#yr fic

Simon crosses the room and unlocks the door. There is no sign to turn to indicate the business is open, nor hours of operation marked on the door. Those who seek his services know when he’s available.

Simon notices the figure across the street - a man, he’s almost certain - moving when he lets the door fall closed again, the person’s left foot taking a barely noticeable step forward.

Simon isn’t sure if he wants them to walk in or not.

He walks behind his desk, facing the shelves, pretending to look for something, or maybe organise the archives that don’t exist. He expects the person to enter in the next five minutes or then not at all. Simon knows it takes courage to ask for what he’s offering, and many who come this far walk away without ever speaking to him.

After what can’t be longer than a minute, Simon hears the door open, the hinges squeaking just a little. The faint smell of rain follows the man inside.

He takes a breath in, holds it for a couple of seconds, lets the mask slip on his face. Then he turns.

The man standing in the middle of the room has a damp jacket and auburn hair sticking to his forehead a little. His eyes flit around the room, his face trying to stay carefully neutral but failing to conceal the curiosity and hope flashing on it. It’s a face Simon has seen a lot lately.

Standing by the door is the new Crown Prince.

It’s only thanks to extensive training that Simon manages to keep the recognition from being visible on his face. He usually doesn’t know who his clients are; their identity isn’t important to him or what he does. This changes things.

“Hello. I’m Simon, how can I help you?” he asks, applying the soothing tone that is one of his most important tools to his voice.

The Crown Prince’s first attempt to answer is nothing but his mouth opening soundlessly. He clears his throat and then, stumbling over his words slightly, says, “I’d, uhh, like to send a letter.”

“Of course,” Simon nods. He lets himself study the man briefly, to assess his seriousness. Despite being one hundred per cent certain of the answer, Simon asks, as always, “Have you sent a letter before?”

The man laughs, the sound devoid of any humor. “Not like this.”

Simon notices his fingers fidgeting, takes in the ragged cuticles that must be edited away from all his official pictures. He nods, holding the Crown Prince’s gaze as he speaks, “That’s alright. I assume you’re here because someone recommended it. How familiar are you with letters like ours?”

The man shrugs. It’s obvious he didn’t expect to be explaining how or why or what he’s found out about Simon’s services. “I just know you write down what I say and then… send the letter somewhere?” His voice rises in pitch just barely, but it’s clearly a question.

Simon sighs quietly before he can stop himself. It’s the most common assumption about his profession, somehow the part people never mention to others. “Yes, I write down what you want to tell the person you’re addressing the letter to. The recipient will receive your message once I’ve finished writing, and the letter will then cease to exist. There will be no envelope with your name waiting if you come back, that’s not how this works. If you get a response, you will know it, but it does not come in a letter form.”

The Crown Prince nods. “I understand.”

Simon isn’t sure if he truly does. “Good. Many people don’t,” he says nonetheless.

What the man asks next should not come as a surprise to Simon, yet it somehow does. His eyes flit to the shelves behind Simon when he asks, “Do you, uhh, keep track of who comes here? What they want to say in the letters?”

Of course. The man with a damp jacket and nervous posture standing in Simon’s office is the heir to the nation. Of course he would want to make sure Simon doesn’t sell details about his life to the highest bidder.

Simon knows what it’s like to be conscious of everything you do being scrutinised by others. “I only keep track as much as I need to. Everything you say in the letter is confidential and I will not judge you for your words,” he assures the prince.

The Crown Prince’s face relaxes, just enough for it to be noticeable. Simon inhales and asks, “Do you still want me to write a letter for you?”

He almost hopes the answer is no.

A brief moment of hesitation, then a firm answer, “Yes.” Simon watches the man inhale, as if he is trying to settle his nerves before he asks, “How does this work?”

Simon points at the armchair by the window as he sits down. The chair has been in the room longer than he has, longer than his predecessor had been. He pulls forward a sheet of paper as the Crown Prince takes his seat, his posture turning regal the moment he has folded himself down.

Simon picks up the pen, feels its familiar weight in his hand. Finding the man’s eyes, noting the vulnerability apparent in them, he holds the Crown Prince’s gaze when he asks the question he always starts with, though this time it feels redundant. “Who would you like to send the letter to? Who has died?”

Like the entire country, Simon knows who has passed away. Still, he waits for the answer like he always does.

String lights lit the space in front of the restaurant where patrons sat as the waiters stacked chairs and mopped the inside of the restaurant, readying to close up for the night.

Their new friends were lovely, but Simon wanted to be close to Wille, wanted to be alone with him, wanted him naked and pliant and drunk and willing to let Simon do anything, half-lidded, brown eyes and parted pink lips. He checked his watch—after midnight, almost four hours since they arrived and started eating.

He ashed his cigarette, dropping it in the tray carefully.

"Hey," he whispered, scratching inside Wille's knee a little more noticeably. "Baby," he said.

He kissed Wille's head again, felt him stir and snuffle.

He squeezed his thigh.

"Let's get home, yeah?" he asked. Wille made an incoherent sort of sound into his shoulder and Simon kissed his head again, bringing his hand to Wille's chin and tilting his head to kiss his sleepy, open lips.

"Let's go home," he said. Wille nodded helplessly, blinking a few times as his eyes focused on Simon.

"Yeah," he said groggily, then cleared his throat, yawned, and nodded again. He knocked his head onto Simon's shoulder, bit the big round ball of it. "Let's go home."

They'd been at their airbnb for just over a week, and it really was starting to feel like home. They had food in the kitchen and clothes in the closet, swim trunks hanging from the hooks in the bathroom, more clothes scattered on the bedroom floor.

"Do we need to pay?" Wille asked, sitting up properly and letting out another yawn.

"Already did," Simon replied, and Wille leaned in and kissed him.

"Thank you," he mumbled. Simon smiled at him softly, stroked his cheek with a thumb. Wille's lips turned up, face shifting into the helplessly happy expression he got almost every time he was touched.

Simon pulled away, keeping his hand inside Wille's knee possessively.

Wilhelm stands across the street, late morning drizzle slowly turning his coat damp as he stares at the door.

He knows he shouldn’t be here. He knows the whole business is most likely an attempt to cash in on the grief and longing of people like him. He knows the service the man claims to offer sounds impossible, a bluff, even if the people he’s talked to are adamant it is real. He knows he should not waste his money on it.

And yet.

The clock strikes the hour and the door opens just slightly, to indicate the business is now open for the day. Wilhelm knows he should turns around and walk back home.

He crosses the street.

The door is heavy, but swing open surprisingly easily. Inside, the lights are dim save for the one brightly lit lamp on the desk sitting almost in the middle of the small room.

Wilhelm looks around and takes in the several potted plants, the burgundy armchair and small wooden table by the window and the large shelves behind the desk.

There is a man standing behind the desk, facing the shelves. He’s shorter than Wilhelm and his brown curls tickle the collar of his orange sweatshirt. It’s an oddly casual thing to wear for something like this, Wilhelm finds himself thinking.

When the man turns, Wilhelm is met with warm eyes. The man must be around his age, much younger than Wilhelm expected. If he recognises Wilhelm, he doesn’t let it show.

“Hello. I’m Simon, how can I help you?” the man asks, the timbre of his voice soothing.

Wilhelm opens his mouth but no sound comes out. He clears his throat, suddenly feeling awkward. “I’d, uhh, like to send a letter,” he stammers, as if it wasn’t somehow obvious. Wilhelm wonders if Simon asks every person entering the room the same question.

“Of course,” Simon nods, his eyes studying Wilhelm’s face, ”Have you sent a letter before?”

A hollow laugh escapes Wilhelm. He has sent more letters in his life than he can count. Official correspondence, written on thick cream coloured paper and signed with fountain pens. “Not like this,” is what he answers, scraping his thumbnail against the cuticle of his pinkie.

Simon nods again. “That’s alright. I assume you’re here because someone recommended it. How familiar are you with letters like ours?”

Wilhelm shrugs, feeling the back of his neck grow warmer. “I just know you write down what I say and then… send the letter somewhere?”

Simon’s response is a tired sigh, so quiet if Wilhelm wasn’t paying attention he’d probably miss it. “Yes, I write down what you want to tell the person you’re addressing the letter to. The recipient will receive your message once I’ve finished writing, and the letter will then cease to exist. There will be no envelope with your name waiting if you come back, that’s not how this works. If you get a response, you will know it, but it does not come in a letter form.”

This time it’s Wilhelm’s turn to nod. He was told there would be no letters to him, not as long as he was on this side. It’s the thought of being able to tell what’s on his mind, what no one else will understand, that’s driven him here.

“I understand,” Wilhelm says.

“Good. Many people don’t.”

Wilhelm wonders what kind of people Simon has had to encounter before. If people have demanded responses to their letters from him, threatened him when told it would not happen. He wonders what people have confessed in their letters, and if Simon remembers all the things he writes down.

“Do you, uhh, keep track of who comes here? What they want to say in the letters?” he asks instead, looking at the shelves behind Simon.

“I only keep track as much as I need to. Everything you say in the letter is confidential and I will not judge you for your words,” Simon says and the way he speaks reminds Wilhelm a bit of his therapist. “Do you still want me to write a letter for you?” Simon asks then.

“Yes,” Wilhelm says, after the briefest moment of hesitation. There isn’t anything for him to lose. He isn’t sure there’s anything to gain either, but it won’t hurt to try. ”How does this work?”

Simon points at the armchair as he sits down behind the desk. As Wilhelm lowers himself down the plush chair, Simon pulls forward an ordinary looking sheet of paper and picks up a pen. Then he looks at Wilhelm and holds his gaze when he asks, “Who would you like to send the letter to? Who has died?”

He’s doing the class only because he needed one more elective and the other option was something he had even less interest in. So, here he is, on yet another Wednesday evening, sitting at the front of the class waiting to draw whoever is standing, or sitting, or lying in front of them.

Simon sharpens his pencils, lining them up on the desk one after another. His drawing block is ready, a blank page waiting to be filled with sketches Simon knows he’ll never look at again once the class is over and he’s received his passing grade.

“Good evening, everyone,” the teacher says and the students mutter a half-hearted ‘good evening’ back to her.

“There’s a slight change for today’s class,” she then says, “the composition exercise will be moved later in the schedule and we’re starting with the nude drawing exercises now. Our model will be with us in just a moment.”

Simon hears a few people snicker and there’s a burst of excited chatter behind him. He rolls his eyes. It’s like some of the students around him have never seen a naked body before, Simon thinks as he listens to them, all excited about some boobs and a butt. Or maybe it’s just Simon being gay that the prospect of looking at a naked woman for hour and a half doesn’t stir any emotions in him. He picks up a pencil and twirls it between his fingers, wishing the class was already over.

The door by the side of the room opens and a person wearing what looks like a bathrobe walks in. Simon hears one person sigh and another gasp and lifts his head.

He finds himself looking at a man around his age. Simon doesn’t hear what the teacher says, but the man nods and drapes his robe over the chair by the small stage he’s supposed to stand on.

Next the man steps up on the stage, sits down and takes his first pose. It all looks so natural Simon wonders if the man does this often.

“For this first exercise I want you to focus on his lines. Do not get stuck on details, but draw a sketch where we can see the shape of his body,” the teacher instructs the class.

Simon sets his pencil down the on paper and takes in the man before him.

He’s good looking, Simon has to admit that. His skin is pale but the glow of the room’s lights makes it look a little golden, perfectly highlighting his muscles. And there are muscles, Simon notes as he starts to sketch the curve of his back, the shape of his legs. The pose can’t be comfortable, but the model looks like he’s simply sitting there, contemplating his life. Or maybe what he’s about to have for dinner, Simon has no idea what one thinks about while posing for a bunch of art students while wearing nothing.

The man changes his pose and the teacher gives new instructions. Simon focuses on his arms and upper back this time, making sure to draw them as realistically as possible. Simon wonders how often the man goes to the gym, because there is no way someone develops biceps that perfect without lifting some dumbells.

The more Simon looks at the man up on the stage, the more he appreciates what he sees. He knows they’re supposed to focus on his body for now, and Simon is very much doing that, focusing on the broad shoulders, the small moles dotting it, the dip of his lower back before moving his eyes down on the perfect curve of his ass. Under different circumstances Simon would definitely try to find a way to get an even closer look at that ass. As it is, he’s admiring it from afar - well, less than two meters away and for once Simon is happy about his front row seat.

Halfway through the class the teacher calls for a break and the man stands up and turns to face the wall behind himself, shaking his arms and legs. Simon lets his gaze travel up and down his unposing body and he thinks he likes it this way even better. It’s softer, more real somehow. When their model turns back towards the students, Simon roves his eyes down his torso and quickly snaps his gaze back up when it begins to stray under his navel. He knows the man is willingly showing off his body for them, but it’s all for educational purposes and Simon shouldn’t be ogling him when he’s taking what is probably a much needed break.

Instead Simon focuses on his face. Hair is falling into his eyes and the man brushes a hand through it to push it back to reveal a pair of striking amber eyes that seem to be looking right at him. Simon feels his cheeks grow warmer, suddenly feeling like he was caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. He lowers his gaze back to his sketches but from the corner of his eye Simon notices a beautifully crooked smile on the man’s lips.

“For the rest of this class I want you to combine everything you’ve worked on so far and draw his full portrait.”

There is some murmur around the room and the it is filled with the sound of pencil against paper.

Simon picks up his pencil but suddenly finds it very difficult to figure out where to start. The man’s pose is fairly similar to what they’ve worked with before. Simon draws a few lines, the rough shape of his body but then frowns. The sketch on his paper looks nowhere near as enticing as the man in the flesh. He flips out a new page.

For a few moments Simon allows himself to look. He lets his gaze linger and take in the small details that make the man’s body his. There is a scar on his cheek and another near his hip. His build makes Simon think that he might have been a lanky, possibly slightly awkward teen before he grew into his now well-looked after, gorgeous body. Simon wonders what it would feel like under his touch, how he’d respond if Simon were to run his hands over the planes and move his limbs into positions that were more interesting to draw.

“You have ten minutes to finish your drawings,” the teacher’s voice pierces into Simon’s consciousness and shit. He glances down on the completely blank page in front of him.

Simon sets his pencil back down on the page and all of a sudden it feels like his hand has a mind of its own. His eyes flicking between the man and the drawing forming on his paper, Simon works like possessed.

When the teacher announces their time is up, Simon lets out a quiet sigh. He’s not entirely happy with his drawing, but at the same time he feels that it’s one of his better ones.

On the stage, the man stretches and then moves to pick up his robe, pulling it on and covering the delicious body Simon could spend another hour and a half looking at. He disappears through the side door as the teacher begins to circulate and offer feedback on their works.

Simon nods as he listens to her point out the weak parts of his drawing. The compliment about how he seems to have captured something more than just the physique of their model does make Simon’s stomach do a pleasant flip.

Normally he’d be among the first out the room as soon as class was over, but now Simon stays on his seat and flips through the sketches he’s done.

“Can I see?” a warm voice asks and Simon is met with an inquiring gaze when he looks up. Their model is standing by his desk, now wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans, his hair falling over his forehead much like earlier. It’s a boringly normal look that it shouldn’t be making Simon’s heart skip a beat and yet.

“Uhh… they’re not— They’re quite rough. There’s some details missing, I, uhh, ran a little out of time,” Simon says.

“I know,” the man only says with a smile and his eyes intently trained on Simon.

Something about the way he looks at him makes Simon give in. He picks up his drawing block and hands it to the man. With bated breath he watches as the man goes through the pages, a small frown appearing between his eyebrows and then making way for a bright smile as he gets to the final drawing.

“These are really good,” he says.

Simon nods. He knows he’s one of the best students in this class even if he doesn’t normally like it. “I know.”

The man laughs and smiles even wider. His teeth are a little crooked and Simon is fascinated by such an unexpected imperfection.

“Your final piece could do with a little more shading here,” he taps one spot, “and I’m not sure this here is quite correct, you’re flattering me,” he continues, glancing to the side to look at his arm and then back to the page.

“No, I think it’s correct. I spent a long time studying it,” Simon says without thinking. As soon as he realises what he’s said he blushes.

“I noticed,” the man replies.

Simon feels his cheeks growing even warmer, but before he manages to apologise, the man says, “I liked it. I liked the way you looked at me.”

The man’s eyes are still trained on him, something sparking in the as he speaks.

“I wouldn’t mind looking at you more,” Simon says then, hoping he’s reading the flirty tone of his voice correct.

“To get the missing details correct?” the man asks with a smirk.

“Among other things, yes.”

“Wille,” the man says.

“Simon.”

“Well, Simon, I know how demanding these classes can be, I remember how much I had to work for my life drawing course. So if there’s any way I can help you improve…” Wille says, smiling at Simon as he hands the sketchbook back.

“I’m sure there is. It might require me to look at your body more though. In the nude.” Simon lets his eyes rake up and down Wille’s body in a way that should make his intention clear.

“I’m completely fine with that,” Wille answers, “I might be done with my course, but I think I could still do with some more practise too.”

“Is that so?” Simon lifts an eyebrow as he starts to gather his things, safely tucking the drawing block inside his bag.

“Mmh. An hour and a half is a long time to think about how I’d draw the gorgeous guy sitting right in front of me.”

“Right,” is all Simon manages to say, feeling the blush return to his face. “How would you do it?”

The corner of Wille’s mouth quirks up. “I can show you.”