Chapter Text
When Simon ends the studio session, he has a disconcerting number of notifications on his phone. He always turns it to DND when he’s working with an artist, so he can focus on their performance. The studio charges by the minute so there isn’t any time to waste. Maybe bigger acts wouldn’t care, but that’s not his focus as a producer.
Simon calms his initial panic by reminding himself that if this was a real emergency, his assistant would have pulled him from the booth.
He goes to his conversation with Wilhelm. Wilhelm knows he won’t respond, but he still sends little updates on his day. The first message of the morning is a picture of him frowning by the cyclometer. No one signed up 🙁 I can’t tell when I can use it. This is Wilhelm’s biggest pet peeve in the lab. Everything is so sensitive no one would dare fuck with someone else’s process, but Wilhelm says we live in a society, so people should be respectful and put down when they’re using the equipment. The sign up sheet is right above it!!!!
Then there’s a picture of Wilhelm eating his sandwich while glaring at the crossword. The bench scientists at the lab compete to see who can fill them in first, and Simon knows that Wilhelm would have spent his entire lunch on it.
And then a third message, the one that brings his heart rate back up: Everyone is fine. Call me first. DON’T go on the internet
Simon thumbs over to the call button. He raises the phone and his head and he can see his assistant on the performer’s side of the booth, talking to the artist. She looks up and makes a face at him, a grimace with soft eyes. If Simon didn’t already know this was bad, this would confirm it.
The call connects. “Wille?”
“Hi, sweetheart, I’m almost there. Just wait for me,” Wilhelm says.
“Wait, I don’t… what happened?”
There’s a moment of silence.
“There’s a news story,” Wilhelm says. Simon’s hand tightens on the phone. “They found out August took the video.” Fuck. How? It’s been ten years. The story didn’t die, because the story never dies, it lingers in the cultural consciousness and pops up like a beach ball whenever someone needs an object lesson to support their crusade. Their tape has been cited in tightening online privacy laws, in denying ISPs neutrality on delivering internet access, in debates on influencer families and the ethics of famous children.
At this point, Simon has a routine for dealing with it. He ignores it until he can’t and then he goes to the gym and does some hardcore cardio to get the adrenaline out. Then he meets with friends and does something fun to remind himself that he has a life and there are good people in the world. Being an adult insulates him from the worst of it. If someone says something to him he can walk away and he can choose who he works with.
Wilhelm’s voice pulls him back to the present. “I’m just pulling up.”
He drove in the city? On a weekday?
Simon looks up. He needs to debrief on the recording session, he needs to schedule any follow-ups. He can’t just go. His assistant flaps her hand at him and Simon is out of his seat, not quite running.
When he steps outside, Wilhelm is just pulling up in their navy blue four-door. In a maneuver that would make any number of upstanding citizens apoplectic, he idles in the middle of the street, long enough for Simon to dash forward and into the passenger seat. They only get honked at twice.
Wilhelm starts driving and Simon doesn’t distract him while he gets them back in the lane. He’s dying to, though. His knee bounces. He takes out his phone as a distraction, ignoring the rest of his notifications and gets on his newsreader. He gasps.
He knew the story must be out there or Wilhelm wouldn’t have known, but it’s huge. BBC, Al-Jazeera, New York Times. Which means it’s on every clout-chasing website there is. At least Twitter and Instagram don’t exist anymore.
Simon lets himself drift out of his circle of approved websites to check.
KIDDIE PORN PRINCE, the Daily Mail headline reads. The English press, always classy.
“How did they all get this so fast?” Simon asks. If the story broke this morning, it shouldn’t be on every news outlet already.
“It looks like the story is part of a bigger book about the royal family, so the excerpt has been shopped around.” Wilhelm signals and merges them into traffic. His grip is white-knuckled on the steering wheel, belying his matter of fact recitation. Wilhelm exhales. “That means that they’re confident that the accusation is true and would hold up if they were sued. Also that there’s probably more to come when the book is published.”
What could be more than this?
“Did Farima tell you that?” They’re almost back home. Simon starts looking around to see if there’s any cameras lurking. It would be highly illegal for a pap to come for them on their way home here in Berlin, but if the money is good enough then people start being willing to take risks.
“I’ve been dodging her,” Wilhelm admits.
Simon is so focused on his examination of their surroundings that it takes a second for Wilhelm’s words to sink in. He stares at Wilhelm. “What?”
“I wanted to check with you first,” Wilhelm says. Simon’s heart fills. Ten years they’ve been together and it’s moments like this that prove it. Simon clicks into one of the articles.
Simon Eriksson, better known as as celebrated music composer and producer “SRE” and his husband Dr. Wilhelm Rodriguez, formerly Crown Prince Wilhelm of Sweden, and fuck, there it is. It’s not that they’re hiding, but it’s been so long now that people mostly don’t connect Dr. Rodriguez, adult biochemist, to the teenaged former prince. But now they will, especially since, yep, there’s a picture of them. It’s a creepshot someone took of the two of them on a walk, holding hands. He brushes his thumb over the edge of Wilhelm in the picture, along his hairline.
They’re never going to get away from this.
He reads the line out loud and Wilhelm makes a soft sound.
“I could identify the exact mechanism through which my protein is folded—” which is Wilhelm’s life work, with possible implications for heart disease research—and the press would read, Dr. Rodriguez, better known for his underage sex tape.” It’s such an echo of Simon’s thoughts. The water inside of him rises. He needs to feel Wilhelm, to know he’s there. He puts his hand on Wilhelm’s thigh and squeezes. It’s not enough.
Simon feels justified in his paranoia of the bushes when their car’s proximity sensor goes off, of all things. Their car sensor has heat vision to help detect if a kid is going to run out into the street, but it seems it has off-label usefulness as a paparazzi detector.
“Well,” Wilhelm says. They look at each other. “I could let you out in front of the building and then go find somewhere to park.”
It’s a tough competition between them to see who hates having their picture taken more. Wilhelm is definitely more used to it, but habit doesn’t make him less worthy of protection.
“No,” Simon says, grim. If they get a picture it’ll be of the two of them facing this together.
Wilhelm does the credit of not asking him if he’s sure. They park a little more than a block away and Wilhelm has a death grip on his hand as they walk up. “Maybe I should grow a beard,” Wilhelm says. “So they wouldn’t recognise me.”
Simon tries to picture it. Wilhelm’s face is the most familiar to him in the world, so it’s hard to imagine it different. But it has changed in the ten years they’ve been together, edges getting sharper, deeper around his eyes and the edges of his lips. “You’d look dashing,” Simon allows. “Would be soft for me. But rough while you're growing it.”
“Better not, then,” Wilhelm says. Then he takes a deep breath. They’re about to turn the corner to their block.
As they feared, the photographer jumps out and starts snapping. Simon doesn’t let himself react and they keep walking forward.
Then, unexpectedly, their neighbour starts screaming. “Are you taking their picture?” Her Bavarian accent gives her outrage a bit of extra oomph. She barges out, cardboard box still in her hand from where she was taking out her recycling. She stands in front of the photographer and berates him. Not to stereotype, but the guy is probably English and doesn’t understand, which she seems to think too because she switches languages and continues. “They have a right to privacy, their face is their data.” That’s a slogan from an online data security campaign from a few years ago, the writers will be pleased to know that it stuck with her. She isn’t touching the guy, but there’s no way he can get a good shot like this.
It’s strange, because yesterday Simon would have counted her among his antagonists in life. She’s gotten them in trouble several times for making noise when they were having friends over. But that same instinct is really working in his favour right now. Faced with a rulebreaker, she can’t help herself.
He calls out a thanks as they rush in, but she doesn’t acknowledge it, on her phone now, undoubtedly calling the authorities.
“Even odds that she’ll be mad at us tomorrow for bringing a ruckus down on her quiet neighbourhood,” Wilhelm says as they climb the stairs.
Simon snorts. “I bet I could sidestep that by complaining first, she wouldn’t be able to resist a buddy for a good gripe fest.”
“That’s a good strategy.”
Wilhelm unlocks the door and Simon steps in and immediately closes the curtains. He turns back and Wilhelm is leaning against the closed door. His shoes are still on.
“Wille?”
Wilhelm opens his eyes. His lips are flat and Simon can tell he’s biting them on the inside. “How are you doing?” There are reasons they live in Germany and the privacy laws are most of them. The rest is a research lab that wanted Wilhelm, an established music scene, and relative proximity to Simon’s family.
“There was a reporter outside my house, once, when we were sixteen.” It’s been a long time since Simon got to be surprised about people’s behaviour.
“Fuck, seriously?”
Some things get funny with time, but that never has. “We weren’t talking at the time so…”
“Right,” Wilhelm says. “Right.” He toes off his shoes and walks to the couch, folds himself onto it still wearing his olive green bomber jacket.
Simon makes his way over, watching Wilhelm carefully. Instead of joining him on the couch, he sits on the coffee table in front of him. He puts out his hands and Wilhelm slides his on top immediately. Simon’s middle finger catches on Wilhelm’s wedding band and he strokes it briefly, rotating the scuffed gold.
The contact settles Wilhelm’s shoulders. “You have some options on what happens next,” he says. “Before I call Farima back, I want to make sure I know what you want.”
“What are you thinking?”
“All of this… isn’t your problem. It’s August’s problem. Maybe it’s about us but it doesn’t concern us. You don’t have to be here. Could be a good time to take a vacation.”
Simon thinks about it. He spent Wilhelm’s eighteen birthday in the Maldives with his phone in a box so he wouldn’t be tempted to see any reactions to Wilhelm’s abdication announcement. Wilhelm had joined him a couple of days after and they’d swum every day and slept an obscene amount. He sees Wilhelm’s vision. It’s tempting.
But Wilhelm is sitting on the couch in his coat, not settled, and he’s not saying ‘we.’ “Where would you be, if I was sunning myself?”
Wilhelm’s hands twitch in Simon’s grip. “Mama needs me,” he says, confirming Simon’s conclusion.
“Wille, please,” Simon says and stands up. Wilhelm grips his hands tighter for a second before he lets go. “Don’t do this. Keeping me away from your family doesn’t protect me from its drama if it sends you back to me all fucked up.” It took him years to realise Wilhelm was doing this on purpose, keeping him away from the palace and the Royal Court. He’s got a whole complex about how he wasn’t there for Simon in their first year, which is sweet, except it’s the same bullshit with a different hat. Wilhelm knows how Simon feels about it.
“It’s going to be really bad,” Wilhelm says. “I don’t even know how bad.”
“Which is why we do it together,” Simon shoots back. “Take your coat off.”
Wilhelm shrugs out his coat and leaves it behind him, his sweater sliding freely on the hot pink silk lining. “Better?”
Simon sits down again, this time next to Wilhelm. “If anything happens and it feels like they’re pulling us apart, you come find me immediately, okay?” Simon doesn’t trust them for a second.
“Okay.” Wilhelm’s eyes are clear. Simon trusts him. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” It’s easy to say and easy to feel.
“I’m going to call Farima.”
Wilhelm takes out his phone with one hand and Simon holds onto the other. Seven missed calls. Oh, that reminds Simon. He pulls out his own phone. He hears the call connect on Wilhelm’s side. Protocol keeps Farima from berating Wilhelm from avoiding her, simply addressing him as ‘Your Grace’ in deference to his remaining ducal title—Wilhelm has asked them several times, that if they insist on a title they use Dr, which he’s earned, to no avail. He asks her for a situation update.
Simon’s phone is also a jungle of notifications. He finds the group chat with Sara and Linda which only has a request for him to check in and that they care about him. I’m okay. I’m with Wilhelm. We’re probably coming to Sweden. See you soon
His mother responds immediately. I’ll make all your favourites
I love you
Call me when you can 💗 Make Wille give you a hug from me
His various friend group chats are the opposite, a riot of posts. Rosh and Ayub are offering to hide him or to be his bodyguards and then mention that It’s chaos here, which is concerning. Yes to bodyguard, he says, but just Ayub, no offense Rosh but I don’t need anyone dead and then, what do you mean chaos
His musicians group chat is also wailing, but they’re talking amongst themselves just as much as they’re probably waiting for him to say something. He sees a message scroll by, I can’t believe I performed at August Day and decides he doesn’t need to see anything there for a while.
Wilhelm is listening and humming beside him periodically. Then he hears Farima’s tinny voice say, “Is Mr. Eriksson with you?”
“I’m here,” he says, loud enough to hopefully be picked up.
“I can conference you in,” she says.
Wilhelm gets the notification and he hands his phone to Simon while he walks over to the TV and struggles behind it for a second to pull out the camera to put on top. They had to pay so much extra to get one that didn’t have a camera built-in so they can have the pleasure of going through this little dance every time. Once Wilhelm has it set up, Simon taps a couple of times on the phone and the blank screen displays one of the conference rooms at the palace.
“Where’s Her Majesty?” Wilhelm says, noticing what Simon hasn’t had a chance to.
Farima makes swift eye contact with Minou. So, not well then. Simon reaches for Wilhelm and pulls him back to the couch.
Simon wraps both of his hands around Wilhelm’s left. Their wedding rings overlap.
“The Crown Prince is here,” Minou says instead, diplomatically.
August pops up. “Hi, Wille.”
Wilhelm has a detente with August, built upon them never being in the same room together, but it’s fragile. A vein jumps in Wilhelm’s jaw. “August.”
“Where have you been?” August is not held back by deference.
“I have real work, August,” Wilhelm says, which is brazen because Simon knows Wilhelm was waiting for Simon’s work instead. “I’ve heard the situation, what’s the plan?”
Again, Farima and Minou look at each other. It’s Farima who admits, “We’re mostly waiting for the next story.” That lines up with what Wilhelm said, that more was coming. “But we could start to head off certain rumours. If we released a family picture, with the four of you—”
“No,” Wilhelm says.
“It’s only a matter of time before the public will expect to see you,” Minou says.
“No pictures.” Then Wilhelm admits. “There was a paparazzo outside our home today.”
August’s head snaps up. That’s more concern than Simon expected. “Sara—”
“I booked her into a hotel with Linda,” Wilhelm says. Simon stares at him. Maybe Simon spoke too soon when he said he wasn’t surprised by people anymore. He didn’t even think. He opens up his phone and goes back to the chat with his family.
Are you guys okay? Where is the hotel?
“At least a statement,” Minou says.
Wilhelm pauses. “Aside from a request for compassion and privacy, what could I possibly say?”
“You could express your shock at the news,” Minou says. She says it calmly, so Simon doesn’t get the implication until Wilhelm swears. “Yours, and Her Majesty’s.”
Wilhelm rears back.
“There’s no way they don’t have the settlement,” Wilhelm says. “It’s going to come out that the whole Royal Court knew. And, fuck, he’s the Crown Prince, you can’t just—” Can’t what, Simon doesn’t understand. Wilhelm’s face is twisted, he looks almost sorry.
Then Simon gets it. Right now he’s the only one implicated. If they cut him off, the scandal doesn’t touch the Crown. It’s like slamming bulkheads closed in a submarine, trying to stop the water from bringing the whole ship down.
On the screen, August hangs his head.
***
The call is pretty much over after that. Wilhelm refuses to do pictures or a statement and there isn’t much else. They transfer them to some under-secretary who starts on their travel arrangements.
The hotel is lovely, Linda writes back and shares a picture of the Stockholm skyline. Don’t worry about us. Take care of yourself, my love
Nobody threatened us or came to the house, Sara says, characteristically to the point. He appreciates it. Simon can’t believe he was blithely recording tracks while all of this was happening.
Chaos is chaos Ayub writes back. Work was practically cancelled today it’s all anyone was talking about
Journos up in my DMs Rosh says, but fuck em. You must be doing okay if you can take cheap shots at me
Is Simon doing okay? His eyes feel gritty like he’s on thirty six hours of no sleep but it isn’t even seven p.m. Wilhelm is throwing clothes into a bag. He’s worried about his family and friends. He’s not looking forward to the next few days. He’s in that same deep place of sadness that gets him every time the video comes back to haunt them, but he sort of feels like he’s watching all of this from a remove. Wilhelm is right: this isn’t his problem. And there’s not much anyone can do to make it his problem. He doesn’t have to do anything about this.
He goes into the bedroom.
“Wille, take a break.”
Wilhelm throws a look but keeps rifling in the drawers. “The flight is at 9 a.m.”
“Yep. Come here.”
Dubiously, Wilhelm does. Simon pushes him onto the bed and climbs on top of him.Simon lays flat on top of him, turning his ear to Wilhelm’s chest. Just as he thought, his heart is beating hard.
“What are you thinking?” Simon asks.
“I know it’s a role and not a person, and there will always be a Crown Prince, but the way they’re talking about throwing August out…”
Simon raises his head. “You’re concerned. About August?”
Wilhelm grimaces. “I know. It’s just—” he bites his lip. Simon isn’t going to get anything else out of him.
“Do you need to keep packing?” Simon asks.
In response, Wilhelm reaches out and wraps his arms around Simon’s middle.
***
They arrive in Stockholm and are, for lack of a better word, smuggled out of the airport. They stay in their first class seats and then an airport agent comes onto the plane and takes them out via some back corridors until they end up on the tarmac. Then they get in a buggy with their luggage and are driven to the edge of the property where a royal car and driver pick them up.
At least it isn’t winter yet. Actually, shit. Simon does some mental math. How close are they to Erik’s death anniversary? It’s still a month away, but every year Wilhelm gets a little withdrawn in the week or two before. Even when he’s not thinking about it, his body somehow knows the rhythm and demands its due.
In the back seat, Simon tangles his fingers with Wilhelm’s.
Even with the cloak and dagger, Simon is under no illusions that the trip is a secret. Someone would have seen them in Berlin. It didn’t feel like anyone was particularly looking their way, the airport combination of disconnected tourists and business people provides a lot of cushion, but it just takes one person jacked into celebrity gossip or world news.
But the maneuver did save them any awkwardness on this side, where people are much more likely to be following the story.
Wilhelm watches out the window, the familiar drive to the palace. Wilhelm gets more tense the closer they get, index finger working in circles around his thumbnail. “Right,” Wilhelm says and detangles their hands with an apologetic smile. He gets his arms out of his coat and slips off his sweater, leaning down to tuck it into the carry-all he insisted on keeping at his feet. He leans back and smooths down his hair.
He steps out of the car in his jeans, bomber jacket over one arm, and a t-shirt of Minnie Mouse drinking a pint that says ‘Never Mind The Buzzcocks’ but Minnie is covering most of the ‘Buzz’ so it’s her mouse face and the word COCKS in all caps. Simon knows this shirt, it’s the punishment t-shirt that Wilhelm’s football team forced the loser of the drinking game to wear at the end of their last season party. He didn’t know Wilhelm still had it. He doesn’t know why he’s wearing it now, especially when the weather is chilly enough that goosebumps pop up on his arms before he steps into the palace.
A maid takes his bomber jacket and Simon’s coat when they step inside and Wilhelm walks with purpose, heading towards the same room that they did their settlement reading in.
Minou and Farima are there and a few other staffers are milling about. August looks up when they walk in, but Wilhelm doesn’t acknowledge him. With the same directness that has marked all of his steps so far he walks straight back to the chairs at the far end of the table. Ludwig sits next to Kristina, hand covering hers. She’s sitting upright in her wooden chair, skirt suit immaculate and brooch well-pinned, but even Simon can see that something is caved in. The lines of her face are deeper, the shadows starker. She looks old. Simon has never thought of her that way, but the thought is inescapable.
He’s not sure what he expected but it isn’t for Wilhelm to sink to his knees in front of her. He reaches out and she collapses into his arms. Her body shakes even though her eyes stay dry. “It’s okay, Mama. I’ve got you, you can breathe.”
It’s so backwards.
When the Queen pulls back, she clears her throat and touches her hair, wipes the space under her lip, and then smoothes her suit jacket. Simon has watched Wilhelm perform the same gestures hundreds, thousands of times. Did he learn them from her, imprinted into unconscious imitation a small child, or were they drilled into both of them through the same relentless need to be perfect? Maybe that’s a chicken and the egg question.
Wilhelm keeps a hand on the back of her chair when he stands up, surveying the room. That’s when August approaches. “Hey, Wille, thanks for coming.” He reaches for Wilhelm and Wilhelm drops him with a look.
Then Wilhelm’s gaze flicks to the cluster of staffers and then his mouth twists. Simon follows the line of his gaze to the row of staffers on the other side of the table, looking disappointed. Simon’s eyes snag on a DSLR sitting there, prominently. He can’t imagine that this is a moment they want to document, the Queen looks not herself.
August walks away and Simon steps into the gap he left. He looks up at Wilhelm meaningfully and Wilhelm leans down so he can whisper. “You okay?”
Wilhelm looks startled to be asked. “Yeah.” Nothing else.
“Perhaps His Grace would like to settle in and change,” Minou suggests, with the slightest emphasis on ‘change’ that makes Simon sure that Wilhelm’s outfit has been noticed.
Wilhelm looks at his mother. She reaches up and pats Wilhelm’s arm. “It’s okay, sweetie, I can see you at dinner.”
“Family dinner?” Wilhelm checks. Kristina nods absentmindedly.
“Okay,” Wilhelm says. He leans down and kisses her head. He nods at his dad and steps away. When Simon doesn’t immediately follow, he reaches for his hand. They walk out together.
“What is up with the shirt?” Simon asks in the relative safety of their room, Wilhelm’s habitual one. You’d never know it was his childhood bedroom, but it technically is.
“It’s a club heirloom,” Wilhelm says, plucking at it. “I hope Sebi doesn’t mind me misusing it.”
Simon throws himself on the bed. “I’m sure he won’t care.” He rolls onto his side. “But why?”
“It’s a trick I learned when I was a shitty kid,” Wilhelm says. Simon gives him a blank look. This explains literally nothing. “I thought they might try to take a picture.” The DSLR. That was for him. Understanding dawns.
“But you said no pictures.”
Wilhelm sighs. “They must be desperate.” Simon doesn’t see how a picture of Wilhelm would help them in the situation they’re in, regardless. “But the visual would be bad.” Wilhelm gestures at the copyright infringing brand poison that he’s wearing. “When I was little, someone would bring along an extra button down and shove me into it. It was almost a game.”
“God, Wille,” Simon says, totally inadequate. He sits up.
Wilhelm turns to him. “Boris told me—” must have been early in Wilhelm’s therapy career, “—that people who aren't heard will find a way to say no.” Wilhelm takes the shirt off and carefully folds it. “This one is at least funny.”
If Simon thought for a second that Wilhelm would let him, he’d run away with Wilhelm and never let any of these people near him ever again. He settles for reaching out with his heel and hooking it behind Wilhelm’s knee, giving him the choice of stumbling forward or falling down. He crashes into Simon, catching himself on his hands so he doesn’t drop his full weight on him.
It’s an awkward position, both of their legs dangling off the bed, but Simon doubles down on it, pulling Wilhelm’s chest flat against his.
“What were they even hoping to get from a picture?” Simon feels aggrieved about this. Why doesn’t the royal court ever just say what they want?
Wilhelm turns his head to the side. “They think that the worst thing August did was outing us. Well, me, I guess. You were already…” he sighs. “So if they can show that you and I are fine and happy and I’m fine with August and forgive him, then what’s the problem? I’d be out by now, probably, or something like that.”
When Simon squeezes Wilhelm this time, it’s more for him than for Wilhelm.
“That’s sick,” Simon says.
“It truly baffled some of them that I wasn’t happy that they’d navigated a way for me right back into the closet.”
Something else dawns on Simon. “This is why you’re so militant.”
“Focusing on coming out like it’s a thing, a big moment in any queer kid’s life encourages them to stay hidden. As long as the conversation is fixated on personal choice and waiting until the time is right then we’re not focused on eradicating homophobia. ‘Take your time, choose your conversations, wait til you feel ready,’” Wilhelm says, putting on a voice, “Fuck that; instead, how about don’t be homophobic. Being in the closet didn’t protect me from anything. It just stopped me from being able to say that I was being hurt.” Wilhelm has said this, or a variation on this, at great volume, many times. A TV show came out a few year’s back and the main character spent most of the episodes planning on having, and then having, coming out conversations and Wilhelm didn’t stop foaming at the mouth for about six months. It didn’t help that so many well-meaning acquaintances watched it and brought it up, thinking they’d have a shared topic of conversation with him. Simon thought the show was cute. He keeps the peace on that to avoid marital strife.
The rant has become a familiar companion to Simon and hearing the truncated version brings a smile to his face. The longer version includes a sidebar on how the concept of coming out is heteronormative and that society must end gender as a category of social organisation. The man studied biology. He did this in his own time. And now Simon gets why and the comfort drains out of him. The emotional see-saw is a lot right now.
“Are you going to visit Sara and Linda?” Wilhelm asks, changing the subject.
“Yeah, I said I’d be by today. Do you want to come?”
Wilhelm hesitates and then shakes his head. “You need family time.” Wilhelm is always really good about making sure that Simon gets his own space for his relationships. “When are you leaving?” Simon wrestles his phone out of his pocket and lifts it up above both of them to check the time. On his lockscreen is a gentle question from his mom just checking if he knows when he’ll be there so they don’t go out and miss him.
“Soon, I guess.”
Wilhelm rolls off of him. He scooches up on the bed, laying on his side to watch Simon.
“Do you have a present for them?” Simon asks, putting his wallet in his pocket. He doesn’t need his keys, he supposes.
Wilhelm sits up. “Oh no. I don’t.”
Simon puts up a hand, forestalling Wilhelm’s panic. “I only asked cause you usually do and I didn’t want to miss it and see you pout. You know you don’t have to get them things. Besides, you already got them a hotel room.” And Simon is grateful for that, for thinking of them.
“I had to,” Wilhelm says quiet. “Can you tell them I’m sorry?”
“Get them two presents at Christmas if it matters that much,” Simon leans down and gives Wilhelm a kiss. Wilhelm touches his shoulder, feather light. When Simon pulls back, Wilhelm’s fingers linger, just a moment, before he lets them fall.