HayIts-K

“What?” says Simon, half-laughing in shock.  He hasn’t seen Wille’s anger like that in months.  Not directed at him, anyway.

“Now,” snaps Wille through gritted teeth.  He looks like a different person to the one who’d left Simon alone in bed not twenty minutes ago, loving and attentive and carefree.

Silent, disbelieving, Simon pulls off the hoodie and throws it over with bad grace.  Wille picks it up slowly, almost reverently, stroking the worn fabric with trembling fingers.  He sits down on the edge of the bed, back to Simon, and begins to fold the sweater into a neat square.

“Seriously, Wille.  What the fuck?” He’s laughing again, a nervous reaction, because it’s either that or pack up his stuff and leave.  All the old anxieties he thought they’d left in the past had flooded back at Wille’s words, reaching down somewhere deep inside and flipping painful switches.

There’s a pause before Wille replies, still not turning round.  “It was Erik’s.  I took it from his room after…” He trails off, takes in a shuddering breath.  “Before the funeral.”

Well, it’s an explanation at least, if not an excuse.  Simon exhales, heart rate beginning to settle back down and no longer two seconds away from fleeing the room.  He’s still hurt and confused, but he can hear the hurt in Wille’s voice too now.  It’s that which makes him slide across the bed to sit next to him, their feet dangling over the edge.

Simon doesn’t get too close though, keeping a careful distance between them as he waits.

“I’m sorry,” says Wille after a pause, and that’s something.  He never used to apologise for his outbursts.  “I shouldn’t have shouted. You didn’t know.”

Simon looks at his own hands, clasped together in front of him to stop himself from reaching out too soon.  “No, I didn’t,” he says eventually, before raising his gaze to Wille’s pale face, seeing the tears in his eyes.  “You really scared me there.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry, just…” Simon sighs.  “Explain it to me.  Please.”

He’s fearful for a moment that Wille won’t answer, his jaw set and face unmoving.  Every instinct Simon has longs to close that gap between them anyway, to take Wille’s hands in his and to forgive and forget.  But he waits instead while Wille finds the words.

“I’m scared.”

“Scared?”

“Of forgetting.” He turns to face Simon with a watery, twisted smile.  “Because I keep forgetting all the time now.  Like this morning, I woke up with you and everything was perfect and I didn’t think about him once.  And that’s most mornings now.  And then when I do remember, I feel so fucking guilty.”

“He’d have wanted you to be happy,” says Simon, firm but cautious.  He can feel himself edging out over a thin sheet of ice, knowing the wrong movement could break the fragile surface at any moment.

They almost never talk about Erik.  Considering what happened the last time they tried to have a serious conversation about him, Simon has never been brave enough to raise the subject again.  Perhaps that was a mistake, on both their parts.

“He loved you.  He wouldn’t have wanted you to be stuck in grief forever.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” says Wille, staring at the hoodie on his lap.  Gently, he smooths out the fabric with long fingers.

Simon inches closer, cutting the gap between them in half.  “You never talk about him,” he says, greatly daring, and Wille looks up in surprise.  “You can, you know.  If you want to.  You could tell me about him, what he was like.  If it helps you to remember.”

Wille just looks at him. His dark eyes convey everything Simon already knows; an answer that doesn’t need to be spoken to be heard loud and clear. 

Simon sighs, dropping his head into his hands to rub at his eyes, “We said we weren’t going to do this again, Wille.”

“No,” Wille says, his voice disarmingly soft like butter. “You said we weren’t going to do this again.”

“Exactly!” Simon replies, exasperated. 

“And yet, you just proceeded to eye fuck me for four hours straight.” 

“I did not!” 

“Yeah, you kinda did.” 

“Wille,” Simon groans, swallowing down the wayward giggle trying to claw its way up his throat. This is getting dangerously close to some cute banter and that is simply unacceptable. 

“Simon,” is all Wille says in response and god, how does Wille do that? How does he manage to take a single word, and his name no less, and make it the most fucking loaded statement Simon’s ever heard? 

“What?” Simon asks uneasily. 

“Come here.” 

“No.” Simon crosses his arms over his chest and bites his lip. 

Wille gives him a look. 

Simon tosses his arms out in frustration. They’ve had this conversation a million times. “Come on, Wille. We both know that—”

“—you want me?”

Maybe it’s the nonfunctioning, middle-of-the-night brain or just his body being a fucking traitor as per usual, but Simon isn’t quick enough to suppress a surprised laugh. Fuck!

Wille looks positively delighted. 

“Come over here.”

Simon shakes his head, pointedly ignoring the growing heat in his lower belly. Wille nods slowly, and how can a fucking nod be so goddamn smug?? 

Simon snaps. “Wilhelm, we absolutely cannot, under any circumstances, ever in a million years, ever have sex again.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because.” 

“Because why?” 

“Because I said so.” 

“Why do you say so?” 

“You know why.” 

“Remind me.”

“Oh my fucking god.” 

Wille smiles one of his wide toothy smiles, which unfortunately happens to be Simon’s kryptonite.

“I told you,” Simon says weakly, clinging to the doorknob to keep himself from crossing to the other side of the room where he would most certainly do something he’d regret.

Fine. If Wille is going to make him spell it out again, he’ll fucking spell it out again.

“I’m not fucking the king.” 

Wille shifts a bit in the bed, lifting an arm to rest behind his head, showing off a gloriously toned bicep and a bizarrely lickable armpit, completely unbothered as he gives a tiny shrug, “Hasn’t stopped you before.”

Dropping his head back against the door, Simon lets out a groan, aimed not only at Wille, but at himself too. Mostly at himself if he’s being honest. Because he can feel his resolve running very, very thin. 

Thin enough that there’s a solid chance he’s about to march across his room and slap the shit out of Wille. Or stick a tongue down his throat. Could be both. TBD.

“What do you want from me, Wille?”

The impulsive and frustrated question is rhetorical and Simon really wishes he would’ve used his useless brain before he’d asked it out loud. Because he knows Wille is going to answer it, and Wille might be quick to banter or tease and he’ll definitely use every trick in the book to get Simon into bed, but he’s never shy or insincere when it comes to stating what he wants. 

Wille pulls back a corner of the duvet, revealing several more inches of tempting, pale torso, then without a shred of hesitation or uncertainty, he says, “I want you in this bed with me.”

The room stands still, but every drop of blood in Simon's body pulses in reply.

“Preferably naked.”

God, Simon is so completely and utterly fucked.

And he’s about to be completely and utterly fucked. 

By the king. 

Again. 

With a resigned huff, Simon tugs off his shirt and unbuttons his jeans. “Fine, but this is the last time.”

Wille just smiles and scoots over, leaving a perfectly Simon-sized, warm-looking space open next to him. Simon can’t quite bite back his own fond smile, rolling his eyes before he crosses the room in two long strides to capture Wille’s lips in a fierce kiss. 

Now, Simon had an incredulous expression on his face. That was one that Wille was used to. Usually accompanied by some scathing comment or other, followed by jeers from the rest of Simon’s rowing team. The competition between the two houses had got even more heated recently, the jabs and taunts increasing in frequency and potency to the point that they mostly just made Wille feel uncomfortable.

“Wait.” Wille’s brain was just catching up with what Simon had said. “Did… you just call me Wille?”

The incredulity on Simon’s face deepened. “Er… what else am I supposed to call you?”

“I— You usually call me Wilhelm. Or… well. Any number of names. But not Wille.”

Simon gaped at Wille and then shook his head. “Wille… what are you talking about? I haven’t called you Wilhelm since… I don’t even know if I ever called you that when I first met you. Maybe right at the start, but—“

“You called me Wilhelm about an hour ago,” Wille argued. “When you were mocking my stroke.”

Simon spluttered and turned an alarming shade of red. It was cute. No. Not cute. Nothing about Simon Eriksson was cute. He was dangerous. And for more reasons that just his rowing team. Dangerous specifically to Wille. He swallowed hard.

Then, Simon did something that made Wille almost choke. He stopped walking and took a step towards him. Wille’s breath caught in his throat.

“What’ve I told you about talking like that at school?”

Simon was so close that Wille would be able to count his eyelashes if he wanted to. But he couldn’t concentrate on that. All he could do was try not be too obvious as he breathed Simon in.

He was also utterly confused. Simon had never been this close to him in his life. And why wasn’t his hair wet? They’d all just showered after the competition. Why wasn’t—

The kiss took Wille by so much surprise that he didn’t move for several seconds. Several seconds in which Simon Eriksson’s soft lips were pressed against his own. And Wille remained frozen in place, unable to do anything until, with a frown on his face, Simon took a step back.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, dark brown eyes darting between Wille’s.

“I—“ There were literally no words that Wille could think of to explain how he was feeling. Other than: “What the fuck?”

“What?” Simon looked a little defensive now. “I know we were trying to rein it in a bit at school. But there’s no one here. And besides, everyone knows now and—“

“Knows what?”

Simon’s face did something strange. He looked confused, and maybe a little hurt. “Knows… about us.”

“What about us?”

Nothing was making any sort of sense. Why had Simon just kissed him? Why was he talking like they knew each other? Why didn’t Simon look like he was coming from rowing? In fact, where was Simon’s bag? And how had Wille ended up here with him? He remembered finishing the competition. He remembered trying to drown himself in the showers after their defeat whilst also trying exceptionally hard not to think about the very eyes that were now scanning his face almost frantically. Then everything seemed kind of a blur. In fact, he couldn’t even remember getting out of the shower, never mind getting dressed and all the way out here.

What the fuck was going on?

“Wille. What’s going on? Why are you— Did August say something?”

“August? Why would August—“

“Because I don’t want him even talking to me. Or you. And if he asks me about Sara one more time—“

“Sara? Who’s Sara?”

“Who’s— Wille. You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

Panic had started to spread quickly in Wille’s chest. What the fuck was going on? Why was Simon reaching out for him? Wille took a hasty step back and almost stumbled. Simon’s hand dropped and there was a wounded look on his face.

“Where’s your gym bag?” It wasn’t exactly what Wille wanted to say, but for some reason that was the sentence that came out of his mouth.

“My— I don’t have my gym bag today.”

“But… the rowing competition.”

“What rowing competition? Wille…”

Wille shook his head, taking another step back. “The rowing competition we just had. Forest Ridge versus Sprucewood. You beat us.”

“We— Wille. You’re not making any sense. Are you okay? There was no rowing competition today. I quit the rowing team, remember? And Sprucewood beat us last—“

“Us? But you’re in Sprucewood.”

“What? No I’m not. I’m in Forest Ridge. Or… as in Forest Ridge as non-res students can be. Wille… Are you messing with me? Because it’s not funny.”

“No!” Wille cried. “I’m not! I—“

Terror started grabbing at him, his breaths coming in in sharp gasps. He reached up into his hair and tugged at it. It was short. Why was his hair short? It felt like Erik’s. He’d always stubbornly worn his longer. Why was it—

“Fuck. Wille. Are you okay?” Simon had taken another step closer and this time Wille let him. Let him place steady hands on his shoulders, let him take deep, calm breaths for Wille to mirror, let him mutter soothing things that Wille could barely comprehend. But they sounded nice. This felt nice. It felt… normal. It didn’t feel like it should feel to have Simon Eriksson talking to him like this. It felt like this was something they’d done before.

But they hadn’t.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Wille said quietly after a minute or two. “I think I might be losing my mind.” He chuckled but it came out wobbly.

Despite everything so far suggesting that Simon thought Wille was being ridiculous, right now what he did was give Wille’s shoulders another squeeze and say, “Tell me.”

As he did, the first drops of rain started to fall from the sky. They moved sideways a little to shelter under a tree, Simon’s hands not leaving Wille. They were a comfort even though Wille was sure they weren’t not supposed to be. Or maybe they were. It certainly looked like Simon felt comfortable.

“I— I feel like… I’m missing something,” Wille said. “I… You’re talking to me like… you know me. Like… you like me.”

Simon let out a delicate laugh. “I do like you, Wille. I— I love you, you know that.”

The words hit Wille right in the middle of his chest. Because… what? That made even less sense than everything else so far on this very backwards afternoon.

“No you don’t,” Wille rebutted. “You hate me.” The rain drops grew more persistent, breaking through the cover of leaves above them and dripping onto their heads.

The fond expression slipped off Simon’s face and made way for horror. “What? No I don’t! I could never hate you. I mean… I even tried.” This laugh was a little awkward and maybe sad too.

“Simon. This isn’t helping. What do you mean? And what did you mean when you said you were in Forest Ridge.”

“I am in Forest Ridge.”

“You’re in Sprucewood.”

“Wille… I’ve never been in Sprucewood. I— We’re in the same house. We eat… lunch together.”

Wille shook his head. His hair was getting wet. “Simon, I’ve never eaten lunch with you.”

The look of concern came back with a vengeance. “Wille. Are you okay? I think I need to get someo—“

“No!” Wille cried. “No! I— Please don’t leave me.”

Despite everything in Wille’s memory telling him otherwise, something else told him that, for some bizarre reason, Simon Eriksson was safe. Luckily, Simon listened and stopped trying to leave. He pulled his hood up and looked at Wille unsurely.

“Tell me,” Wille said. “Tell me… how we know each other.”

Nervousness fluttered under Wille’s sternum. He was terrified that what Simon said might confirm that he was losing his mind. And the first words out of Simon’s mouth didn’t help anything at all.

“We’re… together. Like… boyfriends. And— You really don’t remember? Have you— Did you hit your head or something? Is it, like, temporary amnesia? That’s bad. You should really—“

“Just… keep going,” Wille said. “And after, I promise I’ll go and get checked out.” Maybe he had hit his head. But he wanted to hear Simon’s story. Suddenly, it was all he wanted.

“We… We met about six months ago. You came to Hillerska after that fight.”

Wille remembered all that. That was good.

“And… we…” Simon’s cheeks went a little pink. “We got together a few weeks later. Or— Well.” He let out an awkward laugh. “We never really agree on exactly when it was.”

And that was where Wille was lost. When he got to Hillerska, it was weeks before he met Simon properly. And even then, it was only in passing and mostly with hostility. They were in barely any classes together and were on competing rowing teams. Sure, Wille had heard Simon sing and had developed a strange sort of infatuation with him. But… what Simon was saying made no sense.

Regardless, he let Simon continue. Because, despite it being complete fantasy, the story was bringing Wille a strange sense of peace and contentment. Warmth was spreading through his whole chest as if, perhaps, he were actually in love.

“We’ve… uhm. It’s been a bit of a rough ride. I— Are you sure you want to—“

“Yes,” Wille interrupted, trying to ignore the increasingly heavy rain. “Yes. Please. Tell me.”

“Well… when Erik died, you—“

“Wait. What?” It was as though Wille had been doused with a bucket of cold water. All the warm feeling had gone away to be replaced with an icy dread. “What did you just say?”

“When Erik—“

“Erik’s dead? He— No he’s not. I— What are you saying? I talked to him yesterday. When did—“

“Last year. He— Wille… you’re really scaring me now. Do you not remember?”

“No!” Tears were pressing at the back of Wille’s eyes and it was becoming difficult to breathe again. “No! I don’t remember because that’s not true. It can’t be true! Erik can’t be—“

Lightning ripped across the sky followed by a low rumble of thunder.

“We should get inside,” Simon said. “Head to your room and—“

“No!” Wille cried. “I need to know! I need to— What happened to Erik?”

“He…” Simon looked terrified, but he determinedly shook his wet hair out of his face and ploughed on. “He died in a car accident. A few weeks before Christmas. It… was awful. And you—“

“I’m crown prince.”

Simon nodded. Another flash of lightning illuminated the sky and the rain grew even heavier, the cover of the trees barely keeping anything off them. If they didn’t move soon, they were going to be soaked to the bone.

“Wille… We really need to go and get someone. This isn’t right. You’re scaring me.”

Wille was numb. He could barely feel the icy raindrops dripping down the back of his neck. The sensation of Simon’s warm hand slipping into his own didn’t really register, neither did the fact that his feet started moving across the lawn, Simon tugging him gently along.

Erik. Erik was dead. Erik was— But no. He couldn’t be. Wille had spoken to him just yesterday. He’d told Wille to stop stressing so much about the rowing thing and to go and get laid. Wille had rolled his eyes and told him to fuck off. Erik had laughed as he’d hung up. That was yesterday. It felt so real. It had to be. It had to—

Another bolt of lightning lit up the sky and suddenly, as though waking from a nightmare, Wille was looking up at the bright lights on the ceiling in the showers.

“What the fuck?”

He whipped around. The room was deserted. No sounds except for his own shower. With trembling hands, Wille reached out and turned the shower off. His hair was dripping into his eyes, but it was warm shower water, not cold rain water.

What. The fuck.

Towel wrapped securely round him, Wille padded to the changing room. Also empty. Everyone else must have left. That was how it usually went after a defeat.

Wille’s hands fumbled as he reached into his bag and pulled out his phone. Barely thinking, he navigated to Erik’s contact and hit call. After two rings, the call connected, “Hey, little brother. Did you win?”

A great wave of relief crashed over Wille so suddenly that he had to sit down. A soundless laugh that was halfway to a sob made it out of his mouth.

“Wilhelm?” Erik’s voice sounded more concerned now. “Are you there? Was it bad?”

This time, the laugh made a noise. And then a louder one. And then, before he knew it, Wille had tears coursing down his face and his whole body was shaking.

“Er…” Erik said. “Does that mean you won?”

“No,” Wille choked out. “No. We were completely obliterated. But it doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” Now it was Erik’s turn to laugh. “Who are you and what did you do with my brother?”

Wille’s laughter died out and he sat for a moment with the phone pressed to his ear. Then, with a shaky breath, he said, “I love you, Erik.”

Erik scoffed. “What the fuck is up with you?”

“Nothing,” Wille lied. “I just wanted you to know.”

“Of course I know, you idiot. I love you too.”

Wille took a moment to just let those words soak in before he said, “I’ve got to go, Erik.”

“What? But you just—“

“Bye.”

Unceremoniously, he hung up the phone and started pulling on his clothes as fast as he could. The buses weren’t that frequent. If he was quick, he could probably catch him.

Without tying his shoes, Wille barrelled out of the gym door, tugging his t-shirt over his head as he went.

“Wille!” someone called from a distance away. It was probably August. “Where are you going!” Wille waved him off and kept running.

The bus stop was still out of sight. Wille’s lungs burned with the effort, his body still exhausted after the race. Then, as if out of a dream, it materialised, and standing just inside it, eyes glued to his phone, was—

“Simon.” It came out more like a pant than anything else.

Simon’s head lifted and a frown appeared between his eyes almost immediately. “Yes?” His tone was wary, but not, as Wille would have expected, cold.

“I—“ Wille stopped and bent over, planting his hands on his knees and trying to catch his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Simon shift a little and pocket his phone. “I—“ Nope. There still wasn’t enough oxygen making it into his lungs.

“Are… you okay?” Simon asked. “Do I need to go and get someone?”

Wille lifted a hand and shook his head. “No,” he gasped. “Just… give me a sec.”

Wille counted to five in his head, then carefully straightened up and counted to five more. Simon was watching him carefully. His hair was wet and there was a gym bag slung over his shoulder. And he was so breathtakingly beautiful that Wille wasn’t sure how he’d survived all these months without speaking to him.

“Hi,” Wille said, after pulling in a shaky breath. “I’m Wille.”

There was a moment where Simon just gaped at him, and then the corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.” Then, after another moment’s pause added, “Simon.”

Wille nodded, chest feeling tight. “Hi, Simon.”

“Hi.”

The guarded expression on Simon’s face slowly melted away and Wille’s heart picked up speed. Perhaps he had a chance. Perhaps this Simon would also like him, just like the other Simon had.

There was only one thing for it.

Without stopping to think that this was the most ridiculous idea he’d ever had in his life, Wille took two long strides and stopped immediately in front of Simon. The fact that Simon didn’t step back, and the fact that he heard Simon’s breath hitch as he tilted his face up to look at Wille gave him the confidence to slowly, carefully lean down.

When their lips met, it felt like everything slotting into place. A rush of warmth flooded Wille’s whole body as Simon carefully pressed back – cautious, and unsure, but definitely there.

After nowhere near enough seconds, Wille pulled away. Simon’s eyelashes fluttered and he gazed up at Wille with wide eyes. Then, like the sun chasing away the clouds, a bright smile spread on his lips. It was all Wille could do to mirror it, giddy glee flooding his veins and making him want to jump and screech into the sky.

What he did instead was say, “Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?”

Though maybe not that forgotten, he realises the moment Wille’s lips touch his a split-second later. Because oh.  It’s soft, hesitant at first; a gentle brush of lips that still sends Simon’s whole nervous system into overdrive, goosebumps erupting all over his skin.

As Wille starts to pull away, it’s Simon who doesn’t let him go.  Brain empty, moving on pure instinct, he slides one hand up the nape of Wille’s neck to rake into the short hair there – too short, he misses the floppy locks, not that he’d ever tell him that – and pull him back in.  He opens his mouth, deepening the kiss, and feels rather than hears Wille’s gasp against his lips.

Lightheaded, he barely registers the way Wille grasps him tighter and walks him backwards until Simon’s back hits the slightly grimy wall of the club, pressing him against it.  Simon clings to his shoulders with a touch of desperation, and tries to gulp some air into his lungs between kisses that are quickly turning intense and a little bit filthy.  He’s very glad he has the wall at his back holding him up or else he thinks he could easily melt into a puddle on the floor as Wille tilts his head to just the right angle and presses closer. And as Simon does his very best not to moan out loud, he realises three things in quick succession:

One, his little teenage crush never went anywhere and he’s just been deluding himself for the last three years.

Two, he’s madly in love with his best friend.

Three, his best friend is an insanely good kisser and Simon kind of wants to go on kissing him for the rest of his life if Wille is also onboard with the idea.

But then Wille is pulling away again, taking a full step backwards as he runs a hand through his dishevelled hair, eyes wide and face rigid as if in shock.  Simon is surprised to hear a pathetic whine fall from his own throat at the loss.  He prays the music was loud enough to cover it.

“I, uh…” Wille clears his throat, back stiffening in that way he does when he’s trying to keep his cool, and Simon stares at him in confusion.  “I think they’re gone now.  The, uh…” He jerks a thumb behind him at the crowd, voice hoarse and eyes not meeting Simon’s.  “They wouldn’t take a hint, so I thought maybe…if I showed them…and then they’d get the message.”

It’s a bucket of cold water thrown over Simon, leaving him shivering, exposed, and completely humiliated.  Right.  Wille hadn’t actually wanted to kiss him at all.  He’d just wanted to get rid of the string of admirers and Royal-wannabes that plague him every time they step into a club like this, hoping to bag themselves a night or a lifetime with a Prince (delete according to personal preference).

Since Wille’s somewhat tentative and vague coming out in an interview earlier this year, hinting heavily that he might not be exactly straight, the hopefuls that buzzed around had only doubled in number and gender.  Simon had watched from the sidelines as always, a strange feeling of pride and possessiveness swirling in his gut, safe in the knowledge that even if Wille does take one of them home for the night – and he rarely ever does – then it will still be Simon he’ll return to with a takeaway coffee and all the details in the morning, their bond untouched by any outsider.

God, Simon’s an idiot.

An idiot who right now would love it if the floor could open up and swallow him right now, please.  Alas, no earthquakes in these parts.  So instead, he manages, somehow, to sound like his entire world hasn’t shattered into pieces around him as he straightens up and says, “Glad I could help.”

He waits for Wille to laugh it off, to suggest they go back to the bar or the dancefloor or to get out of here altogether.  But Wille isn’t moving.  If anything, he’s inched closer again and is finally meeting Simon’s eyes with an intense stare.

“You kissed me back.”

Simon shrugs even as a shiver runs down his spine, embarrassment lending a touch of anger to the gesture.  “Yeah, well, you weren’t exactly clear, were you?”

There’s an expression dawning on Wille’s face; a slack-jawed, disbelieving hope rising like the sun.  And it’s that which gives Simon the courage to add,

“Next time you kiss me, you should ask nicely.  And explain why.”

Wille steps forward again.  This time he keeps his arms firmly by his sides, but there’s a delighted grin beginning to form.

“Simon?”

Simon keeps his face carefully neutral.  “Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Because…?”

“Because I really, really want to.”

“Well, that’s okay then,” says Simon, and springs forward to kiss that smug look off his face.

"He hates it when you call him that."

Simon kicked Wilhelm lightly under the covers. "He fell into a hole and it's not like we're ever going to see him again."

"Just say he retired five years ago..."

"What he won't know won't hurt him," Simon insisted.

Wilhelm grunted and nudged Simon back. "Tell me more about these cats."

"And the five dogs."

"No," said Wilhelm, and this time he turned his entire body to sprawl himself across Simon's back--as a sort of big spoon to Simon's now trapped little spoon. "I want to hear about cats."

Simon laughed. "So the dogs were pomeranians..."

Wilhelm retaliated by lovingly invading Simon's personal space even more. "Cats, Simon. Our first kiss was invaded by cats?"

His not long but not short either hair tickled Simon's sensitive neck; he could almost picture their tangled form from a bird's eye perspective, with Wilhelm's sunkissed blond hair mixing shamelessly next to his dark curls.

"And Boris and J-O," Simon added. "But that's not the weird part!"

"Oh?"

"You got a call and you picked up, which," Simon verbally shrugged, "first of all: rude. But it was August on the phone and he told you he was abdicating."

"A strange way to celebrate his coronation jubilee, but okay."

"He also said that your mamma was making a cake to celebrate."

"As if my mamma knows how to turn an oven on."

Simon laughed. "And then you hung up and went back to kissing me, except this time you had a cat's face!"

"Bet I licked you all over."

"Wille!"

"If I was suddenly a cat," Wilhelm said, nonchalant given the conversation, "I'd totally lick you. Your hands. Your hair. I'd.... hmm, what do you call it when cats make each other pretty?"

Simon sighed, but cuddled closer into Wilhelm's embrace. "Just go back to sleep, Wille."

Wilhelm hummed a soft "I love you," already falling back asleep.