss, and Simon grasps for Wille’s hand, intertwining their fingers. “I couldn’t wait to get you alone.” Wilhelm presses against his lips.
“You’ve got me alone.” Simon whispers, watching, in rapt fascination, the way Wilhelm’s throat contracts as he swallows. “I’m all yours.”
Wille makes a low noise, and brings their joined hands up so he can caress the smooth skin of Simon’s cheek. “Look at you,” he breathes, shaking his head, all awed. “You’re so gorgeous.” Simon smiles shyly. Loosely grasping Wilhelm’s wrist, he turns his head so he can kiss Wille’s knuckles, one by one. Then, still smiling, he kisses each of Wille’s fingertips.
When he gets to Wille’s thumb, he allows his eyes to slip shut and lets Wilhelm explore. His thumb traces the lines of Simon’s cupid bow, the curve of his bottom lip. It presses down slightly, forcing Simon’s lips to part. He opens his eyes, and the expression on Wilhelm’s face is pure desire, heady and thick between them. He presses down harder. Simon’s not smiling any more.
He takes the tip of Wilhelm’s thumb into his mouth, kissing at it, tasting, feeling the weight of it on his tongue. Wilhelm bites his lip, but it doesn’t stifle the breathy sound he makes. He pulls his hand back. “Let me make you feel good?”
Simon nods.
Wilhelm’s hand snakes down between them to stroke Simon over his boxers. He shakes and pushes into it, grateful when Wilhelm hooks his fingers into the waistband and pushes them down, allowing him to shimmy out of them. He expects Wilhelm to touch him; he’s aching for it. But instead, Wilhelm pushes up Simon’s t-shirt to kiss down his chest, his stomach. The heat of his lips on Simon’s abdomen makes him tingle. But the real kicker is that Wilhelm keeps his eyes locked with Simon’s the whole time he’s doing it. It sends heat flaring in his groin. He feels the wet marks Wille’s lips leave behind like a trail burning down his body. He starts to sit up a little to take off his shirt, but Wilhelm stops him with a firm hand on his wrist.
“Keep it on.” he says, flushed, from his place between Simon’s legs. “I like you in my clothes.”
Simon knows this. It’s a well-established fact. But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t tease Wilhelm about it a little. “You want to fuck me in your clothes, hmm?”
Wilhelm sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and nods.
“Bet you’d like it if I came all over your shirt.”
Wilhelm outright moans at that, and Simon can’t take it. He started this game but he can’t see it through. “Come here,” he begs, “come up here, Wille.”
Wilhelm crawls up his body and takes his hands, pinning them above Simon’s head. They sink into the mattress; his grip is firm, and it makes Simon feel feral. He surges up to kiss Wilhelm, and the intensity of their kisses makes him feel like he’s melting.
“Fuck me,” he mumbles against Wilhelm’s lips, half-delirious, “please, Wille.”
“Okay.” Wilhelm whispers back, and slides off the bed.
Simon closes his eyes and listens to Wilhelm rummaging, the soft pad of his footsteps, the creak of bedsprings as the mattress dips with his weight. A bottle cap snicks open. He opens his eyes and Wille is between his legs, slicking up his fingers with focus. “Be gentle.” Simon instructs, “it’s been a while.”
Wilhelm kisses the inside of his knee. “Of course.”
Then his finger is circling, pressing lightly, and Simon sighs. “Inside, please.”
Obedient as ever, Wille pushes in gently, just one finger; he kisses Simon’s thigh as he does. Simon sighs and reaches down to pet his hair.
“Feeling good?” Wilhelm mumbles into his thigh. He giggles; it tickles. Wilhelm looks up at him properly and frowns. “Don’t laugh when I’m inside you.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. That’s my job.” Simon answers back, sees the delight flash in Wille’s eyes. It’s a running joke, that Wilhelm always does what Simon wants. It’s funny because it’s true.
“I live to please.” Wilhelm grins.
“In that case, you might want to actually move down there.”
Wilhelm does, crooking one finger until Simon’s back arches, then sliding in with two. It feels good, but also he’s a little distracted, because Wilhelm’s eyes keep flicking between his dick and his eyes, and he keeps biting his lip.
Eventually Simon caves. “Is there something you want, Wille?” he prompts.
“I want to go down on you.” Wilhelm says, hopeful eyes trained on Simon.
“While you open me up?” Simon clarifies; Wilhelm nods eagerly.
“Ok.” he says.
So ok. Wilhelm kisses his hip. his stomach. The head of his dick. Jesus Christ.
He scissors his fingers as he opens his mouth around Simon, so hot and wet and Simon feels himself throb in Wilhelm’s mouth. He’s too far gone to be embarrassed. Wilhelm’s mouth feels insane, all pressure and heat, teasing with his tongue. Then Wilhelm slips in a third finger and hits the perfect spot while he swallows around Simon, and he remembers with sudden clarity why he doesn’t normally let Wilhelm blow him while he’s prepping him. Namely, because he never lasts long enough to actually get Wilhelm’s dick inside him.
“Ok, stop.” Simon insists, hand on Wilhelm’s cheek. Wilhelm pulls off, panting with swollen lips. “I’m ready. Get naked for me, please.”
“Oh, I see,” Wilhelm quips, sliding off the bed to take off his shorts, “he gets to keep his shirt on and I have to get completely naked.”
“You’re the one who wanted me to keep the shirt on.” Simon reminds him.
“Good point. You’re very smart, Simon.”
“Stop stalling and take the damn shirt off.”
He does.
Naked and muscular and beautiful, Wilhelm’s weight settles back over Simon.
Wilhelm cups his face between his hands like he’s holding something fragile, something precious. He kisses Simon slowly, deeply, while he pushes inside, with the most delicious, wanting sound spilling out between their lips. Simon can’t tell who made it. Then Wille buries his head in Simon’s shoulder, mumbling something Simon can’t make out, hips grinding deeper as he slides home.
Simon clings on to him, fingers pressing deeper into the muscles of his back with every thrust. His legs shake where they’re wrapped around Wilhelm’s waist, one foot digging into the meat of his thigh to spur him on. “I love you.” Wille groans desperately, and Simon gasps it back.
The pleasure builds and builds like a cresting wave inside Simon. He feels his heart pounding, rapid as hummingbird wings, emotions washing over him like a tide. It’s beautiful. Everything is beautiful. The amber light of a streetlight outside spills through the window and pours over them, illuminating the way the muscles ripple in Wilhelm’s back. Simon looks at his boyfriend, lit up in gold and irrevocably his, and trembles with unnameable emotion. It’s love and desire all wrapped up in one; it’s the deep seated knowledge that I belong here with you.
In the end, it’s Wilhelm clutching at him as he tips over the edge that sends Simon spiralling into his orgasm. He feels his skin tingling in every place where they’re connected; his fingertips carving crescent marks on Wilhelm’s shoulders, their foreheads pressed together, between his legs.
The t-shirt is, predictably, a mess; sweaty and soiled against Simon’s stomach. Wilhelm sees, and starts laughing, his forehead still pressed against Simon’s. A big, breathless laugh that makes Simon giggle too. “Oops.” Wilhelm says, which just makes Simon laugh more.
Then Wilhelm rolls them, unusually dynamic and full of joy. He’s normally all languid and dopey after sex. He pulls Simon into his chest to cuddle him, their legs intertwining.
“Hey. Guess what?”
“What?” Simon says sleepily, nuzzling his face into the warm skin of Wilhelm’s bare chest.
“Now we get to make use of our washing machine.”
“Oh my God, shut up.” Simon grumbles, but he’s giggling.
Wilhelm kisses his head. “Love you too.”
Simon nestles in, safe and held. He tilts his head to smile up at his boyfriend.
“Happy move-in day.”