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Most of the time, Simon appreciates his boyfriend’s efforts to earn his mom’s approval. After last year, it’s a necessary endeavor; Simon himself is still working on regaining her trust. When it comes to cooking and asking Linda to teach him Venezuelan favorites, however, Simon would like to request that Wille kindly dial back the charm offensive a notch or ten. 

Wille — pampered, privileged, never once in his life had to make himself dinner Wille — famously banned from the Drottningholm kitchens after a televised gingerbread house fiasco Wille — has apparently been studying and practicing with Felice, all to impress Linda. Worse yet, it’s working, and Simon is quite done with Linda’s effusive praise for Wille’s cooking and the way she mutters this one listens in Spanish. Which Wille probably understands, given that studying Spanish is yet another front in his all-out campaign to charm Linda.

Or at least, Simon would be quite done with it all if he weren’t so stupidly in love with the boy currently doing his very best to usurp his mom’s affections. Simon can’t blame Wille for trying — Linda’s superiority to Kristina as a mother is an objective, if mildly treasonous, fact. And, well, it’s not like Simon objects to Wille’s newfound interest in cooking, and especially not when his boyfriend casually points out we can’t just live on spaghetti in uni, Simon as justification. 

They don’t often talk that far into their future; there’s just too much to get through first. Wille’s plans to renounce his claim to the crown, still strictly confidential. How thoroughly reactions to the eventual announcement will disrupt their daily lives, and for how long. Despite it all, Wille’s always in the picture when Simon thinks of his future, and so Simon certainly isn’t mad Wille’s planning for that same future. He just wishes Wille’s triumphs in the kitchen weren’t at the cost of Simon’s own most favored son status. But that might be a losing battle, judging from Linda’s umpteenth enthusiastic Yes, Wille, exactly! and perhaps it’s time Simon reframed that outcome as the win it actually is. Linda gets a worthy sous-chef, Simon gets Wille, dinner is delicious, everyone is happy. And maybe one day, in a kitchen of their own, Linda’s favorite son will teach Simon to cook too.

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Every time Simon’s gym teacher calls out sick, the principal dispatches one of the guidance counselors to fill in, which usually means a minimally supervised dodgeball session. He’d rather have the hour back to study for other classes, but he doesn’t mind the opportunity to vent some frustrations. What he does mind, however, are the memories. They still sting, even if he was the one hurling the ball. It should all be water under the bridge by now, and it is, most of the time. Until he’s reminded.

Felice tried apologizing once, late one night last summer. Simon cut her off as soon as he realized where her fumbling words were heading, because Felice had nothing to apologize for. Felice was never the one he was mad at. Jealous of, though not in a direct way. He’s long known there isn’t the faintest romantic spark between her and Wille, and he probably already suspected it that day in the Hillerska gym. That wasn’t the point. She wasn’t the real source of his fury or his jealousy. But the glee with which those Forest Ridge boys welcomed their wayward brother back into the heterosexual fold… Even the ones Simon damn well knew weren’t, the ones who cheered all the louder to avoid any suggestion of mixed feelings.

Thwack. Back in Gothenburg, Simon keeps his aim safely low, but in his mind the ball is flying straight at Vincent’s head. Thwack. His imagination targets August next, and again for good measure; a satisfying gut shot first, and then a lob at his smug face. Thwack. Henry. Thwack. Nils. Thwack. One by one he envisions picking off each of his former classmates until even the guidance counselor doing their best to ignore the dodgeball chaos notices his unhinged energy and suggests he take a break.

His spiteful daydream interrupted, Simon takes a long swig of water as he perches on a bleacher and checks his phone. Wille’s still digging his heels into a mock argument they’d started over last night’s call, and Simon fires back jokingly irate replies. Then, inspired, he captures a few seconds of the ongoing match and sends the video. Do you really want to piss me off when I’m armed, Wille?  Some of the memories may still sting, but maybe this one’s ripe for reclaiming.

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The first time Simon steps into an ocean, he is utterly unprepared. Deafened by the waves’ thundering volume from the moment he stepped onto the beach, he grins widely as he strides into the water to hip depth, pausing a second to take in the view. And then, disaster. Water and ground betray him, the sand melting below his feet as a retreating wave yanks him headfirst into the blue. Coughing and spluttering, he runs back to his mamá in panicked tears. He’s a good swimmer, but before today he’d only swum in pools and placid Swedish lakes. The Caribbean Sea’s raw power stuns him and it’s only after lengthy reassurances that he dares a second foray into the waves, knuckles white as he grips his tío’s hand just in case.

Simon remembers every heartbeat of that trip to Venezuela, starting even before they left home. The months of planning and anticipation, his mamá just as excited as he and Sara every morning to tear away a link from the paper countdown chain. The bulging suitcases stuffed with gifts and outgrown clothes to hand down to cousins. The seemingly endless trek from Bjärstad to Stockholm to Caracas to his abuela’s home, every step and layover a thrilling new adventure from his child’s perspective. The shock of hearing his language and seeing his features everywhere around him, of being ordinary instead of exotic. The instant friendships with cousins and the endless dinners, every horizontal surface and seat in his abuela’s house commandeered to accommodate the extended family gathered for Linda’s long-awaited visit. And, finally, the ocean. The near-daily trips to the beach, the sun-drenched afternoons alternating swims and naps under faded beach umbrellas, the salt and iodine tang forever clinging to his hair and clothes. The steady roar of the surf hushing every other sound, the push and pull of the waves become as soothing as his mother’s arms.

Months, years after the trip Simon can still feel the waves buffet his body, a muscle memory of mingled peril and comfort. Every year, he begs his mamá to take them to the coast, craving another taste. He still enjoys Bjärstad’s lakeshore, still loves lazy summer evenings at the town pool with Rosh and Ayub, but it’s not the same. There’s simply no comparison between those calm, flat waters and the crashing energy he’d first experienced on that Venezuelan beach, a feeling he just can’t forget. Sometimes, he falls asleep to ocean wave white noise soundtracks. It’s not enough, but it’s something.

When Wille’s lips meet his the night of the Valentine’s ball, when their hands reclaim their rightful places cradling each other’s faces, Simon feels that addictive undertow rushing him out to sea. He feels that push and pull of the waves in each press of their lips, hears the hush created by their halting breaths. There’s nothing else like it, and there’s no substitute possible.

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Simon rushes through his shower, already doomed to be late. He usually hangs back after rowing workouts, preferring to shower last and alone, but that’s not an option today. The choir mistress has added morning practices every day this week to ensure they’re ready for Lucia, and there’s barely time to get there after rowing. Turning off the water, he quickly towels dry, wincing as the rough fabric drags across his waist. Suddenly, he’s reminded, and a smile flashes unbidden across his face. The bruises have faded from their initial scarlet flush, now a deep dusky blue, but their sight still sparks a thrill. Unfortunately, it also now inspires concern. If it were just the one mark hovering over his right hipbone, Simon would worry less; just one bruise, he could pass off as a clumsy run-in with a sharp corner. But it’s not just the one mark, it’s three, tracing an unmistakably indecent path across his stomach. 

Simon wonders whether Wille consciously focused his efforts where the evidence could stay safely hidden, if he’d intentionally marked Simon up where only the two of them would see. In the moment, the prospect of exposure hadn’t even entered Simon’s thoughts, too preoccupied with where Wille’s hands were and where he hoped his mouth would soon follow. Simon certainly hadn’t acted with any such prudence; Wille’s neck staying unblemished was purely a product of luck and Simon’s distracted lack of focus. For a wild second, Simon imagines striding back into the changing room with his towel slung low on his hips, flaunting Wille’s filthy handiwork for all to see. But only for a second, because he knows it’s too dangerous a fantasy.

They haven’t properly talked yet about what they are and who can know, but their secrecy is heavily implied in every nervous dart of Wille’s eyes before exchanging lunchroom whispers, in every rapid parting of their lips and hands when steps echo outside their hiding spots. Simon remembers Wille’s panic the morning August tried to call him on the table; he can only imagine how much more terrifying such a summons would be now that they actually have something to hide. Hell, Simon doubts he’d be eager to reveal his private life to the Forest Ridge boys even if it weren’t their prince he’s dating. Hanging out with. Hooking up with. Whatever it is they’re doing, exactly. And that’s a question that really needs answering before any news can be shared, before any foolhardy flaunting of hickeys can be contemplated.

Simon wraps his towel uncharacteristically high on his waist, double-checking that Wille’s affections are fully concealed before stepping from the shower stall. Once back at the benches, he moves quickly but carefully, slipping his shirt on and pulling up his boxer briefs before finally shedding the towel. His stealth is successful, none of his teammates paying him any mind. None, but one, amber eyes boldly lingering over his hips as though they could see straight through the concealing layers to the truth below. And if Simon pauses to share a heated smirk with that audience of one, well, the choir will just need to wait.

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A week before Simon starts school, Sara sits him down and painstakingly explains everything he needs to know. The daily schedule, the names of the teachers, the fastest slides on the playground, the safest hiding places. She teaches him not only the official rules of the classroom, but the unwritten social ones she’s pieced together by careful observation. When Linda takes them shopping for supplies, Sara bluntly nixes Simon’s first choice of backpack, declaring it babyish and pushing him towards options that won’t draw mockery. Simon is too used to his big sister always being right to consider protesting. On his first day, Sara peels his arms away from Linda and grips his hand in her own before walking him through the entrance, sternly reminding him never to let the other kids see him cry. Years later, Simon will realize how hard-won Sara’s expertise was. In the moment, he’s simply awed.

When Micke becomes unreliable, unpredictable, Sara refuses to lie about it. Simon doesn’t want to tell his mamá they had to walk home from school alone because pappa never showed up; doesn’t want to admit they’re numb from a December afternoon spent playing in the yard because pappa didn’t wake up when they knocked. But Sara tells Linda everything and shrugs off Simon’s guilt as they huddle in her room, hiding from their parents’ arguing. She has to know, Simon. She can’t take care of us if she doesn’t know. Sara has big noise-quieting headphones her therapist recommended and that night she lets Simon borrow them to drown out the yelling, plugging them into the hand-me-down phone she uses as a music player. The next morning, Linda explains they’ll be going to Ayub’s house after school when Linda has afternoon shifts, then slides a house key onto Sara’s horse-charm necklace. Simon’s still not convinced it was right to tattle on pappa, but he’s relieved nonetheless.

Sara is Wille’s toughest critic. Throughout their summer road trip, she grills him for specifics about how and when exactly he plans to step out of the line of succession, how and when exactly he’ll ease the burdens he’s imposed on her brother and family. She never accepts any claim that something simply won’t fly with the Queen or the court, always expects Wille to try anyway. She isn’t mean about any of it, only honest. Simon repeatedly asks her to back off, to mind her own business, but Wille always quietly hears her out. The thing is, Sara likes Wille, loves how happy he makes Simon. It’s the Crown Prince and all the ways he and his court have crushed her little brother that she hates and never will forgive. She’ll happily go to war for Wille so long as he does the same for Simon.

Simon learned caretaking from the very best.

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Simon doesn’t need to check his messages to remind himself of the door code, his sap of a boyfriend having ensured he’d never forget it by setting it to their anniversary. Well, one of their anniversaries, since they’ve yet to agree which one counts most. Simon usually argues for the sunny June day of their fresh start, the one that’s stuck for two years and counting, but Simon didn’t pick the door code, Wille did, and so it’s the date of Manor House’s movie night that Simon keys in with a fond chuckle. At the very least it’s not a date any would-be burglars would know to try, not unless Sara or Ayub decide to rob Wille’s apartment.

Wille’s brand new apartment and first home of his own outside castle and boarding school walls, even if he isn’t there to welcome Simon himself. He’s been apologizing for that absence all day, but if anyone’s to blame, it’s Simon for booking his train to Lund without checking Wille’s orientation schedule. He supposes he could go pick up the keys to his own place in the meantime, but as adamant as Simon has been about having his own space and not living on Kristina’s dime, the room he’s rented near campus isn’t where he plans to spend tonight.

As Simon pushes the door open, Felice’s messages from last week suddenly make a lot more sense. A staggeringly vivid amount of sense.

Is purple actually your favorite color?

Yeah, why?

I mean, if I have to pick one, it’s purple.

But would you say you LOVE purple?

I… like it a normal amount?

Okay. Don’t worry, I’ve got this. This is fixable.

Felice??

The apartment isn’t all purple. It’s just… very purple. Most of the walls are a pale grey with the barest hint of lilac, but an amaranth accent wall anchors the living room. Below a wide window framed by periwinkle curtains sits a lavender couch strewn with plum pillows, complementing the nearby raspberry arm chairs. The floors aren’t purple, thank god, but the runner in the entryway is. The kitchen offers welcome visual respite, soothingly white and pale wood, but purple has staked its claim there too in the orchid towels hanging from the oven door and the magenta ceramic fruit bowl on the counter. Below the piles of half-unpacked boxes on the dining table, a stack of placemats in a deep eggplant shade match the cushions on the dining chairs. 

Simon wonders faintly what the place looked like before Felice’s intervention. 

Steeling himself for another violet assault, Simon walks down the hall. Wille sent him a floor plan when he found the apartment, but this is Simon’s first time seeing it for real. He knows the room at the end of the hall is Wille’s bedroom, and he heads there first to drop off his bags. A few of the framed pictures are familiar, as are the red string lights, and the bed is invitingly vast and free of looming chandeliers. (The duvet and pillow shams are a soft iris.) There’s an abandoned coffee mug and a stack of books on one bedside table, which must mean Wille has claimed that side. (The other bedside table sports a fuschia lava lamp.) In the bathroom, Simon recognizes his favorite shampoo and conditioner next to Wille’s. (The towels and bathmat are a deep mulberry.) 

In the next room, Simon finds not just Wille’s desk, but a gleaming eight-octave electronic keyboard on a proper stand. (The bench facing it is upholstered in a bold mauve.) It’s the kind of keyboard Simon’s been eyeing for years, the very one he refused to let Wille buy him for his birthday last month, and Simon suspects he’s just been outmaneuvered. The third and final room features the guest bed Simon knows Wille is hoping will encourage Felice to drive down from Stockholm frequently; Sara’s got a standing invitation too. (Nothing about the bed is purple, clear evidence that Felice has intervened in the room’s decor.) In the corner sits a desk, and when Simon takes a closer look he notices a jar filled with his favorite fine-tip pens and a shelf holding all the books he’s forgotten at Wille’s over the past two years. (The pen jar is a bright grape.) It occurs to him Wille intends this room as his study space, and Simon smiles softly. 

This isn’t Simon’s apartment; that’s something they’ve discussed at length. Selecting the same university was no coincidence, but they’re still just nineteen and hungry for independence. Wille, especially, needs to figure out living life – normal life – outside of his mother’s palace. But even if this is explicitly Wille’s apartment and not theirs , Simon can’t help but thrill at all the ways Wille is holding space for him, all the ways he’s weaving him into his home. 

One day when Simon does move in, though, they’re going to need to discuss the color scheme. Unlike his feelings for Wille, Simon only likes purple a normal amount.

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New school, same old bullshit. Counting högstadiet, this is Simon’s third new school in four years, but knowing what to expect doesn’t make it any better. The teachers who make certain assumptions based on his face, then get confused when his name doesn’t match. The classmates who rapidly scan his outfit and accessories before assigning him to a social caste. The poorly-concealed disdain if he dares a friendly overture to someone beyond that designated caste. 

It’s not exactly the same bullshit. His Gothenburg gymnasium is more diverse than either Bjärstad or Hillerska, which has advantages and disadvantages. It’s refreshing not to be the only Latino in school, though frustrating that certain teachers can’t seem to keep their names straight. Simon rolls his eyes especially hard when he’s mixed up with Joaquim, a recent arrival from Brazil with bleached blond curls and fifteen extra centimeters of height. They don’t even speak the same language, for fuck’s sake.

Also new is his notoriety. While he’s relieved to discover most of his new classmates and teachers don’t follow royal gossip closely enough to immediately recognize his name or face, the few that do ensure that awareness spreads throughout the school by Simon’s second week. Then, he gets to watch a comical struggle unfold in people’s eyes as they decide which of the things they think they know about him to believe in a given moment. That he’s a welfare case to be patted on the head for being so articulate, or a scheming social climber sophisticated enough to trap a prince. A dangerous radical, or a delusional romantic. A lower-class nobody, or a valuable connection to cultivate. 

Navigating that last assumption does grant him a better understanding of Wille’s Hillerska plight. He quickly learns to sniff out wannabe friends eager to curry favor with the Royal Boyfriend; the idea that befriending Simon might be a ticket to the royal court’s approval is at least worth a giggle. Okay, maybe a slightly bitter giggle. 

Simon does eventually find a handful of genuine friends. He doubts he’d trust them with any real secrets yet, but it’s nice to share lunch with folks who think of him as just Simon and not Ungrateful Immigrant or Angry Socialist or Latin Temptress or any of the dozen other labels regularly assigned to him. Friends who care about his boyfriend only because he does. Friends he can vent to when a teacher hands him Manuel’s exam or praises his Swedish accent. 

That spring, a football tournament at the school draws press attention for racist chants from the stands. The principal insists it must have been visitors, not his students, to blame, and there’s a panicked rush to recruit students to meet with reporters. Sara is among those asked to say a few words about how welcoming the school is to newcomers of all kinds. 

New school, same old bullshit.

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Simon’s hand creeps closer to the pizza box, hoping to snag the last piece, but Ayub smacks it away at the last second. Damn, guess he is paying attention to more than just the movie. Simon himself lost interest within ten minutes, once it became clear this was going to be typical action drivel. The hero is tall and impossibly jacked, the sidekick is a walking punchline, the love interest’s personality is boobs, and it’s the villain’s job to diversify the casting. (Simon knows the intention was Generic Middle Eastern Terrorist, but he’s pretty sure the actor is actually Mexican.) 

“Do we have to finish this?”

“Nah.” Ayub shrugs and hands Simon the remote. “Find something better.”

Simon quickly navigates the menu, then hits play before Ayub can protest.

“Naruto again ?"

“It’s not again if you haven’t seen this episode yet.” Simon has seen this episode before, but Ayub doesn’t need to know.

“Explain the appeal to me.”

“It’s fun? I like it?”

Simon’s been watching anime for years, but he’s only recently started to think about why. When he was little, he loved the kid heroes. (He still loves them.) He liked that some of them looked like him, at least more than in most kids’ shows. He liked the silliness and the bright colors and the fantastical powers. Even now that he’s watching series with young adult characters, he still notices how different they look from most live-action superheroes. They aren’t all big and bulky and macho. Some are slight. Slender. Still just as strong. It’s affirming… and a little exciting. That’s a more recent realization: how pretty some of the characters are. That’s not a word he often hears used for boys, yet it’s the only word that comes to mind. And the prettiness of Naruto and Sasuke is on his mind frequently , these days. Frequently enough that Simon thinks he might be ready to say something. 

“Ayub?”

“Yeah?”

“The appeal is that Naruto’s kind of hot.”

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In an armored sedan parked a discreet distance from a stucco home in a remote corner of Spain, Wilhelm ignored the pointed way Kris, his personal protection agent, glanced at the dashboard clock yet again. Yes, Wilhelm was stalling, and yes, he should get on with it. He sank into the dark leather upholstery and shut his eyes, gathering his courage. Simon had been gone for six years. His general whereabouts had never been a mystery, even without resorting to the tracking resources Wilhelm’s position could have afforded him. For years, Wilhelm had awaited his removal from Simon’s private Instagram, and yet it had never happened. Simon might have changed his number, but this small window he’d left open, and through its narrow lens Wilhelm had caught occasional glimpses of first Gothenburg, then Barcelona, and finally this seaside village. All these years he’d known where Simon was, and all these years he’d fought the temptation. It could only hurt them further. They’d tried so hard, for so long. If Simon had any interest in seeing him again, he’d have done so. Wilhelm wasn’t the one who’d fled, the one who’d changed his number, the one who’d left behind only that letter. 

But it was time, even if Wilhelm couldn’t say why. It was just a sense, a nagging thought grown too loud to ignore, that it was time. They’d loved each other right up to the very end; that had never been the problem. They’d conceded defeat only to their circumstances, and surely those were different now. Could be made different. Wilhelm had settled into his Crown Prince fate, carved space for himself within its strictures, notched a few hard-fought victories against the institution. Simon would see that, surely. Would see the time had come to try again, to step into that future they surely still could have. 

Resolved, Wilhelm stepped out of the car, nodding to Kris. It was a weekend afternoon and Wilhelm suddenly wondered whether Simon was likely to be out. Well, if he was, Wilhelm would just wait. Finding the doorbell taped over, Wilhelm knocked instead. A nervous double rap first, followed by a more determined triple volley. Still, no answer. Wilhelm turned to leave, planning to wait in the car, when he realized he could hear music playing within. Out of curiosity, he tested the door handle, and to his surprise it moved freely. The door stood barely ajar now, and Wilhelm swallowed. There was a car in the driveway. Music was playing. The door was unlocked. Simon must be home, then. And yet, Wilhelm knew he couldn’t walk in uninvited. He knocked again, the blows inadvertently nudging the door enough to offer a glimpse of the interior. A glimpse wide enough to reveal Simon, asleep on a couch in the far corner of what must be his living room.  

Wilhelm froze, absorbing the scene. Ochre tile floors. Sunshine streaming through colorful curtains. A table cluttered with dishes and papers. Familiar posters. A television perched atop a low shelf crammed below with books. A guitar hanging from a wall hook. And curled into a battered couch, Simon, fast asleep.

Wilhelm didn’t dare knock again, didn’t dare make any sound. He’d have to, eventually, he supposed. Or perhaps he wouldn’t. There was alway the option to quietly tug the door back into place and leave. A theoretical option, because Wilhelm knew he wouldn't. Maybe this glimpse should have been enough, but he knew it wasn’t. Heart in his throat, he watched Simon. Watched his chest rise and fall, watched the shadow of a passing cloud sweep over him, soaked in every detail. He looked even more beautiful than Wilhelm remembered, and with a pang he realized this Simon lacked the tension that had grown unshakeable in their last year together. 

In the narrow street behind the slightly open door, a passing car honked, startling Wilhelm… and Simon. 

Simon’s eyes snapped open, then widened as they took in the intruder at the door. He lurched to a sitting position, staring dumbly as his mouth hung open before clamping into an angry line. 

Wilhelm cleared his throat nervously. “Hey.” 

It was only a dream. An awful, cruel dream of his past transported into the present, a wrecking ball careening at his hard-fought peace. A nightmare was the only possible explanation for the vision haunting his doorstep. Except he’d never seen this Wilhelm before, not even in accidental glimpses of tabloid headlines and trending posts. This Wilhelm’s hair was darker and shorter than he’d ever seen it. His face was nearly gaunt, skin stretching over harsh angles and sinking around tired eyes. His rigid posture had none of its prior confidence, and from this distance Simon couldn’t tell if Wilhelm had grown taller or if his hollowed frame was distorting his proportions. He looked far older than the six years since their parting could possibly explain. 

Simon continued to stare, desperately awaiting the moment the ghost at his door would dissolve and he'd wake from this dream. But Wilhelm remained stubbornly real and present. Finally, Simon stood from the couch and took a few steps towards the door, halting at the dining table, still a few meters away. Wilhelm only stared, yearning and uneasy, until Simon broke the silence.  

“Why are you here?”

Simon already knew why. There was only one possible reason, really. But asking was a desperate stab at swerving from the looming catastrophe, a faint hope that making Wilhelm say it might make him reconsider. 

Frantically, Wilhelm’s eyes sought a safe resting point before casting back down to the floor. “I missed you,” he finally muttered. 

“But why are you here ?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

No, Simon thought. Just like loving him had never been enough. 

“It’s good to see you. You look… well.” Wilhelm tried again, attempting a smile. 

An olive branch of sorts, yet it whipped across Simon like a lash. “I can’t say the same.”

No need to specify which half of Wilhelm’s sentiment Simon meant. Neither was shared. He didn’t want to see Wilhelm, and he especially didn’t want to see Wilhelm like this, so evidently miserable. 

Hurt flashed in Wilhelm’s eyes, and Simon made himself ignore a rogue stab of guilt. Wilhelm was the one intruding, the one invading his space, disturbing his peace. Wilhelm was at fault. Simon would feel no guilt about telling unvarnished truths. Not now, and not years ago in that letter.

Wilhelm cleared his throat again, stepped fully into the house. Raked a hand through his too-short hair. Looked at Simon, then away, then back again. Simon said nothing, waiting. Finally, Wilhelm spoke.

“I came to ask you to come back. To come home.”

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Simon drums his fingers on the steering wheel, antsy for the light to change. Funny how he’d half-dreaded tonight, had almost faked illness to backtrack on his promise to accompany Sara to Felice’s New Year’s party, and yet now finds himself cursing the traffic lights’ evident conspiracy against him. But he couldn’t deny the crushing disappointment he’d felt this afternoon when Sara announced she’d changed her mind, that she’d rather drive out to see Felice on some other, quieter occasion. And then had come Felice’s text – not to Sara, her usual correspondent, but directly and solely to Simon – stating simply I’m not meddling, I never sent this, but Wille is here and he’s crushed you’re not. And now Simon’s just a few more endless, conspiring red lights away from a long-denied, long-overdue moment of truth.

For eighteen months, Simon has watched and waited. Waited for his own heart to move on, waited for a reason for it not to. Watched Wille, waited for him to make a move. Any move, any sign of what might be going on inside that mind Simon once believed himself close to understanding. He’s told himself the silence from the palace, the lack of new controversy, the regular trickle of perfectly boring public appearances, was a good thing. That it meant Wille had walked himself back from that crumbling ledge Simon last saw him leaning over. That he’d found a way to survive his role, survive his family. And, fuck, how can Simon be upset about that? How can Wille not imploding be a bad thing? And it’s not – for Wille. And it shouldn’t be, for Simon. He should be happy about it. He should, but he isn’t, no matter how selfish that makes him.

Because it might mean he’d been wrong. Because it might mean there was some way for Wille to carve space for himself within the institution, and maybe if Simon had been more patient… had let himself be ground down just a little more… maybe he could still have Wille. 

For eighteen months, Simon has watched and analyzed Wille’s every appearance, every public statement. Analyzing whether he looks happy, like himself. He can’t say he’s ever answered that question, but he has noticed changes. Minuscule, fragile wisps of change, and yet Simon knows the monumental work that must have gone into them. The quiet appearance of his foundation in the list of sponsors of a queer youth hotline. The few lines slipped into the Christmas address not just blandly acknowledging that some of his subjects celebrate other holidays, but calling out the alienation they might be made to feel for it. Tiny rebellions sprinkled in unexpected statements. And yet, it’s the expected statement that most disappointed Simon: Wille’s eighteenth birthday, and the steady voice with which he’d formally accepted his role. Some part of Simon had foolishly hoped, believed it might not happen. That against all evidence, Wille might have renounced rather than embraced his fate.

And if Simon had been wrong that Wille never could find peace in his role, maybe he’d also been wrong which would be more painful: to retreat to solitary safety, or stick it out to the bitter end. He’d thought he was picking a tough, but survivable amount of pain now over the certainty of unbearable pain later, and he’d voted for the pain now. Suddenly, he’s not so sure about any of it. And maybe he was right. Maybe Wille remains drowning, maybe he’s already fully disappeared. Maybe none of it is real, the hints of progress mere mirages. But Simon needs to know, to find out for himself.

The light turns green. The last kilometers melt away. Felice’s door appears. No more waiting.