just wilmon things

"Urgh," Felice groans. "You're as bad as the rest of them. Sara, you come here and do mine. Wille can do Simon's."

That isn't helpful. That is not helpful at all. But he's not like he can say, 'Oh actually, I'm going to find it even more difficult to paint down his chest than I would to paint between your boobs. Sorry'. Of course friends can paint other friend's chests. Right? Not weird at all. Definitely not. Sara seems to be completely fine with it. So he's just going to have to figure out a way to be fine with it too.

"What's this even for?" he grumbles as he sits down in front of Simon.

"I told you," Felice says as she moves her hair out of the way for Sara. "For choir."

"That doesn't explain anything," Wille mutters. And then forgets everything that's in his brain because Simon chooses that moment to whip his t-shirt off over his head, rendering Wille completely useless, dry mouth and all.

He's jolted out of his trance by a paintbrush being shoved into his hand and Simon raising an eyebrow at him.

Resigning himself to his fate, Wille sighs. "What do you want me to do to you?"

Simon tries to stifle a laugh and Wille looks up at him with a frown. "What?"

"Nothing," Simon says quickly, and if Wille isn't mistaken, his cheeks have gone a little pink. "I— Just the same as Felice. Along here and then down here."

Did it look this sensual when Felice traced her fingers across her torso? A little, Wille has to admit. And whilst it did make him feel a little hot under the collar, it's nothing to the absolute fire that's burning beneath his skin as he watches Simon's fingers dance down his sternum.

With Herculean effort, Wille tears his eyes away before they continue the path down Simon's stomach. "When did choir get so—"

"Wille!" Felice laughs, trying not to shake too much as Sara carefully paints the patterns across her collarbones. "You're such a prude! Let us have some fun!"

"I'm not a prude!" he cries. "And I am fun!"

"You kind of are," Simon says, tilting his head to the side.

"See! Simon agrees that I'm fun."

"No," Simon laughs. "A prude."

Wille turns to Simon with a gasp. "I am not."

Simon shrugs and smirks a little. It's very cute. Damnit. 

"I am not," Wille repeats with a little less conviction.

"Okay." Simon tilts his head to the side and Wille hears Felice snort behind him.

With more force than necessary, Wille dips the paintbrush into the water then swirls it around in the gold paint and leans forward. "Hold still."

He hears Simon's breath stutter a little as the cold brush touches his skin before Wille starts to make careful loops, just like Sara is doing on Felice. It actually doesn't take long for Wille to get into it. He's done Felice's face before for parties, and once Simon even let him do some dots by his eyes—that had been a revelatory moment—and this is much of the same.

The gold looks beautiful against Simon's skin and the brush glides so smoothy, leaving a shimmery trail in its wake. Wille almost forgets who he's painting—almost—as he leans forward, tongue between his teeth, and uses his free hand to steady Simon as he goes.

At one point Simon flinches and causes a streak of gold to splotch across his chest. "Sorry," he murmurs. And then, when Wille looks up and meets his eye, Simon swallows and adds, "Tickles," in an odd sort of voice.

Wille leans away and dips the corner of a cloth in some clean water and goes to wipe the smeared paint off Simon's chest.

"I'll do it," Simon says quickly, grabbing the rag and scrambling to his feet. "In, uh… the bathroom."

"Oh. Okay."

Without another word, Simon scurries away and Wille watches him go a little perplexed.

A scoff draws his attention. It must have come from Sara as she's currently shaking her head. Felice is just watching him a little carefully.

"What?" he says, half defensive, half bewildered. "What did I do?"

Felice tugs her bottom lip into her mouth and pinches it between her teeth.

"What?" Panic starts to swell in his chest. What if he did something wrong? What if—

"Oh for goodness' sake," Sara huffs.

"Don't," Felice warns. 

"What!" Wille cries. "What's going on?"

"I—" Felice worries her mouth once more, then sighs. "Sara… let's go and finish this in the common room."

"But I'm almost done! Can't I just—"

But Felice gently takes the paint brush out of Sara's hand and tugs on her sleeve. "Come on. Let's… give them a few minutes. And some space."

"Space?" Wille is thoroughly confused now. "Space for what? What did I—"

Felice pats him on the top of his head as she goes past. "You'll figure it out."

Figure what out? Wille is just about to scramble after Felice and demand that she tell him what she means when the door to the bathroom creaks open and Simon steps back into the room looking sheepish with half his chest painted with beautifully intricate swirls, which, in a different moment, Wille might be proud of.

But right now, he's too hyped up, too worried, too panicky, too… hopeful.

"Hi," Wille says.

"Hi." Simon taps his fingers on the side of his thigh. "Sorry. I, uhm… I fixed it." He gestures vaguely to his chest, but Wille isn't looking at his artwork. He's looking at Simon's face.

"Is everything okay?"

Simon's lips quirk into a smile. "I, uhm… yeah. Sorry. I, uh, I just wanted to, uhm, to use the bathroom."

"Oh. Okay."

They look at each other for a moment before Simon pads over and lowers himself back down in front of Wille.

"Do you want me to… keep going?" Having Simon this close again makes Wille's tongue feel too big for his mouth, but he just about manages to get the words out.

Simon nods and Wille picks up the brush, dips it in the water once more, and swirls it into the paint. For a while, neither of them speak. Wille's pulse throbs in his ears and he can almost hear his blood rushing through his veins. The air feels thick and Wille vaguely wonders if the heat has been turned up because he can feel a bead of sweat drip down between his shoulder blades.

He tries to focus on the paint, on the sweeping lines and looping curls—mirroring the image on the other side of Simon's chest. The result is very effective, and Wille can kind of see why they've chosen to do it.

But he also knows that he's biased. There is nothing that Wille think is more beautiful than Simon. So of course it stands to reason that he thinks Simon's chest is the most beautiful chest in the world. Even without the stunning gold paint.

Once he's finished the last stroke, Wille sits back on his haunches and smiles at his handiwork. Beautiful is definitely the word for it.

"There," Wille says, lifting his eyes to Simon's with a smile. "I'm done—"

Wille barely gets the words out before there are warm hands on his cheeks and Simon tugs him forward, placing his lips over Wille's. A small sound of surprise slips out of Wille's lips, muffled by Simon's. Simon's lips are soft and warm, but there's barely any time to enjoy the kiss—and Wille is really enjoying it—before Simon pulls back.

Luckily, he doesn't go far. Just far enough that, when Wille blinks his eyes open, he can see Simon watching him carefully, his dark eyes wide and unreadable.

Words get stuck on the way up Wille's throat. He isn't even sure what they would have been. The only thought running through his head is: kiss me again.

But then he realises that he has control of that. So without any further hesitation, he lets the paintbrush clatter to the floor, splattering gold paint everywhere, and reaches forward to place his hands on the dip in Simon's waist—like he's been dreaming for months—and pulls him forward.

Wille should probably be thinking more about this—about what it means, and about why now—but he can't. He can't do anything except revel in the way Simon's body feels under his hands, the way his lips feel moving against Wille's own, the way he makes a small noise when Wille dares to brush his tongue along Simon's bottom lip. 

For a moment, Simon draws back, a strange look on his face, and Wille has a momentary panic that he's gone too far. But then Simon's mouth splits into a grin and he launches forward again, practically clambering into Wille's lap. And Wille wouldn't say no to that, wouldn't say not to anything Simon is offering.

Because this is Simon. And he's kissing Wille like he's wanted to for… well… maybe as long as Wille has wanted him to.

Wille's hands skim up Simon's bare back, up to the nape of his neck, momentarily plunging into his hair before making their way back down. Simon's arms are looped over Wille's shoulders holding him close as if Wille has any desire to ever be anywhere else.

It's just getting good when there's a tentative knock at the door.

"Er…" Simon hastily scrambles backwards, climbing off Wille and standing upright. "Come in!"

Wille is just getting to his own feet as Sara and Felice re-enter the room. "Hey," he says, trying to sound casual.

"Oh!" Felice says, looking at Simon in dismay. "What happened to your paint?"

And just at the same time Sara frowns and says, "Why's your shirt covered in gold?"

In horror, Wille and Simon look at each other, then down at their own chests, then back up at the girls, who are currently sharing a knowing look.

"I can explain—" Simon starts, just as Felice says, "That's not where the paint's supposed to go, Wille."

Simon huffs at the same time as his phone buzzes on the table. “I was going to, but Rosh wouldn’t drop it last night and she’s been spamming me all morning—”

“Night,” Wille mumbles as he finally directs his gaze towards the TV.

The referee blows the whistle to signal the end of the first forty-five minutes. Simon hums, not quite following Wille’s train of thought.

“It’s night. Too early to call it morning,” Wille says.

Simon brings his hand up to card his fingers through Wille’s hair and is rewarded with a content sigh. “Fair. It’s been good though,” he says as the highlights start to play. “Look at that goal, Rosh was raving about it for five minutes.”

Wille nods, eyes half-open and whines when Simon stretches to pick up his phone. “Not going anywhere silly, just gonna text Rosh back.”

Simon

Wille’s up, gonna watch the second half with him

He receives a string of emojis in return, half of them seemingly implying Simon is not really going to be watching football when the match resumes. He scoffs at Rosh’s lack of faith in his ability to focus on the game even when Wille is next to him.

Sure, Wille has the tendency to drape himself over Simon’s body during their movie nights, but they always (well, almost always, at least most of the time) finish the films, so why would this be any different. It’s a live event, they can’t exactly pause it so they’ll have to watch. Besides, Wille likes football. Sitting in a nice box at the stadium with Erik and their father were some of the few times he didn’t hate public appearances, it’s what Wille told him – a little wistfully – when they were watching the last qualifiers with Rosh and Ayub.

By the time the second half kicks off, Wille is much more awake even if he’s moved to lie down with his head resting on Simon’s stomach. They both excitedly yell “yes!” when the ball lands at the back of the net for the third time and Simon doubles over with laughter when Wille nearly pokes himself in the eye while lazily trying to mimic the celebration. Simon hopes their neighbours don’t mind the noise.

“Oh, he’s the one who’s all over social media,” Simon says when Sweden makes their first substitution. He sits up a little straighter, as much as he can without jostling Wille. “Rosh has been talking about him so much, I’ve seen a bunch of videos of him.”

Wille’s eyes narrow as he looks at the blond man jogging onto the pitch. “Right.” His tone is laced with skepticism.

Simon gives him a quick glance. “What? They say he’s talented and very promising even if his club really sucks.”

Wille’s response is a hum, followed by, “I’m sure that’s why they’re so interested in him.”

Simon tilts his head down to look at him properly. Wille’s face is perfectly neutral, but Simon knows that look in his eyes. A laugh bubbles out. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” Wille shoots back immediately, sounding a little petulant.

“Oh, you are,” Simon sing-songs. He glances at the man on the screen, the camera panning on him during the stupid hydration break Simon’s already grown to dislike, then back down to his boyfriend. Wille is gnawing on the inside of his cheek, his fingers tapping Simon’s leg in a nervous rhythm. “You know he’s not my type at all, right?”

“Mmh,” comes the reply and Simon laughs again. He idly pushes a strand of hair away from Wille’s hair, glancing up to the screen when the commentators’ pitch rises.

“Who is, then?” Wille asks after a minute, clearly aiming for nonchalance and missing so badly Simon can’t even tease him. He doesn’t know where all this is coming from, because surely Wille knows he’s the only person Simon ever dreams of.

“You,” Simon says and dances his fingers up Wille’s arm all the way to his jaw. He tilts Wille’s head up and leans down to press a kiss to his lips. The angle is awkward but the small smile Wille rewards him with is worth it. Sitting up more properly, Wille pulls him in for another kiss and after they’ve missed at least two minutes of the game he snuggles against Simon’s side.

When the ball crosses the line for the fourth time, Simon almost starts to feel a little bad for Tunisia. It’s not that they’re playing poorly, but apparently Sweden is much better than he expected. The frantic vibrating of his phone suggests something similar and Simon wonders how many messages from Rosh analysing the match there are when he unlocks it again.

Wille seems to have given up on following the match entirely, his hand warm where it’s splayed on Simon’s stomach under his shirt. His nose draws lazy paths over Simon’s neck and it’s getting distracting.

“Wille, there’s like five more minutes left,” Simon says, tilting his head to the side.

“Mmmh, we’ve won this, there’s no way Tunisia is going to score three goals,” Wille hums, his warm breath tickling Simon’s skin.

“I still want to watch until the final whistle.”

With an exaggerated sigh Wille lifts his head and fixes his gaze on the screen. They cheer for the fifth goal, even if Simon can’t help muttering, “That’s just unnecessary.”

“No, that goal could make the difference later,” Wille says with expertise Simon didn’t expect. Apparently some of the things Rosh was ranting about stuck with him.

The referee blows the final whistle and the TV screen fills with jubilant players and fans. Wille’s hand on his stomach inches lower. “Now, can we go back to bed?” he asks.

Simon shakes his head. “I don’t think I could get any sleep even if I tried, this match got me too hyped up.”

Wille’s lips hover by his ear when he whispers, “I wasn’t thinking about sleeping.”

“Oh.” Simon can feel his fingertips dancing over the waistband of his boxers. “Just remember I have to be at work in three hours.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t want you to have to make an excuse about being late because you were celebrating Sweden’s World Cup win. Even if that’s exactly what you' were doing,” Wille says.

“Is that what you have in mind? Celebrating us winning?”

Wille hums and nods. “What else?” he asks with total faux innocence.