Chapter Text
We knew each other once
A tear drips off the end of Simon’s nose and falls in silence onto the cuff of his purple hoodie. He’d like to say it’s a lone tear, having tracked a poetic path down his cheek after leaking out of the corner of his eye. But no. It is one of several hundred. All of which have made Simon’s face red and blotchy, and his eyes puffy and sore.
But they won’t stop, and the dialtone on the other end of the phone isn’t helping.
As always, it clicks through to the voicemail service. A sob breaks from Simon’s mouth. And another. It’s several seconds until he gains control of his body enough to form words.
“Hey,” he says, his voice wobbly and raw even to his own ears. “It’s me again. I don’t know why I keep—“ He stops, because he knows exactly why he keeps trying, keeps hoping for a different outcome. So instead he sighs, and in a small voice says, “I miss you, Wille.”
The deafening silence on the other end of the phone mocks him, the machine recording his message is bored at his pathetic attempt at maintaining a connection that just isn’t there any more.
And so he sits with the phone pressed to his ear, recording his anguish like he has done for the last however many nights, as his heart aches for the boy he loved, who has become the man he lost.
The knock drags Simon’s concentration away from his screen. He blinks for a moment, readjusting his eyes to the dim light of his apartment. Dusk has fallen and he hasn’t bothered to turn the lights on yet.
A second knock drives him to his feet. “I’m coming,” he mutters, grouchy without real reason. It’s probably Marta from downstairs complaining about the neighbours again, as if Simon can do anything about their yelling.
He unhooks the latch and pushes the door open, only to feel all the air rush out of his lungs at the sight of the figure standing on his doormat under the flickering light in the hallway.
Wille looks older. His hair is slightly longer, tucked behind his ears and curling at the collar of a navy blue pea coat. It’s darker too, making his skin look even paler under the washed out lights, almost blue.
There are dark circles under his eyes as if he hasn’t slept, but he also looks… lighter. Simon can’t quite put his finger on what it is. He might be taller too, but Simon isn’t close enough to tell, doesn’t know how far he’d have to tip his face up to kiss those lips, or whether he could fit his whole body under Wille’s chin, arms wrapped around Wille’s broad back under the coat.
But they don’t do that any more, haven’t done that for—
“Three fucking years,” Simon spits, anger rising in him alarmingly, great tidal waves of fury crashing over him, threatening to pull him under. Suddenly, his body feels too small to hold all the rage that’s welling up; he needs to shout and scream. He needs to pummel his fists into Wille’s body. He needs to kiss that beautiful face until Wille’s lips are red raw. He needs to—
Without really thinking, he grabs at the door to pull it shut, overcome with the need to stop looking at Wille’s beautiful, beautiful face, but Wille shoots his hand out to arrest its movement.
“Please, Simon,” he says.
Simon isn’t sure he can take hearing Wille’s voice for the first time in over three years. The answering service Wille used didn’t even have a personalised greeting, not that Wille would have used one anyway.
“No,” Simon says. Firm, stubborn, desperate. He pulls at the door again. This time, Wille lets it swing past his face and snap back into the doorframe.
The hand Simon is using to grip the handle is shaking, and his breaths are coming in ragged gasps. He can feel a sob building in his chest and is powerless to stop it. It rips out of his mouth, having torn a burning track up his throat. Raw and ruinous and completely unwelcome.
Simon presses a bruising hand to his mouth, desperate to stop the sounds currently being unleashed from the depths of his soul. Because Wille is here. Wille is here.
Distantly, Simon realises he hasn’t heard footsteps, which means Wille is still standing outside his door, on the poorly lit landing, listening to him sob, waiting… For what?
Why is he here?
Simon doesn’t want to know. But he needs to. He also knows that opening that door again, opening his heart, will end in disaster, like it has every other time. How many times will he keep letting Wille in? Only to be left carved out and hollow when it inevitably falls apart?
Taking a shaky step backwards, Simon puts some distance between himself and the door. Between himself and the ominously quiet landing. Between himself and the love of his life. Ex. Ex-love of his life. Surely those are incompatible. Surely the love of one’s life can never be ‘ex’. Well— Simon’s is. And he has no desire to have his nose rubbed in it any further.
He flees to his bedroom, buries himself under the covers, and cries until exhaustion wraps its arms around his body and lulls him into a turbulent sleep.
Seeing Wille standing in front of his door, hearing his voice for the first time in so long, affects Simon more than he wants to admit. More than it should. More than he can afford to let it.
The next day, Simon calls in sick to work. He knows he shouldn’t, but he also knows that he won’t be able to concentrate on anything and will be more of a hindrance than a help. If there’s one thing that Simon has learnt as he’s got older, it’s knowing when to stop. When it comes to anything except Wille.
He didn’t know when to stop then.
He should have stopped when Wille said he wasn’t like that. Should have stopped when Erik died. Should have stopped when Wille cut off all contact. Should have stopped when Wille called him, high in the middle of the night to rescue him. Should have stopped when someone took a video of them sharing their most intimate moment. Should have stopped when Wille denied any personal relationship. Denied him. Should have stopped when Wille was falling apart under the pressure and dragging Simon down with him.
Should have stopped all those times. And so many times since. But Simon doesn’t know when to stop when it comes to Wille. He tried. Once in the alley outside the back of his mother’s house. And once on that awful birthday. It didn’t work either time. He always went back, always just wanted too much. And when Wille sat him down three years ago (three years, two months, and sixteen days ago. But who’s counting?) and told him he was leaving, he should have taken it as a sign to stop.
Instead, Simon watched him go, remembering what Wille’s tears tasted like on his lips. And when Wille said, “Maybe it can be better. Afterwards. Maybe we can still— Maybe it’ll be better,” he believed him. And he hoped. And waited. And waited. And hoped.
And nothing.
Nothing.
Not a phone call. Not a text. Not a single sign of life from the person who was his whole world for over five years.
So Simon taught himself how to stop. In everything except the one thing he couldn’t. Simon learnt how to set healthy boundaries, learnt how to say no, learnt how to delegate, and not take responsibility for everyone’s emotions.
And then came home every night and called Wille’s number. And fell asleep to the sound of empty air on the end of the phone.
So today he just can’t. He can’t face the world, and face everyone’s cheerful greetings, and ‘how was your Christmas’es. His blanket trails on the floor as he drags it from his bed to the sofa. The mindless crap on the TV doesn’t even begin to permeate the all-consuming sadness that has settled in him after seeing Wille’s face again.
After several hours of monotony, Simon is shocked from his stupor by a knock again. He turns off the TV and stares at the back of the door for a moment. There’s another knock, louder this time.
Tugging the blanket closer around his body, he drags himself off the sofa and pads over to the door. He really needs to talk to Marta about letting people in at the main entrance. Simon pulls in a deep breath before pushing the door open again.
This time, Wille looks worse. There are red rings around his eyes to go with the dark circles. His hair is slightly greasy and more dishevelled. It reminds Simon of what it felt like to run his fingers through it, grab hold of it, use it to tip Wille’s head back so Simon could kiss a trail down his throat.
“Hi,” Wille says.
Simon just stares at him. He could slam the door again, but all the fire has gone. He’s just tired. Tired and sad and so ready for this to all be over. So instead, he steps back and walks away from the door. It’s not an invitation, but it’s not a rejection either.
Dropping back down onto the sofa, he wraps himself in the blanket and tucks his feet under it. Distantly, he realises it’s Wille’s old Hillerska blanket that they managed to smuggle out on the last day, claiming it contained too many memories to leave behind.
Simon watches as Wille steps into the apartment and pulls the door shut behind him. Wille’s eyes trail over the mound of shoes by the door, the pile of dirty dishes in the sink that Simon doesn’t have it in him to feel bad about, the coffee mugs littering the floor, the bowl with crusted-on cereal languishing on the tiny fold out table in the corner.
Finally, they land on Simon, and they just stare at each other for several seconds. Wille looks exceptionally out of place in Simon’s apartment. It makes Simon feel small, and like a failure.
“Hi,” Wille says again.
“What do you want, Wille?” Simon says, holding his arms more tightly around himself.
Wille takes a step closer, but remains painfully far away. Simon’s entire body cries out for him, yearns to be held by those strong arms, arms that made him feel so loved, and safe… until they didn’t.
But no.
Simon can’t want that any more. Even though it is all he has ever wanted. Wille has ruined him. Simon is broken, and no amount of trying to piece himself back together after Wille left has worked. Even Rosh and Ayub have pulled back, not knowing how to help him and being hurt by how much he was punishing himself. They never understood Wille, or Simon’s obsession with him, and in their mind Wille never did anything to deserve Simon’s devotion, so certainly didn’t deserve his tears.
The only people who stuck around were Sara and Felice. Sara because she felt an obligation, and Felice because Wille hurt her just as much. Nights with Felice were usually a bright light in the monotonous dark, when they would laugh and cry with one another and try to hold each other together when they were falling apart.
“I, uhm…” Wille stops and clears his throat. “I wanted to… to come and see you.”
Instead of answering, Simon scoffs and turns his body away from Wille. Tears are already pressing at the backs of his eyes and he needs to pull himself together before he can face Wille again. That plan is shattered at the next sound that comes out of Wille’s mouth.
“Simon… please.” A sob follows it, and Simon can’t help but turn around.
Wille has the back of his hand pressed against his mouth and tears are cascading down his cheeks. His breathing is ragged and Simon’s heart splits clean in two.
“Please,” Wille repeats. “I’m so sorry. I— I know I— I’m sorry… but please. Please, Simon.”
Unbidden, Simon’s feet carry him off the sofa and into Wille’s arms.
It feels just the same as it always did: all consuming and like home. Wille is slightly taller, but that’s nothing compared to the overwhelming sense of rightness that Simon feels here. Wille even smells the same. His arms cling to Simon so, so tightly, and he bends slightly to bury his face into Simon’s shoulder where he rubs his nose against Simon’s neck and cries, and cries, and cries.
And Simon cries too. They cling to each other and sob and it feels different to all the other times Simon has cried in the last three years. This feels like catharsis, it feels like… yes, it definitely feels like home. And Simon is so utterly torn apart that this is his home, and that he’s been without it for so long, and that he has no idea what this is, and why Wille is here, and when this is going to be ripped away from him again.
So he clings tighter, and sobs harder, and holds Wille like they can stay here forever and like Wille didn’t leave him three years ago to go and sort himself out, didn’t leave Simon to lose himself whilst Wille was finding himself.
And no, no. Simon can’t. He can’t do this again. His heart is too battered and bruised to be able to cope with another heartbreak. So he plants his hands on Wille’s chest and pushes. Hard.
Wille stumbles back, hip hitting the table and sending the cereal bowl clattering to the floor. The sound rings out into the otherwise quiet apartment. Quiet apart from their ragged breathing.
The tears have made Wille’s face puffy and red, and the hurt in his eyes makes the whole image even more devastating.
“What—”
“No,” Simon says firmly, emphasising his point with a stern finger. It’s shaking. He bends to the floor and picks up the blanket that slipped from his shoulders. Bundling it up, he shoves it into Wille’s chest and stalks away.
But there’s nowhere to go. His apartment is tiny; he’s even lucky that there’s a separate bedroom. So that’s where he goes. He slams the door behind him and flings himself down on the bed. It doesn’t help. Because Wille is right there, right there. Just on the other side of the door. Closer than he’s been in so long. And this bed is where Simon has lain and called Wille hundreds of times. Hundreds of times with no answer.
Determinedly, Simon pulls out his phone and goes to the contact that has long become a muscle memory for him. Pressing ‘call’, he holds the phone to his ear, the ominous dialtone pushing on all the bruises on his heart. Then he hears a ringing becoming clearer from the other room. Maybe a phone being removed from a pocket. A phone that has had the same fucking number this whole time.
The ringing continues, Simon knows how many times he has to listen to it before it clicks over to the voicemail, and sure enough, there’s a moment’s pause before the robotic voice comes over the line.
Simon hangs up.
There’s no sound from the other room. Simon holds his breath, waiting to see what Wille will do next. A minute passes. Still nothing. And then… Simon hears the telltale click of the front door as it falls shut. Falls shut behind the love of his life. Who is leaving. Again.
This time, Simon does absolutely nothing to stop the tears, and they don’t stop flowing until he’s lost all track of time, lying hollowed out and exhausted as the sun sets on another day outside his apartment.
“Hello?”
It still surprises Simon how much Felice’s voice can make him feel better.
“Hey,” Simon says. He knows he sounds like shit, he stopped trying to hide it from her a long time ago. It’s the next day and his throat is raw from crying.
“Fuck, what’s wrong?” she says. He can hear rustling in the background and wonders where she is.
“Wille showed up at my door,” Simon says.
The noises stop and he hears a shaky breath come through the tinny speaker. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Simon says with a humourless laugh. “My sentiments exactly.”
“What did he say?” she asks. “Where’s he been? What— shit, Simon. I don’t even know what to say.”
“Yeah, neither did I. I shut the door in his face the first time.”
“The first time?”
Simon sighs and settles further into his sofa. The blue blanket is still crumpled in a ball on the floor where it fell after he’d shoved it at Wille the day before. He wants to wrap himself in it and hide away from everything, but he can’t.
“Yeah,” he says. “He came back the next day. Yesterday.”
“And you let him in?”
“Well… not exactly. I just… didn’t slam the door on him again.” There are holes in his sweatpants, maybe he should try sewing them up.
“What did he say?”
“Not much of anything,” Simon says. He digs his finger into one of the holes and wiggles it around. “He apologised.”
Felice scoffs, and it makes Simon feel better than any of his spiralling thoughts over the last day have done.
“I hope he fucking grovelled,” she says.
Simon snorts. “Not really. But he did seem… sorry. I don’t know. We still don’t know what— We don’t know where he was. Or what—” He wants to say ‘what he’s been through’, but he realises that he needs to not think about that, otherwise he won’t be able to deal with his own emotions. So instead he says, “You haven’t heard from him?”
“No,” Felice says with a sigh.
“Do you… do you want to hear from him?” Simon asks.
Simon and Felice’s friendship is almost completely built on their mutual devastation at Wille leaving. They’d been close before then, had been through a lot together, but it wasn’t until after Wille had gone that they solidified as best friends. And Simon doesn’t know what he’d do without her. She is pragmatic and down-to-earth in a way that none of the other Hillerska alumni are. But as well as that, she’s fun, and warm, and thoughtful, and he loves her with his whole heart.
“Yes,” she says. “I really do.” Her voice is small, and Simon suddenly wishes he could hug her.
“Can I come over?” he says quickly.
“Yes please,” Felice says. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
Felice’s apartment is bigger than Simon’s, sponsored, as it is, by mummy dearest, who is still desperately trying to keep her claws in her daughter. Luckily, Felice has grown into a confident, self-possessed woman, and Smysan has to deal with watching her prim and proper little girl break down all the walls in her way.
Simon uses his key to get in and drops his bag by the front door. He very much hopes Felice will let him sleep in her spare room so that he doesn’t have to fester in his own bed tonight.
“Hi!” he calls over the spitting of something in a pan.
“Oh! Hi!” she shouts back. She turns the stove off, lifting her apron over her head, and comes to meet him. Wordlessly she pulls him into an all-encompassing hug.
Until he met Felice and Wille, Simon didn’t think he was really a hug person, but as she squeezes him, he feels so much of the tension that’s been strangling his body leaking out of him. He sighs and squeezes her in return.
After a few more moments, she pats his back and steps away. “I was making doughnuts,” she says. “Want to help?”
“Fuck, yes,” Simon says, and follows her into her beautiful kitchen. The skylight makes the sunshine filter down onto her bright, white surfaces and suddenly, all his woes just feel ever so slightly further away.
Distractedly, she hands him his apron. It has his name embroidered on the pocket and was a Christmas gift. It is kept at Felice’s because he never does any cooking for himself at his own place, and Felice lets him keep it there with the promise that he will visit often enough for it to be worth it.
Now, he traces his fingers over the letters, the joy and sadness of that Christmas washing over him. Felice had bought one for Wille too, but he left before she’d been able to wrap it. Simon knows it’s still here somewhere. He doesn’t want to see it.
He accepts the spatula that Felice pushes into his hands whilst she brings the oil back up to temperature. “You can flip them when they start to brown,” she says, busying herself with the dough.
Simon does as he’s told and lets himself be bossed around. It’s nice. Nice to be able to turn his brain off for a while. And maybe that’s why Felice does it. Because when they sit down a little later with coffee and fresh, homemade doughnuts, she asks, “Better?”
He nods, taking a bite and letting the jam ooze out messily over his hand. “Thanks, Felice,” he mumbles, sugar flying everywhere.
“Good,” she says, decisively. “I’m glad.”
They eat in silence for a while before she dusts her fingers off and asks, “So… tell me. What happened?”
Simon lifts his mug to his lips and allows himself a few seconds to gather his thoughts. Then he places it back on the table and starts drawing patterns in the sugar on his plate, keeping his eyes on his fingers so he doesn’t have to see the pity in Felice’s eyes.
He tells her about Wille appearing at his door and Simon pushing him away; then of Wille returning the next day. As he talks, the weight of it all presses down on top of him, his chest constricted. It’s difficult to breathe.
By the end, he can feel the pressure of tears at the back of his eyes. He doesn’t want to cry in front of Felice, he’s done enough of that. But it’s difficult to hold them in as he says, “He didn’t change his number, Felice. It’s the same one. He just… chose not to answer.”
“Fuck. I’m so sorry, Simon. That’s… that must have been hard to find out.”
Simon shakes his head. That doesn't even come close to the crushing realisation that Wille could have been answering all these years. The only thing that kept Simon functioning was the idea that Wille didn’t know how much Simon tried to reach out.
“Do you think— Do you think he really didn’t want to hear from me? Is that— Was I being too much? Too—”
“No,” Felice says firmly. “No, you weren’t. He didn’t say he needed space, or that he didn’t want to hear from us. If that’s what he chose, then fine. But we realised pretty early on that he wasn’t answering, so it was a reasonable assumption that he didn’t even have the same number any more.”
Simon hums, but something bitter is pulsing at the back of his throat, making him wonder if he might vomit. The idea that Wille saw all the notifications and felt suffocated by it, suffocated by Simon. The thought is so repulsive that Simon has to shake his head to try to dislodge it.
Felice must notice, because she reaches her hand out and holds his. The affection is appreciated even through the sticky fingers. He missed this casual intimacy when Wille was gone and was really pleased that someone was still willing to touch him. Hold him.
“Hey,” she says, “you didn’t know. And even if you did… maybe he appreciated it. Maybe he liked knowing that we were waiting for him. Maybe it helped with… whatever he was going through.”
Simon nods, but he doesn’t believe her.
Later, after trying to fall asleep on his own in the spare room, Simon crawls into bed with Felice. She holds him as he drifts off, and he pretends he doesn’t hear her crying.
The next morning Simon is awoken by a knock on the door. Felice groans and rolls out of the bed, pulling a satin gown around her and tying the belt haphazardly. Simon tries to doze off again after Felice has left the room, but is jolted upright by her distant gasp followed by a heart-wrenchingly familiar, “Hey.”
Simon sits on the edge of the bed, heart hammering against his ribcage as he listens to the murmured conversation on the other side of the door. Felice has let Wille in, but he can tell from the tone of her voice seeping through the door that she’s annoyed.
After a couple of minutes, there’s a soft knock on the bedroom door.
“Simon,” she says gently, “it’s me. Can I come in?”
“Yeah,” he answers, voice gravelly.
Felice opens the door and closes it carefully behind her. The satin cap on her head is askew and she looks like she’s seen a ghost.
Carefully, she lowers herself down on the bed beside him and sinks into his side. On instinct, he wraps his arm around her and she lays her head on his shoulder.
“Shit,” she breathes. “I believed you, but it didn’t feel real until— fuck. Simon… he’s back.”
And then she starts to cry. Simon has no idea what to do, because he really can’t start crying again. So he rubs his hand up and down her arm and lets her soak the shoulder of his t-shirt.
After her tears subside somewhat, she sniffs and sits up a little straighter.
“He, uhm, he wants to see you,” she says.
Simon takes in a breath through his nose. For some reason, having held Felice through her tears has bolstered him a little, so he nods silently and stands from the bed.
“Do you want me to come with you?” she asks.
But Simon just shakes his head, cups her cheek briefly, then heads out of the bedroom.
Wille has been sitting on the arm of Felice’s sofa but scrambles to his feet as Simon enters.
“Hi,” he says.
Simon watches as Wille takes in his appearance. White socks, a pair of Wille’s old shorts that Simon refuses to feel embarrassed about wearing, and a stretched-out, white t-shirt. He wishes he’d grabbed a hoodie, but lifts his chin and tries to look defiant in the face of his renewed heartbreak.
“It’s cruel to have come here just to get to me,” Simon says, leaning against the island in Felice’s kitchen, facing the living space.
“I know,” Wille says. “I mean… I didn’t just come to see you. But—”
“But you wouldn’t have come to see your best friend – who you also abandoned by the way – unless there was a chance I would be here too.”
Simon folds his arms over his chest. It doesn’t help.
“I would,” Wille pleads. “I would have come. I want to see her. I do. I didn’t know you would be here. I—”
“But you thought I might.”
Wille is quiet for a moment before saying, “Please, Simon. Please don’t— I know I— I know I left you both. I know. I just—”
He stops talking, and Simon raises an eyebrow.
The deep breath Wille takes makes Simon do the same. Wille’s eyes are closed and it looks practised.
Where was he these past three years?
“I would really like to apologise. And explain myself. But I don’t want it to sound like I’m making an excuse. Is it too much for me to be here? Do you need me to leave?”
Several moments pass, and Simon just watches. Whilst he watches, he tries to catalogue all the ways in which Wille is different, and all the ways he is the same. He still rubs his fingers together, but now instead of picking at the skin, Simon notices he’s stroking his nails. There’s nail polish there. Purple.
His eyes are as intense as they ever were, stripping Simon bare and opening him up in the best and worst ways. His shoulders seem a little more relaxed, the tension he holds doesn’t seem to be curling him in the way it used to, the way Simon knew it was a bad day.
“No,” Simon says.
“No?” Wille sounds both hopeful and petrified. It makes Simon feel powerful. And sick.
“No, I don’t need you to leave,” he says. “But I’m not promising I won’t change my mind.”
“Do you promise to tell me if you want me to go?”
Simon surveys him again. Wille’s expression is earnest, and Simon believes that he’s trying to do this right, whatever this is. So he nods, and sits down at Felice’s dining table. It’s big enough to seat eight people – Felice likes to entertain. Or at least she did. She’s not done it so much recently. Simon is secretly glad when Wille sits diagonally opposite instead of straight ahead.
It reminds Simon – painfully – of a conversation had at a similar table over three years previously…
Tears drip from the bottom of Simon’s chin, but he presses his lips together, trying not to make a sound, trying not to make this harder for them both, trying to be the strong one.
“—and I don’t know… how long I’ll be— but… but I think I have to.”
Simon nods. His teeth are digging into the inside of his lips and it hurts. But it’s easier to focus on that pain rather than the agony of his breaking heart.
“Simon… please say something.”
Wille’s voice comes out choked, and Simon cannot be the reason he changes his mind, so he nods. It’s frantic, and makes Simon feel nauseous. “Yes,” he says, the word being torn from somewhere deep inside him, a gaping wound left in its wake. “Yes. Of course. I— I understand. It… yeah. I’m glad you— yes. I, uh, thanks… for telling me.”
It sounds like the sort of thing someone says when they find out they didn’t get a job that they didn’t even want. It doesn’t sound like someone who’s just found out that the love of their life is leaving for an indeterminate amount of time.
The look on Wille’s face twists into something that shatters Simon’s heart even further.
“Simon… I don’t know if I can— Maybe we could—”
“No,” Simon says, more forcefully this time. He swallows to try to hold on to his resolve. “No. You have to, Wille.”
“But—”
“You said it yourself, you can’t keep going on like this. You have to… to do something. It’s… It’s a good thing. It’ll be good.”
Simon forces a smile onto his lips. It hurts.
“But what if I—”
“No,” Simon says again. It’s desperate this time. If Wille keeps giving Simon opportunities to tell him to stay, he will selfishly take one. And that’s not what either of them need right now. “You have to go. I want you to go.”
“You want me to go?” Wille’s voice wavers, a hint of disbelief at the edges, and such aching sadness that Simon is using every fibre of his resolve to stay seated. His hands hurt where he’s sitting on them to stop himself reaching out. If he touches Wille now, it’s all over, there’ll be no way he’ll ever let him go again.
“Yes,” Simon says. “I want you to go.”
For a long moment, Wille just looks at him. Simon’s throat hurts with the effort of holding in a sob. But he can feel the tears still trailing down his face anyway.
“Okay.”
Wille’s voice is small and wounded and Simon might just die.
“If you want me to go, I’ll… I’ll go then.”
They look at each other for several seconds. Simon cannot think of anything less accurate than that statement. But if Wille needs to tell himself that he’s going for Simon’s sake, then Simon is willing to be that person.
Because much as he doesn’t want Wille to go, much as he wants Wille to stay here with him forever, he knows that it isn’t sustainable. And that if Wille doesn’t do something, he’s going to be eaten up from the inside, and Simon will lose him anyway.
The resolve that was barely there to begin with wavers in Wille’s face, so Simon blurts, “Yes. You should.” Then he screws up the last remnants of his courage and adds, “It’ll be a good thing, Wille.”
“Do you think so?”
No.
“Yes. Absolutely.”
The tears have dried up with all the lying. Simon sniffs and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. He wishes he knew he was about to get his heart broken when they sat down at this table, he’d have brought tissues.
“Okay,” Wille says, then his chin wobbles and tears start to cascade down his face. “I’m going to miss you.”
Fuck. Simon doesn’t know if he can do this. But he has to.
The chair scrapes along the floor when he pushes it back to walk around the table. Wille stands to meet him and pulls him into a bone-crushing hug.
Simon can feel the sobs wracking Wille’s whole body as he clings to Simon, their limbs so intertwined that it’s difficult to tell where one ends. Vaguely, Simon wonders if Wille is trying to absorb Simon into himself. He, for one, would quite like to crawl underneath Wille’s skin, burrow there where no one can find him, where Wille can take him wherever he’s going, instead of leaving him behind.
The minutes stretch, and Simon doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to let go. It’s probably unfair to leave it to Wille to be the strong one here, but Simon doesn’t think he can do it anymore.
Eventually, their tears dry up, and they’re just holding on to each other, breathing together. Simon has always paid close attention to Wille’s breathing, whether it was his little nervous inhales, his frantic gasps during panic attacks, his pleasure-filled moans when they were in bed… And now, Simon can feel Wille’s chest expand with each one. He starts to count them in case it’s the last time.
When was the last time they did everything? When was the last time they laughed? Wille hasn’t been laughing as much lately. When was the last time they woke up together on a lazy Sunday morning? When was the last time they kissed?
No. Simon can’t not remember their last kiss. So with a great deal of effort, he pulls back from Wille, whose whimper cleaves Simon’s heart in two. Wille’s eyes are red-rimmed and watery and Simon wishes he could have a different image for this. But still, he places his palms on Wille’s cheeks, and with determination pulls his face down to meet his own.
Wille’s lips taste of tears, but underneath that, the kiss feels like everything Simon has come to associate with his favourite person. It’s comfortable and warm and soft and makes Simon’s heart swell with love.
It’s a short kiss, but no less sweet for being so. When they break apart, Wille’s eyes are wide.
“What was that for?”
Simon strokes his thumbs along Wille’s cheekbones, trying to map out this face with touch. He sends Wille a soft smile and whispers, “To remember.”
This time, there are no tears. Yet. Simon is feeling so fragile that anything is possible, but he is somehow able to take a deep breath and say, “So what did you want to say to me?”
Wille lays his hands flat on the table, Simon can see skin around his first knuckles go white. Simon looks at the purple nail varnish. Memories of those same nails bloodied, and teeth tearing at skin flash through his mind and he has to swallow hard.
As though sensing Simon’s discomfort, Wille removes his hands from the surface and clasps them in his lap. Simon wishes they were back, wishes he had something to focus on, wishes he didn’t have to look into Wille’s face and see his own pain mirrored there.
“I missed you,” Wille murmurs.
A wounded noise escapes from between Simon’s pursed lips. With a sharp shake of his head, Simon says, “I, uhm… I don’t think I’m ready to hear that yet.”
Wille nods – small, jerky movements that betray his nerves. “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.”
Simon can hear the harsh breath Wille pulls into his nostrils and then watches as Wille lets it stream from between his lips – a small ‘o’ letting the air escape. “I think—” Wille cuts himself off with a small humourless laugh. “I think I’ve forgotten how to talk to you.”
The shattering of Simon’s heart is offensive in its silence. How dare it not scream? How dare it not sound like a million panes of glass being obliterated? That’s how it feels.
“I— When I left… I’d already— I’d already been finding it hard to— to tell you how I was feeling. And I know that I hurt you – back then, and since. Now though… Now I can’t remember how I used to do it. Before. Did I ever— Maybe I wasn’t ever very good at it.” He gives a small chuckle before falling serious again. “Sorry, this isn’t supposed to be me looking for sympathy. And I’m not. I just— I want to get this right. And I’m not sure I know how.”
There are so many words to process, and Simon isn’t sure how he’s supposed to do that. So he stays silent and waits as Wille watches to see if he will respond. Eventually, Simon nods – grim.
“I want to tell you how sorry I am, Simon. How sorry I am for leaving the way I did. And for hurting you.”
“I’m not upset that you left.” A lie. “I know you had to go. I know you needed… needed to figure everything out. And I wanted you to. But, Wille…”
Emotion claws at Simon’s chest and makes it difficult to get the words out.
“Wille… we got… nothing. You never— You just left and then… then we never heard from you again. We didn’t know— What if— We didn’t know what to think. We didn’t know where you were. You could have— Wille, you could have been dead, and we wouldn’t have—”
Voicing it out loud does something strange to his lungs, and suddenly there isn’t enough oxygen in the room. Futilely, he tries to pull in a breath. It catches on the way in and stutters back out as a sob. Wille’s eyes go wide and in seconds he’s out of his seat and crouched on the floor in front of Simon.
Tears blur Simon’s vision and he still can’t fucking breathe.
“Simon!” Wille says in alarm. “Are you— Can I—”
Then another voice cuts through the fog. “Move,” Felice snaps, and soon, Simon’s vision is filled with her concerned face. “Hey, sweetie. Can I touch you?”
Instead of answering, Simon reaches out his hands for hers. He bypasses holding them and just yanks her towards him, pitching forwards off his chair and into her arms.
Felice cradles him against her, stroking his hair and muttering soothing words into his ear. Breathing starts coming a little easier, but with that comes the ability to cry. Great, gasping sobs tear up his throat and he wails into Felice’s neck. The cries hurt – jagged edges as they rip through his body, but Felice’s voice is gentle and soothing and familiar. He lets it lull him and eventually, the tears stop, or at least the sobs do. Moisture still leaks out of the corner of his eyes, so he lets her continue to stroke his head and rock him gently.
After a couple more minutes, Felice moves her head without relinquishing her grip.
“You should go,” Simon hears her say, her voice vibrating in her chest where his ear is pressed.
“I—”
“Enough for today. Leave.”
“But—”
“Please, Wille.”
Simon doesn’t look up as he hears Wille’s step away from them, or the footsteps as Wille walks down the hall, or the door opening then shutting. Only when Felice presses a kiss to his temple does he risk moving.
“Are you okay?” she asks as he sits back and scrubs both hands down his face.
“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully. “I want to hear him out, I do. It’s just—”
“It’s a lot,” Felice finishes for him, and he nods.
“It is.”