just wilmon things

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.