Work Text:
❄️ ✈️ Arlanda airport, Stockholm, 23rd December ✈️ ❄️
Wille stands in front of a vast glass panel that usually looks out from the first class lounge over the roof of the airport to the tarmac below, only right now he can see nothing through the darkness but a swirling mass of white, which is something of an issue since he’s supposed to be taking off in an hour’s time. He glances up at the departure board but it’s still saying that his flight is on time, so they must know something about the weather that he doesn’t.
This is so annoying. He’s willing to bet that there’s going to be a delay, but at this point, he doesn’t know how long he’ll have to wait. If it’s just going to be a short while, he’ll get out his phone and crush some candy. He can pretty much guarantee that if he goes to the trouble of getting his laptop out and trying to do some work, the flight will be called and he’ll have to put it away immediately.
The decision is taken out of his hands as the inevitable announcement comes through the loudspeaker: a two hour delay. Great. He takes out his phone and messages his host to let them know that he’ll be late.
Since he’s not going to be eating any time soon, he goes to the bar and asks the barman what snacks are available. The guy reels off a long list of stuff that Wille doesn’t want.
‘You wouldn’t have any liquorice, would you?’ he asks, more in hope than expectation.
‘I’m sorry sir, no,’ is the reply.
Wille thinks about the liquorice shop he passed on the concourse on his way to the lounge. It’s calling to him. So many flavours... He just loves the stuff, especially the chocolate covered ones, and he may as well stretch his legs if he’s going to have to wait a while.
He’s coming back out of the store, his bag stocked up with snacks for the flight, plus a massive tub of his favourite passion fruit flavour ones to see him through the week, when there’s a cry off to his left: ‘Fuck!’
Wille turns towards the noise and sees a man sprawled on the floor, staring back at him as he rubs his elbow. Shit, has he recognised him? Wille tries to calm down by telling himself that it’s highly unlikely. It’s been ten years, after all, and he likes to think that he’s pretty much unrecognisable since then. There would be very few people, surely, who would look at his twenty-eight-year-old self, complete with shorn blue hair, stubble, glasses, and scruffy clothing, and think to themselves, ‘Hey, wasn’t that guy the crown prince once?’ It’s happened once or twice over the last few years, but he has grown older and, he hopes, less recognisable, so Wille doesn’t know why that’s still the first thing he thinks of when something like this happens. It seems he can’t help himself.
Under any other circumstances, Wille would put his head down and try to make as fast an exit as possible. But the circumstances now are that the man who is staring at him is very, very pretty, and maybe he’s thinking with parts of his body other than his brain, but right now he doesn’t feel compelled to be anywhere other than right here.
The guy is still looking at him, but there doesn’t seem to be any hint of curiosity in the way he’s doing it. Wille walks over to him. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks, as he leans down and offers the man a hand to help him back up. His grasp is warm and dry, strong, and Wille is even more entranced.
‘Thank you, yes,’ says the stranger. Now that Wille’s closer and the man is standing up, he can see that he has the deepest brown eyes, the clearest skin, curls he wants to wind round his finger. Plus a small, compact body that Wille wants to touch. All over. ‘I just tripped over, I think. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
‘Oh, OK.’
‘Yeah,’ says the man, rubbing his elbow again. ‘I got distracted. Hot guy at two o’clock.’
Wille tries to work out where two o’clock is from where they’re standing, and realises it’s the entrance to the liquorice shop. The hot guy is him, and it really shouldn’t be having the effect on him that it is, because after all he is a grown man and that is absolutely the cheesiest line, but he can actually feel his face getting hot. This man is making him blush, and that’s just embarrassing.
He laughs nervously. ‘That’s such a line.’
‘Is it working?’
Wille scratches the back of his head. ‘Yeah, it kind of is, actually. You have much success with that one?’
‘I do OK. I don’t usually make a habit of falling on my arse at the same time, though, which probably helps.’
‘I must be special, then,’ says Wille.
‘Must be. Simon,’ says the stranger, holding out his hand to be shaken. His handshake is firm, another tick on the checklist. Wille has probably shaken tens of thousands of hands over the years, albeit mostly in his previous life, and this one ranks very highly.
‘Wille.’
‘So, Wille. Two hours to kill. What are we going to do with ourselves?’ Simon’s smile is open, but there’s something behind it, something suggestive, or at least Wille thinks so. Hopes so.
‘What is there usually to do in airports, other than shop, eat and wait?’
‘Right? There’s only so many duty free perfume samples you can try.’ He holds his wrist to his nose, smelling it to demonstrate, then holds it out to Wille. ‘I think I picked a good one, though?’
Wille inhales. It’s a fruity kind of scent, but it’s very light and he can still smell Simon beneath it. Fuck, it’s like this man already knows all the things that are guaranteed to get Wille interested. More ticks. Flirty, check. Curls, check. Smells good, check. There must be something wrong with the guy, somewhere. Maybe he has really bad flatulence or picks his nose, but right now Wille doesn’t think that either of those would bother him that much. He’s enchanted.
‘Well, if you’re through with shopping, there’s always eating,’ suggests Wille. ‘Would you like a piece of liquorice?’
Simon pulls a face. ‘Can’t stand the stuff,’ he announces. ‘Also, I’m kinda hungry. I was planning on eating a meal on the plane, but now it’s delayed, I think I’m going to have to grab something here.’
‘Would you like some company?’ asks Wille.
Simon’s face lights up with a smile that Wille finds absolutely adorable. ‘That would be nice,’ he says.
‘I’m allowed to bring a guest into the lounge, if you’d like to join me.’
‘The lounge?’
Wille coughs. ‘The, uh, first class lounge. It’s just up there.’
‘Is that supposed to impress me?’ asks Simon.
‘Not really,’ says Wille, shrugging his shoulders. ‘It’s just where I’ve been hanging out, and you know, the food’s free, so I thought-’
‘Rich people always get free stuff,’ sighs Simon. ‘It’s annoying.’
‘Have I fucked this up already?’ asks Wille, his head falling.
‘This?’
Wille gestures between the two of them. ‘This.’
Simon smiles and Wille breathes a sigh of relief. ‘No, you haven’t. And I’m just enough of a hypocrite that I’m not gonna turn down a free meal for political reasons or whatever. I’ll justify it by telling myself it was for the company rather than the food. Plus I’ve never travelled anything other than economy before; it’ll be interesting to see how the other half lives.’
Is it normal for Wille to get talking to a perfect - completely perfect - stranger and invite them to spend time with him based on nothing but a five-minute conversation and some good vibes? Definitely not. But it’s also not normal for him to feel as drawn to someone as he is to Simon. The attraction he feels was instant, and it’s only growing stronger the more time they spend together.
Watching Simon experience the first class lounge is fascinating, not to mention rather entertaining. Wille can tell that he’s trying, not entirely successfully, to be nonchalant, and he can also detect an element of glee, mixed with slight disgust, like Simon is enjoying it, but hates that he’s enjoying it. He turns his nose up at the excessive Christmas decorations, the leather sofas, the wool throws and faux fur cushions, but he makes himself comfortable in an armchair near the - extremely fake looking - fireplace. He tuts at the lobster and the ice sculpture, but still piles a plate high with food.
They talk a little as they eat - just enough to discover that they both live in Stockholm and they’re both going to London - but there’s an awful lot more communication going on without words. Wille has never before realised just how sexual food can be, but he’s quickly reaching the conclusion that watching Simon eat sausage, lick his fingers clean, miss a spot of cream near his mouth, let some juice drip down his chin, has been specifically designed to drive him crazy with want.
He doesn’t really reciprocate, not deliberately; it’s not in his comfort zone. Even if he doesn’t have to do that sort of thing any more, he’s been brought up to behave in a certain way under all circumstances, and flirting so obviously does not come under that heading. However much he’s tried to spend the last ten years breaking away from his upbringing, there’s some stuff that’s just too deeply ingrained to get past, so instead of being deliberately suggestive, he tries to convey what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, with looks, glances, subtle touches. It seems to be working; the amount of eye fucking going on is off the charts. It all feels slightly surreal; Wille can’t believe that just an hour ago, he was mundanely debating between salted caramel and chocolate flavour liquorice, and now he’s sitting here doing this.
Once they’ve finished eating and a helpful member of staff has taken their plates away, they no longer have the food there to occupy their hands, and Wille doesn’t know quite what to do with his. They’re sitting in armchairs, perpendicular to each other, as they chat, and Wille rests his hand on the arm, for want of anything better to do with it. Moments later, Simon moves his own hand only millimetres away, and Wille can feel it even though they’re not touching, like Simon has magnetised him and all his atoms are being pulled in that direction. But then Simon does touch, the tip of his index finger drawing a delicate line along the length of Wille’s, deliberately, almost painfully, slowly, and even though the connection between them is only in that one tiny spot, it feels like Wille’s whole body is lit up by it.
Simon is talking, something about his sister and horses, but Wille isn’t really listening, is instead focusing on the insistent touch of Simon’s finger on his, on the movement of Simon’s lips, his imagination taking him in other directions. There’s another, louder, voice in his head: his own. I really, really want to kiss you, it’s saying.
‘I really, really want to kiss you,’ he blurts, interrupting whatever Simon is saying.
Simon raises an eyebrow. ‘What, in front of all these people?’ he says.
Wille looks around. The barman from earlier is still here, and there are a couple dozen or so other passengers milling about, not that many; it’s early evening and most people - clearly more sensible - have flown out earlier in the day.
‘None of them are looking at us,’ Wille tries.
‘They would if we started kissing,’ points out Simon. His fingers are more insistent now, stroking the back of Wille’s hand. ‘And the other thing is, if we did start kissing, I don’t think I’d be able to stop with just that.’ He looks Wille right in the eye as he says it, and Wille is liquid, molten lust flooding through him.
‘No?’ he smiles and lowers his voice further. ‘What do you think you might end up doing?’
‘Hands would definitely wander,’ Simon starts. ‘I would want to slide under your t-shirt and feel your skin… Smell you… Taste you… I would want to press my hand against your jeans so I could see how hard you are, slip inside so I could feel it. I would want to find out where the best places to touch you are, the ones that make you shudder. And then I think that I would want to drop to my knees and-’
‘Enough,’ groans Wille, as quietly as he can. ‘You can’t just-’
‘I just did,’ smirks Simon, clearly enjoying himself.
Well, this went from nought to a hundred in about three seconds flat. The direction that the conversation has taken has left Wille aching with want, and he can either sit here and continue to suffer while Simon drives him even further up the wall, or he can move things along in a more acceptable way. ‘I think-’ starts Wille, ‘I think that in order to complete the full tour of the first class lounge, I need to show you round the bathroom area. Did you know that they have individual bathrooms?’
‘Of course they do,’ says Simon, rolling his eyes. ‘Not that I’m complaining, though. Not if it means… what I think it means.’
‘Pretty sure it does.’
Simon grins as he stands up. Wille is a little slower than him, so his face is momentarily at crotch level, and it appears that Simon has been enjoying this conversation just as much as he has; it makes Wille’s mouth water thinking about exactly what he is just centimetres away from. Simon’s hand reaches down, offering to pull him up from the armchair. He takes it and stands, but then lets go. He doesn’t want to, but he feels like they’re being obvious enough as it is. Two guys walking towards the bathroom together can just about be written off as a coincidence; if they hold hands, Wille feels like he may as well have a big neon sign above their heads, saying ‘We’re going to have sex now.’ He shouldn’t really care what anyone else thinks, he knows he shouldn’t, but it’s another by-product of having grown up with the world watching.
They’re halfway to the bathroom when a middle-aged woman, tall and thin and carrying what looks like a stupidly expensive handbag, accosts them and says, in Swedish but with a heavy English accent, ‘Excuse me. I’m so sorry to bother you, but it’s driving me mad, so I thought I’d just ask, and I know this is silly and obviously you-’ She shakes her head, like she’s still working herself up to ask. ‘Did you used to be the cr-’
Fuck. This woman’s timing could not be worse. Not here. Not now. What are the fucking odds that the first time this has happened in at least a year would be right at the moment that he’s about to get it on with perhaps the loveliest person he’s met in absolutely forever? Nope. Not going there. He cuts her off at the pass, shuts it right down, gives her the usual spiel that he trots out whenever this happens. ‘Yeah, I get that a lot,’ he interrupts. ‘Sorry, though, not him. I don’t think he’d be able to get away with the blue hair, would he? Merry Christmas, though.’ The hair - blue and close cropped at the moment, but on other occasions, green, pink, manbun-long, mulleted, anything he pleases - has always been his get-out-of-jail-free card. People are never able to conceive that an actual prince would be allowed to have hair like that, always forgetting that he’s not an actual prince. Not any more.
‘Ah, no, I suppose not,’ the woman replies. ‘Sorry, then. Uh, happy Christmas to you, too.’ She wanders back to her travel companion.
‘What was all that about?’ asks Simon, bemused.
‘Later,’ says Wille. ‘I think we have more pressing matters to attend to, don’t you?’ He doesn’t want to think about what just happened. It’s always a bit disconcerting to be recognised, especially after so many years, but no way is he going to let it put him off his game. That woman can go fuck herself, and sorry if that’s not exactly full of seasonal cheer and goodwill to all men and all that, but screw her. He’s determined to put it out of his mind and just show Simon a good time. Or maybe Simon showing him a good time is what will put it out of his head, who knows?
‘For fuck’s sake,’ mutters Simon under his breath when they enter the bathroom.
‘What?’
Simon is looking around the room, opening cupboards, checking out the shower stall. ‘Look at this,’ he says. ‘This is not a public toilet. It can’t be. It’s just ridiculous; I am sitting here on an actual sofa. I mean, I’m not gonna complain, because we are definitely gonna make use of it, but don’t you think that it’s all kind of, I don’t know, unnecessary?’
‘Completely,’ agrees Wille with a smile. ‘But look at it this way: far more comfortable for you to sit while I blow you.’
Simon inhales sharply. ‘Or for you to sit while you blow me, if that’s what you’d like?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Do you think that’s why they put a sofa in here?’ Simon muses. ‘Was it part of the design process, do you reckon? Shower, so travellers can clean themselves. Washbasin with large numbers of free toiletries, so travellers will smell good. And sofa, so that travellers may give and receive head in comfort.’
Wille kind of loves this about Simon, that he can laugh and muck about and carry on chatting, even now, even when they’re about to do what they’re about to do. He’s not usually in the habit of hooking up with people he’s just met, but this isn’t exactly the first time he’s done it. Usually, though, it’s so damn serious - which is ironic, since it’s casual sex - the only thing in common a joint desire to come, usually as quickly as possible. There’s no rapport, no connection, other than a mutual physical attraction. This doesn’t feel like that. This feels like… more, somehow. Even if what he has with Simon is the result of only an hour or so spent in each other’s company, it’s still something. And neither of them has to be anywhere for at least the next hour, so Wille is determined that they’re going to take their time.
He walks over to the sofa - it’s actually a chaise longue but that’s not exactly relevant - and sits down beside Simon. They’ve been heading for this moment ever since Wille first set eyes on Simon outside the liquorice shop; there’s an inevitability to it, like it was always going to happen from the second they first spoke to one another.
‘About that kiss…’ he says, his face only centimetres from Simon’s. He’s close enough that he can hear Simon’s breathing, see the tiny scar to the side of his mouth. He wants to lick it.
‘Hmmm?’
‘May I?’
Simon doesn’t answer him, instead leans in and places the longest, gentlest of kisses on Wille’s mouth. It’s just the right amount of pressure, just the right amount of intention. No tongue yet, and yet it still feels like the farthest thing from innocent. It’s the most perfect kiss that Wille has ever experienced.
‘Oh,’ Wille eventually exclaims, almost overwhelmed.
Simon pulls back and looks at him. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Sorry,’ says Wille. ‘I just- You- You’re exceeding all my expectations.’
‘Good,’ replies Simon and dives back in for another kiss. Wille kisses him back more forcefully this time, opening his mouth more and letting his tongue slide against Simon’s. He reaches out to grip Simon’s arm, trying to ground himself.
Simon was right when he spoke earlier; hands are most definitely wandering. Wille feels the warmth of Simon’s fingers on his waist as they sneak under the hem of his top. They are insistent in their exploration, mapping Wille’s skin. Wille feels compelled to do the same, but Simon’s top is tucked into his jeans and they have to part briefly so that Simon can yank it out. But then, finally, Wille is able to touch him, to chart the contours of his body, or at least the parts of it that he can touch. For someone so slight, Simon is surprisingly muscular.
Wille thinks that he could spend days just like this, touching Simon’s skin, learning his reactions, and it reminds him that they don’t have days. They just have this, tonight, this unexpected snowbound bubble in which they find themselves, a brief Christmas respite from real life, and Wille is starting to hate that aspect of it because he’s realising that he doesn’t want this to be a one off. Wille feels a connection with Simon that has been rare for him in general, and rarer still in his romantic life, which is objectively crazy given how little they know each other, but he can’t deny it. He doesn’t want to let this go when they inevitably both have to get on the plane in a couple of hours’ time and go back to the real world.
Simon’s hands smooth across Wille’s chest, brushing against his nipples, and he groans as he feels them prickle in response. He doesn’t understand how he can simultaneously feel both as hard as a rock but like his whole body is molten liquid. He reaches his hand in between their bodies, presses it against the front of Simon’s jeans, and Simon is equally affected, pushing back against him.
They pull briefly off of each other, both of them breathing heavily. Simon giggles, mutters, ‘Jesus,’ and stands up from the sofa so that he can undo his jeans, pulling them, and his underwear, down to his knees.
‘Oh God, Simon,’ says Wille. Simon’s cock is perfect, absolutely perfect: the shape, the colour, the amount of hair, the foreskin. He reaches for Simon’s hand and pulls him towards him so that he’s standing between Wille’s seated legs. The sofa is exactly the right height because Simon’s cock is level with Wille’s face and it’s so close that Wille can smell its musky scent. It’s making his mouth water, but he wants to touch first. He brushes his fingers across the underside, feels the smoothness of the skin, then takes hold of Simon and gives him a couple of lazy strokes to pull the foreskin back and expose the head. He carries on stroking him as he leans in and nuzzles his nose against Simon’s balls. Fuck, he smells good.
He tastes good, too. Wille takes the head in his mouth and swirls his tongue around it, making Simon moan, which is music to Wille’s ears. Wille is a giver. All he wants with a partner is to give them pleasure, to make them feel as good as he possibly can. Experiencing his partner’s enjoyment is what gets him off, maybe even more than when his partner does stuff to him. And Simon is definitely enjoying this, if the sounds he’s making as Wille licks and sucks him are anything to go by.
Simon’s getting close; Wille can sense it by the way his breaths are getting quicker and more and more staccato. Wille places one hand on his hip, so he can control Simon’s movements. He doesn’t think that Simon would try to fuck his face or anything like that, at least not without discussing with him first - the hand that he’s currently stroking through the dog’s-nose soft fuzz at the back of Wille’s head is testament to his gentleness, Wille thinks - but he doesn’t want to take any chances.
He places his other hand firmly on Simon’s left arse cheek, kneading at it and sliding the tips of his fingers into the crack just a little, in a suggestion of further intimacies that they may never have the chance to experience, and Simon seems to like that because seconds later he’s warning Wille that his climax is imminent. Wille takes him in his hand to finish him off, looking upwards from where he’s sitting so that he can see Simon’s expression as he comes. His hand is coated in wet warmth as Simon’s face contorts in pleasure. Their eyes meet as Simon whispers Wille’s name, his voice tinged with reverence. It’s a vision Wille will never forget, one that he knows is going to haunt his dreams. He has to press the heel of his hand into his crotch to try and stem his own response to it. He might feel like he’s drowning in the intensity of what they’re doing, like he could pop at any second, but he’s lucid enough to realise that a three-hour flight is not going to be the most comfortable if he has to do it in spunky underwear.
Simon reaches for a tissue so Wille can wipe his hand; he’s actually glad that he can take this moment to calm down a little more, because he wants this to last. Ideally, he could go on all night - hell, all week, all year, forever - but he knows that’s not realistic. It’s just been a while since he’s met someone who seems to be so much on the same wavelength as he is. Not just fucking, although so far that’s been up there with the best he’s ever had, but everything else too. Simon is the easiest person to talk to that he thinks he’s ever met.
Simon sits down beside him. His clothes are still askew, his flaccid cock visible, and Wille finds this endearing more than anything else, that Simon feels so comfortable in his presence that he doesn’t care. Plus, it’s a very pretty dick no matter what state it’s in, or maybe that’s Wille’s own cock doing his thinking for him, because he is still in a state of extreme arousal, a fact which has not gone unnoticed by Simon.
‘My turn,’ says Simon, and Wille loves that, that he said it that way round, not ‘Your turn,’ because Simon is going to take as much pleasure from this as Wille.
Wille undoes his trousers and lifts up his middle so that he can slide them down. A slight shiver of nervousness flits through him, as it occasionally still does, a worry that he won’t be up to scratch. It’s rarer and rarer these days, but he feels it now, he thinks, because Simon matters. Simon already means enough to him that it’s somehow vitally important what he thinks when he sees Wille in all his glory. Wille’s had enough therapy to know exactly where all that stems from, the need to be enough. It’s easily dismissed when he sees the expression of sheer voraciousness on Simon’s face, like he wants to absolutely devour him.
Simon kisses him and touches his cock at the exact same time, and the combination is delicious. He starts off gentle, tentative, but Wille reciprocates with such enthusiasm that he seems to get the message that more is required. Simon is responding to every single cue that Wille sends him, and it feels magical; it’s never been like this before, not with anyone, like they’re dancing to some sort of innate choreography. Even though it’s still awkward, still a venture into the unknown, as it always is with someone new, there’s something else there, something different, that Wille can’t explain.
Simon pushes him back into the sofa and drops to the floor, engulfing Wille in the wet warmth of his mouth. Wille stops thinking then, just leans back and rolls with the sensations rushing through his body, gazing at the vision before him of Simon kneeling before him, sucking, licking, extracting every drop of pleasure he can from Wille. It only takes a minute or two before Wille feels everything begin to tighten as his orgasm approaches. He pulls back from Simon, manages to stutter out, ‘Gonna-’ and then waves of bliss flood through him, his body simultaneously floating and drowning, as Simon strokes him through his release.
‘Holy Jesus fuck, Simon,’ he eventually says once he has regained enough coherence to speak. Simon climbs on his lap and they start kissing again, but it has a different edge now it’s no longer leading to anything more. This is kissing for kissing’s sake more than anything else; its inherent tenderness makes Wille’s heart blossom in a way that feels exhilarating, but also dangerous. He has to remind himself that this is just a diversion from real life, that he shouldn’t be enjoying it as much as he is when it’s never going to happen again after tonight.
Eventually, they get up from the sofa, clean themselves up, take a leak, make sure that all their buttons have been done up in the right order. It will probably be blindingly obvious to anyone who notices them emerge from their temporary love nest what they’ve been up to, but there’s no need to provide concrete evidence.
When they emerge back into the lounge, it seems much quieter than it was before; in fact, as they round the corner into the bar area, Wille realises that it’s completely deserted. Where the fuck did everyone go? They weren’t in there that long, were they? Maybe they were; Wille wasn’t exactly keeping track of time. The other passengers could have caught their flights, he supposes- No. One look out of the window confirms that the snow is still falling just as heavily as it was before.
The barman is still there. He’s sitting on a stool in a corner of the bar, scrolling through his phone. He looks up as they approach. ‘Can I get you anything?’ he asks.
‘What happened?’ asks Wille. ‘Where did everyone go?’
‘Didn’t you hear the announcement?’ says the barman.
‘What announcement?’ asks Simon, a hint of panic in his voice.
‘No flights until the morning now. The snow’s due to stop in three hours or so, but then it’s going to take them a while to clear it.’
Back there in the bathroom, Wille had been vaguely aware of the bing bong of the tannoy, but he had been far too engrossed in what he and Simon had been doing to pay it any attention whatsoever. That’s the last thing he’s going to admit to the barman, however.
‘I- No. Must have missed that. Right.’
He doesn’t say anything further because Simon, to his left, is frantically fiddling with his phone, muttering, ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit,’ under his breath, and clearly trying to hold back tears.
Wille steps closer to him and puts an arm around his shoulder. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks.
‘This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. I have to get there tonight, have to. I have to be there when he wakes up in the morning.’ Simon swipes a tear from the corner of his eye with the cuff of his sweater. ‘And it’s too late to speak to him now. Fuck, fuck, fuck!’
Wille doesn’t have it in his character to be optimistic about anything, yet another hangover from the way he was raised. His mind just loves to overthink and catastrophise every little thing, and so now, his first thought, concern for Simon and his plight aside, is that the he in question has to be a boyfriend, and while he’s not going to judge him for being in what is obviously an open relationship - each to their own - it does make his stomach sink a bit. He already hates this potential boyfriend for intruding on whatever picket-fence fantasies his brain may have been conjuring up about a potential future for him and Simon, which is patently ridiculous, and he needs to stop that right the fuck now. He has to concentrate on being there for Simon, because he’s upset and needs comforting. Wille’s good at that. He can do that.
‘Let’s go and sit down,’ he says, and steers Simon towards an oversized sofa.
‘I need to make a call first,’ says Simon. ‘Can you just give me a minute?’
‘Of course.’
Simon walks across the lounge to stand next to one of the windows that overlooks the runway, or at least that would overlook the runway if it were visible through the snow. He stands there to make his phone call, his figure silhouetted in the dim interior light by a flurrying curtain of white. Wille just watches him. He can’t hear what Simon is saying, but whatever it is, his slumped shoulders betray his continued distress.
When Simon finishes, he comes back over to the sofa where Wille is waiting for him, and sits down. Wille doesn’t say anything; he figures that if Simon wants to tell him why he’s so upset, he will, and if he doesn’t, then Wille is not going to try and force it out of him. Instead he just places his hand in Simon’s and gives it a squeeze, trying to impart as much comfort as he can. Simon squeezes back and it feels like he’s clinging on. Wille feels guilty for liking it as much as he does.
‘Are you OK?’ asks Wille gently.
‘Yeah. Yes. It’s fine. I’m fine.’
‘OK. Listen, do you maybe want to see about trying to find a hotel room? I’m guessing that’s what everyone else has done.’
Simon’s face falls even further. ‘I- No. I can’t. I spent all my spare cash on this plane ticket. Not all of us can afford first class. But, you know, you go right ahead and find somewhere for yourself. Don’t worry about me.’
Shit. Wille has spent ten years now living as a normal person, likes to think that he is at least aware of his privilege, but sometimes things like this happen and he is reminded how lucky he is. Well, his mind is made up: he’s not going anywhere. Not only does he not wish to be separated from Simon any sooner than is necessary, he’s aware that Simon is only here in the first class lounge at his behest, that if he leaves, Simon will have to leave too. He’s not going to condemn his new friend - a term which is clearly not pulling its weight - to having to sleep on the cold hard tiled floor of the main concourse, and especially not at Christmas. At least here in the lounge, they can both sleep on this sofa.
‘I’ll stay,’ announces Wille. ‘There probably aren’t any decent rooms left by now. And I hear the company in the first class lounge is excellent.’
‘Yeah, I’ve heard that too,’ says Simon. ‘You don’t have to stay on my account, though.’
‘I’m staying because I want to,’ replies Wille, squeezing Simon’s hand again. ‘We can keep each other warm on this extremely comfortable sofa.’
‘Deal.’
Wille leans down to take his shoes off and then swings his legs up onto the sofa. Simon does the same and they sit cross-legged facing each other.
‘That’s decided, then,’ confirms Wille. ‘Now, are you sure you’re OK? You were really upset.’
‘I’ve calmed down now, I think. It was just a shock. It’s not my son’s first Christmas, but it’s the first one where he knows what’s happening.’ A son. Wow. Exactly how old is Simon? He doesn’t look old enough to have a son, even a small one. A son, though, not a boyfriend. Jumped to conclusions again. Wille has no right to feel as happy as he does at the revelation. ‘It was all planned out, you know,’ continues Simon, ‘that he would wake up on Christmas and I would be there to surprise him. But that was his mum on the phone, that I was speaking to, and he still has no idea that I’m coming, so at least he won’t be disappointed. It’s me that’s disappointed. I knew this year would be hard, you know, but it’s been two months since I’ve seen him, and I try so hard to be a good dad, but it’s not easy when he’s in another country…’ Simon rubs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and shakes his head, like he’s trying to rid himself of whatever he’s feeling.
‘Well, I guess the advantage of living in London is that you can have two Christmasses. You might not be there when he wakes up on julafton, but you will be on the British Christmas Day.’ Simon smiles at Wille’s attempt to placate him, but he doesn’t look very convinced, so Wille asks instead, ‘Do you have a picture?’
Simon reaches for his phone. ‘You’re going to regret asking that,’ he says. ‘I have so many pictures! You’re going to be sick of all the pictures. OK, then. This is Noah.’
Simon restrains himself and limits the number to twenty or so, but Wille can understand his enthusiasm, because Noah has to be the most photogenic kid he’s ever seen, although that’s hardly surprising with Simon as a father. The boy is all dimples and smiles and curls and gorgeous fat little arms and legs.
‘So how come you live here and he doesn’t?’ asks Wille without really thinking about it, before reeling himself back in and adding, ‘I mean, obviously you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to; I’m sure it’s very personal.’
‘I don’t mind. Noah’s mum is one of my best friends, Rosh. Well, actually he has two mums; the other one is her wife, Mila. And we agreed, when we were first talking about it, that I would be involved in his life, that I would be his dad, and not just their donor. That was important to me, because my dad- Well, he’s not going to win any father of the year prizes, put it that way. It’s gone really well, I think; I so, so love Noah, and I love being his dad. I mean, obviously it’s not been all plain sailing, because sometimes, you know, being a parent is hard, but pretty great for the most part. But then Mila got this opportunity to be seconded to London for a year. And I know it’s only a year, and in the grand scheme of things, yada, yada, yada, but a year is a whole one third of Noah’s life! This is only my second visit in six months, because plane tickets are expensive, you know, but it’s not the same as just being there, obviously. So even though I’m only going to be, like, maybe twelve hours late, it just hits hard, that’s all. Because I miss him.’
‘You’ll be with him by lunchtime,’ Wille tries to reassure Simon.
‘Bloody better be,’ says Simon. ‘Or I’ll have something to say about it.’
‘You can rant to me; I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Yes you are; you’re going to London.’
Wille laughs. ‘You know what I mean,’ he says.
‘So what’s in London for you? Who are you flying out to spend Christmas with?’
Ah. Yes. That. ‘Uh, nobody.’
‘What? Nobody at all? You’re spending Christmas by yourself?’ Simon sounds appalled at the prospect.
‘Yup. It’s what I do most years. Or- well, every year for the last few years, actually. Choose a different city, find a nice Airbnb, cosy up for Christmas and new year.’
‘By yourself,’ states Simon.
‘By myself.’ Wille smiles as he speaks, but he doesn’t feel it deep down. It is what it is; he’s used to it now, but it took him a while to get there.
‘Can I be really nosy and ask why?’
‘You can ask…’
‘But you don’t want to tell me? You don’t have to.’
‘I don’t have to, but I don’t mind. My brother’s no longer with us, and my parents are… well, I guess you could say they’re busy at this time of the year. So a few years ago, I thought I would start my own Christmas tradition.’
‘I’m sorry. About your brother,’ says Simon.
‘Thanks.’
‘Your Christmas sounds lonely.’
Wille shrugs. ‘Sometimes. I mean, I do have friends, lots of them, a few very close ones even. But Christmas is a time for family, and they all have their own. So yes, it can be lonely, but not from the fact of being alone; it’s more that I really feel my lack of family during the holidays. I actually quite like the alone part of it, the opportunity for a bit of introspection. And I don’t feel like it’s going to be forever. At some point, I’ll meet someone, and build a family with them, and then the tradition will morph into something else, I guess.’ Wille doesn’t mean to sound as wistful as he does, but he can’t help it. The utter uselessness of his own family, far from making him want to run away from the idea, has merely cemented in him the need to create one of his own, one that’s as loving and warm as his first family is not. ‘I’m starting to feel that now,’ admits Wille. ‘That ache to find someone, to settle down.’ Someone like you, he doesn’t add. ‘I guess that hooking up with strangers in airport bathrooms is probably not the right way to go about it, though,’ he says with a wry laugh.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ says Simon. ‘I’ve met some great people that way.’ He looks at Wille rather pointedly. ‘And once you've done that, you're not exactly strangers any more. You can’t be strangers with someone when you’ve had their cock in your mouth, you just can’t. We're not strangers. You know about my kid and I know about your family situation. And now we’re spending the evening getting to know each other even more. What do you do for a living? I work with kids. Counselling.’
‘That sounds far more useful to society than my job. I make podcasts.’
Simon bursts out laughing. ‘Of course you do,’ he says. ‘What is it about rich white men that they think the whole world needs to hear what they think about everything?’
‘You're very opinionated, aren't you?’ notes Wille. He’s not complaining; it’s actually incredibly refreshing.
‘And proud of it.’
‘I'm not in the podcasts. Nobody needs to know what I think about anything. I just work at a podcast production company.’ He doesn't say, ‘I own a podcast production company,’ because Simon already thinks that he's too rich for his own good - which may well be an excellent point - and he doesn't want to make that impression even worse than it already is. He may be a trust fund baby, his business may have been started with inherited money, but he has at least tried to do some good with it, to make podcasts which his mother dismisses disparagingly as woke. Every time she says that, it feels like a win. Simon probably won't want to hear that, though.
‘That's actually kind of cool,’ admits Simon.
‘Thank you.’
Simon shifts on the sofa, turning and moving closer to Wille, insinuating himself into Wille’s personal space - which Wille has no complaints about at all - until eventually they are both lying full length on the sofa. It’s not exactly as comfortable as the bed in that prospective hotel room might have been, but it has a cosiness all of its own, especially when Wille has grabbed a couple of blankets that the interior designer has doubtlessly added for the aesthetic only, and draped them over their intertwined bodies. He will take the intimacy of this over a soulless hotel room any day. It also means that their conversation can now be punctuated with gentle touches, breathy giggles and the occasional kiss or three. The only other person here is the barman, who has taken himself off to a sofa right over the other side of the lounge; he is ignoring them and they are ignoring him. Wille must remember to give him a massive tip in the morning.
‘Wille?’ asks Simon.
‘Hmm?’
‘You know before? When we were on our way to the bathroom, and that woman?’
‘Yeah.’ Wille doesn’t say much, because he thinks he knows where this is going and he’s not that happy about it.
‘Who did she think you looked like? Who do other people think you look like? She meant someone famous, right? Because I can’t think of anyone famous that you look like, but you said you get it a lot?’
‘People sometimes come up to me and ask if I used to be the crown prince.’
‘The one who abdicated?’
Not abdicated, thinks Wille. Wrong word. Stepped down. Or rather, escaped. But he doesn’t say that. He’s fighting an internal battle with himself, trying to work out if he should palm Simon off with the same lie he told the woman, or come clean. ‘Yeah,’ he says, noncommittal.
‘I’m trying to think what he looked like, but I can’t really remember; I didn’t pay an awful lot of attention to it at the time. Do you look very like him?’
There’s no point lying. Simon could get his phone out, Google him, and in five seconds flat know exactly who he is. Wille would quite like to hide the truth, doesn’t want Simon’s impression of him to be changed by the fact of who he is - was - but at the same time, there’s something about Simon that makes him want to bear his soul. About this one thing, but about everything else in his life as well. He feels like he could tell Simon all of his stories, all of his narrative, every single detail, and Simon would take it and keep it, guard it as preciously as Wille would himself. It’s inexplicable, this trust he feels, and yet he is sure of it, sure of Simon. He sighs loudly and says, ‘I look very like him because I am him. I lied to that woman to make her go away. I always lie whenever anybody asks.’
‘Oh,’ says Simon. ‘Makes sense, I guess.’
‘It was such a long time ago. I’m not him any more. I’m nothing like him. So it almost feels like I’m not even lying when I say it.’
‘But you told me the truth. You didn’t lie to me.’ Simon looks slightly stunned.
‘Yeah. I- I don’t feel like you would do anything with it. You’re not gonna ask me for a selfie or try to sell a sneak picture of me to a gossip website. Or ask me if Crown Prince August is really as much of a dick as he seems. Which, yes, by the way. People always want something, once they know. But I don’t feel like you want anything. When we… you know… in the bathroom- You didn’t want anything from me other than me. Sorry, that probably doesn’t make much sense.’
‘No, I get it,’ says Simon. ‘Hmmm, all that stuff about your family makes more sense now. Your parents are busy at this time of year doing royal stuff, I guess?’
‘Yeah. Our relationship is… delicate, I suppose. I don’t think they’ll ever really forgive me for walking out, but I guess we’re held together by some residue of love and the memory of my brother. I’ll see them in the new year.’
‘How do you feel about it now?’
‘Sometimes it feels so long ago it gets foggy, like I imagined it, but then other days I feel like I’ll never escape it. And having people recognise me doesn’t exactly help. But today was the first time in a long time.’
‘She had really great timing, that woman, didn’t she?’ Simon laughs.
‘Talk about cockblocking. Jesus.’ Wille shakes his head in disbelief.
‘What you were saying before about wanting to meet someone… Do you think that’s made it harder? Worrying about people finding out?’
Simon has said that he works as a counsellor, and it fleetingly passes through Wille’s mind that he must be really fucking good at what he does, because he clearly understands exactly what makes him tick.
‘You can read me like a book, obviously,’ Wille says.
‘Not really,’ replies Simon. ‘I was just thinking that it’s a bit like me, with Noah. Like, I’ll go on a date with a guy, and I suppose I’m reluctant to tell him about Noah straight away, because I want him to get to know me a bit first before he finds out and it freaks him out. Must be the same with the whole ex-crown prince thing.’
‘But you told me about Noah straight away,’ says Wille, failing to keep the disappointment out of his voice. If Simon felt able to tell him, it must mean that he’s not interested enough for it to matter.
‘Didn’t even hesitate,’ says Simon reassuringly. ‘Most guys, in your shoes, once they’d got what they wanted, would have had me thrown out of here. I’m sure they’d have been very polite about it, but they’d have done it somehow. They wouldn’t have offered to get us a hotel room, and they definitely wouldn’t have passed up the chance of a comfortable bed so that I could stay in here. Yeah, I saw what you did there. You’re one of the good ones, Wille. I knew it right away. Do you think… maybe… uh, you’d maybe want to meet up in the new year? When we’re both back from London?’
‘Meet up?’ Wille asks.
‘Yes.’
What exactly is Simon offering here? In all honesty, Wille would like it if Simon was asking him on a date, but if he’s read this wrong and Simon just wants to hook up again - which, to be fair, Wille would not exactly object to - he doesn’t want to put his foot in it and make an idiot of himself.
‘And do what?’ Wille tries to make the question as open ended as he can.
‘I don’t know. Dinner, perhaps? Or a show? Or both, even?’
Well, thank fuck for that. ‘Yes. Yes to all of that. I’d love to.’
Simon’s face lights up. ‘You were worth banging my elbow for.’
Wilhelm doesn’t get much rest. It’s not really because he’s having to sleep on a sofa, although admittedly that’s not ideal; it’s more to do with the man asleep in his arms. Simon has dropped off with his head tucked into the nook of Wille’s shoulder, so that his hair is centimetres from Wille’s nose, and it’s all Wille can smell. He lies there, watching the lights on the enormous Christmas tree to his right twinkle lazily, listening to Simon’s soft sleepy breaths, and inhaling the scent of him; it’s intoxicating.
The other issue is that his mind is all over the place, filled with wonder that he’s met this amazing man with whom he vibes so well, amazement that he has come out to him already - it usually takes him weeks of knowing someone before the words crown prince are even mentioned - and despair that they’re about to be parted, even if it’s only until the new year. Right now that feels like forever.
He eventually dozes a little himself, but it feels like only a fingersnap of time before the other residents of the lounge start trickling their way back in from whatever hotels they managed to find last night. Simon eventually wakes when the tannoy announces that planes will begin departing in one hour’s time. Wille gives him a peck on the nose and whispers, ‘God jul.’
Simon gives him a sleeping smile and replies, ‘God jul.’
‘See,’ says Wille, a faux cheeriness in his voice, ‘you’ll be there by lunchtime, just like I said.’
They get up, go to the bathroom - for its intended use this time - and get some food. Wille remembers to give the barman a substantial tip, for which he is grateful, if a little blasé, and before they know it, they are standing at the departure gate, about to board. This is where they will part. When they board the plane, Wille will be turning left, Simon right.
Parting is such sweet sorrow. They stand off to the left as the other passengers shuffle past them, trying their best to eke out what little time is left to them, their fingers intertwined, their voices whisper soft.
‘I keep thinking about what would have happened if you hadn’t been in the mood for some liquorice,’ says Simon.
‘Just as well I was,’ replies Wille, lifting Simon’s hand to his lips and placing kisses on the knuckles. ‘Last night was… It was special, wasn’t it?’
‘Not just me, then,’ says Simon, and Wille’s stomach disappears, his breath hitching in his throat.
‘Not just you.’
A flight attendant asks them if they are going to board and they walk down the tunnel together, holding hands. One last kiss at the door and then they are parted. Wille is miserable with it. It’s stupid that he should feel like this, that this cloak of sadness should have surrounded him, for someone whom he hadn’t even met this time yesterday. Another flight attendant offers him champagne, pastries. He declines them all. As the plane reaches cruising altitude, he twists his head around the edge of his little private section to work out if he can see back down into the rest of the plane. He can’t. There’s a big dividing curtain in the way.
For the last seven or eight years, he’s spent Christmas alone. It’s what he wanted, to be able to discover and explore different places by himself, to get a flavour of how Christmas is done in other countries. To get away from the rigidity of his family’s own particular version of the holidays. It has always been a solitary experience, and felt all the better for that. Today is the first time that he has seen it differently. When Simon asked him last night if it was lonely to spend Christmas this way, he’d immediately answered no. Up until now it hasn’t been. But right now, he would give anything to be able to spend it with Simon. Maybe next year, if things go well when they are back in Stockholm.
He dozes a little, trying to catch up on the sleep he missed out on last night, but his sleep is disturbed by a commotion which appears to be coming from just the other side of the dividing curtain. A very familiar voice is whisper-shouting with one of the flight attendants.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you past the curtain.’
‘I swear I will literally be two minutes. I just need to speak to one person.’
‘I know, sir, you’ve said that, but it is absolutely against company policy, and-’
‘Could you just maybe pass him a note? He’s called Wille. He has blue hair; you can’t miss him. I just need to let him know-’
‘Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to return to your seat.’
Wille strides down the aisle and pulls back the curtain. The flight attendant looks even more annoyed that he now has two unruly passengers to deal with.
‘Come and have Christmas with us,’ exclaims Simon. ‘Please. I keep thinking of you all alone in some empty flat on Christmas, and I just- Come and at least eat with us.’
‘You could have just texted me.’
‘Yes but I was worried that you’d be on airplane mode and then you wouldn’t get it until you were off the plane and they would let you off first because you’re in first class and then you’d be gone before I could speak to you and I’ve been all up in my head about it and I just needed to-’
‘Simon, calm down! The answer’s yes. Yes I would love to. Now go and sit in your seat before you get arrested. I’ll wait for you at the plane door.’
Wille grabs a quick kiss before the flight attendant starts trying to physically pry them apart, and returns to his seat. He spends the rest of the flight with a smile on his face, thinking about Simon and how crazy the last twenty-four hours have been. He’s kind of daunted at the prospect of meeting Noah and his mums. This could well be the strangest Christmas he’s ever had, and he’s appeared on national television making candles before now. But it might end up being quite the nicest. He has a feeling that it’s more likely to be the latter.
The plane lands. London is cold and wet, the only sign of the festive season a miserable string of lights in the corridor leading into Heathrow. Wille stands and waits for his future.