Work Text:
"Mama, the bacon -" Simon’s voice cut off as Linda nearly collided with him, a stack of pancake plates balanced precariously in her arms. "Ay, mi amor, then move!" she laughed, dodging Sara’s half-wrapped present left abandoned on the kitchen floor.
Wille stood frozen in the doorway, fingers still curled around the cold brass knob, watching the Eriksson household erupt around him like a firework. The scent of cinnamon and sizzling butter wrapped around him, thick enough to taste. Sara was shouting something about ribbons from the living room, Simon was attempting to salvage burnt toast with his fingers, and Linda had just flung open the oven door to reveal a golden-brown ham glazed with honey. It was loud. It was messy. It was nothing like the stiff, silent Christmas mornings at the palace, where breakfast arrived precisely at eight and conversation was measured in polite murmurs.
He’d gone back yesterday, for Christmas Eve, just to appease the courtiers. And the contrast was staggering. The palace’s towering tree had been flawless, every ornament symmetrically placed, every gift beneath it wrapped in identical silver paper. The Queen had smiled exactly three times. Now, stepping fully into the Eriksson kitchen, Wille nearly tripped over a stray roll of wrapping paper, and Simon caught his elbow without looking, already mid-sentence, “Oh, mama, the julmust is - oh, hey, you’re back early.”
Linda turned, her hands covered in flour. “Wille!” She beamed, wiping them hastily on her apron before pulling him into a hug that smelled like vanilla and pine needles. “Did you eat yet?” Her fingers left dusty prints on his sweater. Wille blinked, not caring one bit. No one hugged him at the palace anymore.
Simon finally freed his hands from the toast fiasco and ran over to kiss Wille. It was messy, distracting, and tasting faintly of burnt bread. “Missed you,” he murmured against his lips, and Wille could feel his grin before he pulled back. Simon’s fingers were warm where they tangled with his. “How's the royal torture chamber?” He said it lightly, but Wille felt the squeeze of his hand, the way Simon’s body angled subtly between him and the rest of the room, like he was bracing for bad news.
“Still standing,” Wille exhaled, leaning into him. “She asked about you again.” The Queen’s voice had been perfectly polite: “And how is Simon?" as if she hadn’t spent months trying to erase him from Wille’s life. Simon snorted, tugging him toward the chaos.
Linda intercepted them, pressing a warm mug of hot chocolate into Wille’s hands before he could protest. “Drink,” she ordered, already turning back to the oven. “It’s freezing out there.” The steam felt nice. The warmth spread through his ribs like sunlight.
They ate elbow-to-elbow on the sofa, plates balanced precariously on laps and knees, Sara stealing half of Simon’s pancake before he could react. “Ay, Sara, I saw that -” Simon groaned through a mouthful of syrup. Wille watched, mesmerized, as Linda tossed a napkin at Sara with perfect aim, hitting her square on the nose. The explosion of laughter bounced off the walls.
Then Linda clapped her hands. “Regalos!” she announced, gesturing to the lopsided tree in the corner. Wille stared in awe; back home, gifts were always opened in descending order of status, never this free-for-all. After finding her name on one, Sara lunged for a small box wrapped in newspaper comics, her knee knocking Wille’s mug. “Sorry!” she sing-songed, already tearing into it. It was a simple snow globe with horses running in it. Sara shrieked and launched herself at Simon.
The wrapping paper rustled violently. “Did you...?” Sara clutched it to her chest, eyes suspiciously wet. Simon grinned, shoving her shoulder lightly. “Found it in that antique shop you love.”
Wille watched Simon tear into the clumsily wrapped box Sara thrust at him, fingers trembling slightly at Sara’s sudden intensity. Simon gasped, a real, sharp inhale, and pulled out a blank music manuscript notebook, and some fancy looking pencils. And Simon was just smiling down at his gifts.
Simon turned it over in his hands, tracing the embossed faux leather cover with reverence. The pages were thick, cream-colored, the kind professionals used. Sara fidgeted, suddenly shy. “You’re always scribbling on napkins or whatever,” she muttered, nudging his knee with hers. “Figured you could use these,” She trailed off as Simon yanked her into a hug so tight she squeaked. Wille caught the way Simon’s throat bobbed, how he pressed his face into Sara’s shoulder for half a second too long before letting go.
Linda clucked her tongue, already reaching beneath the tree. "Ay, mis hijos," she sighed, producing two lumpy packages tied with mismatched ribbons. Sara went first, her fingers clumsy with excitement. The fabric unfolded into a sweater, hand-knitted, the sleeves slightly uneven. Sara pressed it to her nose immediately. “It's so warm,” she mumbled into the wool. Simon’s gift was smaller; it was a delicate silver chain with a tiny piano pendant dangling from it. He froze, the metal catching the light as it spun. “Abuela’s?” His voice cracked. Linda nodded, eyes shimmering. “She’d want you to have it.”
Simon swallowed hard, carefully lifting the pendant. The piano was worn smooth from years of touch, the engraving of a treble clef barely visible now. Sara leaned into Linda’s shoulder, clutching her sweater. Wille watched Simon’s thumb trace the pendant’s edge, the way his breath hitched. Then, abruptly, Simon wiped his face with his sleeve and nudged Sara. Their silent exchange lasted half a second before Sara dug under the couch and pulled out a flat, poorly wrapped rectangle.
Linda raised an eyebrow as Sara thrust it at her. “This better not be another...” she started, but then the wrapping paper tore under her fingers. A framed photo slid into her lap: Simon and Sara, eight and six, grinning wildly on the front steps of their old apartment, Linda’s arms wrapped around them from behind. The glass was smudged with little fingerprints, the frame secondhand. Linda made a sound like someone had punched her.
Simon bit his lip. “Found it in that box of old stuff we have,” he admitted, shifting closer to Sara. “Thought you might... y’know.” Linda didn’t speak. Her thumb traced their tiny faces, Simon missing a front tooth, Sara’s braids lopsided. Then she grabbed them both so fiercely Wille heard Sara’s ribs creak. Simon muffled a laugh into her shoulder.
Wille swallowed, fingers twitching toward his jacket pocket. His gifts suddenly felt childish compared to Linda’s picture, Sara’s snow globe and sweater, Simon’s pendant and music book. His stomach twisted. At the palace, presents were impersonal checks or coldly perfect jewelry, delivered by staff. Here, everything was made, chosen, and was seen. He hesitated, pulse loud in his ears.
Simon nudged his foot. "Hey." His voice was soft, scraping over Wille’s nerves like a balm. "You're thinking too loud." Wille exhaled a shaky laugh. Simon tilted his head, eyes warm with understanding, no pity, just patience. Sara was watching too, her knee pressed against Wille’s, humming tunelessly as she fiddled with her new snow globe. Linda wiped her eyes one last time and turned to him expectantly. Her smile was knowing.
Wille reached into his jacket pocket—slow, deliberate—and pulled out three small velvet boxes. Simon’s breath hitched. Sara’s humming stopped. Wille hesitated, suddenly unsure. "These aren’t... They’re not palace things," he blurted. Linda reached over and squeezed his wrist. "We know," she murmured. Wille swallowed and handed Sara her box first.
Sara opened it delicately. Inside lay two silver hair clips; but not the cold, flawless kind from royal jewelers. These were hand-stamped with tiny, uneven horses, each one unique, some lopsided, some mid-gallop. Sara traced them with her fingertip, mouth parted. "I saw them in the market," Wille admitted, voice low. "You've been saying how much you've missed riding." Sara’s throat worked. Then, without warning, she tackled him in a hug so tight his ribs protested. Simon laughed wetly from somewhere above them.
Linda’s box was next. Wille’s fingers trembled slightly as she lifted the lid. Nestled inside was a pendant, not gold or diamonds, but polished wood carved into the shape of a tiny sunflower. The grooves were imperfect, the varnish slightly uneven at the stem. "You said they were your favorite," Wille mumbled. Linda inhaled sharply, turning it over to reveal clumsy engraving on the back: Familj. Not the royal Swedish familjen, but the messy, everyday word. Her thumb caught on the ridges where the knife had slipped. A tear splashed onto the wood from her appreciation.
Then it was Simon’s turn. Wille’s throat tightened as he pressed the last box into Simon’s palm. Simon smirked, already teasing, "Better not be a crown," but his breath stuttered when he flipped it open.
Inside lay a small, misshapen clay bat, its wings slightly lopsided, the glaze uneven where childlike fingers had smeared it decades ago. Simon’s fingers hovered over it, not touching, as if it might dissolve. Wille’s voice cracked. "I made it when I was seven. For my mother." The memory clawed up his throat—the palace art tutor’s stiff smile, the way the Queen had barely glanced at it before murmuring, “How quaint,” and setting it aside forever. Simon exhaled sharply, his thumb finally brushing the bat’s chipped ears. "You made this?"
Wille nodded, unable to look away from Simon’s fingers cradling the clay like it was glass. "It was the only thing I ever made her that wasn’t… perfect." The word tasted bitter. Perfect palace gifts were cold, commissioned, meaningless. This bat had been dug from the earth, molded with his clumsy hands, fired in a kiln he’d begged to use. Simon turned it over, revealing Wille’s initials scratched into the base. "She didn’t keep it," Wille admitted. "I found it years later in a storage room," dust-covered, abandoned. Simon’s grip tightened. "So I took it," Wille hesitated a bit, "they're still your favorite, right?"
Simon blinked rapidly, his laugh shaky. "Jesus, Wille," he choked out, thumb pressing into the bat’s uneven wing. "Of course they are." His voice cracked. Sara leaned over, peering at the lumpy figure. "Aww, it’s ugly," she announced, but her grin was fond. Simon hit her without looking, his other hand finding Wille’s knee, squeezing hard. "I love it."
The bat looked even smaller in Simon’s palm, the glaze catching the firelight from the candles like melted caramel. Wille’s pulse thundered in his ears. He hadn’t realized until now how much he’d needed Simon to want it—this stupid, imperfect thing he’d made when he still believed his mother might cherish something just because it came from him. Simon lifted it closer, studying the way the wings curved awkwardly. "You were seven?" he murmured, tracing a thumb over the initials scratched deep with the desperation of a child demanding to be remembered.
Wille nodded, throat tight. "10 years ago. Art teacher hated me," he admitted, watching Simon’s fingers cradle the bat like it was something precious. "Kept saying my hands were too clumsy for pottery." The memory burned as the memories of the teacher's face, the way she’d sighed every time he smudged the clay. But Wille had stubbornly pressed on, determined to make something his mother couldn’t ignore. Simon’s exhale was sharp, understanding. "I can imagine what your mom thought when you showed up with this," he said softly.
Wille swallowed hard. "She didn’t even pick it up," he whispered. The bat had been placed on a side table with exaggerated care, like something fragile and inconvenient. Simon’s grip tightened around the clay, his knuckles whitening. "Her fucking loss," he muttered, voice rough. Sara leaned forward, nudging Wille’s shoulder. "It’s better here anyway," she said simply, like it was obvious. And maybe it was. Wille exhaled, shoulders loosening for the first time since opening presents started.
Just as Wille thought they were done, Linda cleared her throat. The room paused; Simon mid-poke at Sara’s ribs, Sara with her hair clips tangled in her fingers. Linda’s eyes sparkled as she reached into her apron pocket. "We still have one more," she announced. Wille blinked. Sara grinned, suddenly too knowing. Simon ducked his head, biting his lip like he was fighting a smile. Linda produced a small, folded envelope, slightly wrinkled at the corners. Wille’s pulse stuttered when she held it out to him. "From all of us."
The envelope felt warm in his hands, the paper slightly rough against his fingertips. He unfolded it carefully, revealing a single key tied with a frayed red ribbon. The metal was new and unused, Wille stared. Linda’s voice was soft but deliberate. "It’s the door key here. So you don’t have to knock anymore." The words settled into his ribs like sunlight. Simon’s knee pressed against his, warm and steady. Sara tapped the key with her snow globe. "You’re stuck with us now," she teased.
The silence stretched. Wille’s fingers trembled around the ribbon. He opened his mouth, closed it. There were no words for this, no royal protocol, no formal speech to express what it meant to be given a key, to be told you belonged in a way that wasn’t transactional or conditional. Simon leaned into his shoulder, voice barely above a whisper. "Say something before mama cries again." Linda chuckled through her teary eyes.
And then Wille burst into tears. Gasping sobs that made Sara’s snow globe blur in his vision. He clutched the key like it might vanish, like this warmth, this laughter, this family might dissolve if he let go. Simon’s arms wrapped around him, solid and real. Sara muttered something about “royal drama queens” but her fingers twisted into his sweater. Linda just pressed her forehead to his temple, her breath warm against his cheek. “Welcome home,” she whispered in Swedish—not the stiff palace dialect but the rough Bjärstad inflection Wille had learned from Simon’s sleepy mumbles.
The key dug into his palm. “Was this real?” The weight of it, the metal cold then warm, the ribbon fraying under his thumb felt more tangible than any crown. Simon’s lips brushed his ear. “Breathe, Wille.” Wille choked out a laugh, wet and shuddering. Sara shoved a napkin at him. “Here, before you ruin your princely complexion.” The napkin was printed with reindeer wearing sunglasses.
Wille wiped his face, inhaling cinnamon and pine, and found his voice wedged somewhere beneath his ribs. “I...” The word cracked. Linda squeezed his knee, her sunflower pendant glinting. He tried again. “No one’s ever...” “Given me a home. Wanted me to stay. Not like this.” The palace had handed him rooms, titles, obligations - never this. Simon’s fingers curled around his wrist, grounding him. “We know,” Simon murmured.
The words tumbled out then, raw and uneven as the clay bat. “I used to think,” Wille swallowed, pressing the key’s teeth into his palm until they left marks. “At the palace, everything was about... replacement.” He forced himself to meet Linda’s gaze, steady despite the burn in his throat. “If I broke something, they’d just get another. If I...” “If I wasn’t enough.” Sara snorted and told her truth. “Good luck replacing you. You’re like a weird, expensive house plant; high maintenance but kinda pretty.” Simon shot her a look with no real malice.
Linda’s laughter shook the tears loose again. She cupped Wille’s face, her thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “Ay, mi corazón,” she murmured, “you’re not something to be replaced.” The sunflower pendant swung between them, catching the light. Wille leaned into her touch, the scent of vanilla and flour wrapping around him. Simon’s fingers tangled with his, squeezing hard. “Unless you eat the last pancake,” he added, deadpan. “Then Sara might murder you.”
Sara gasped, mock-offended, and hurled a crumpled napkin at Simon’s head. It bounced off, landing in Wille’s lap. He stared at it, the absurd reindeer, the flecks of glitter stuck to the cheap paper. And something unraveled in his chest. This wasn’t just allowed; it was wanted. The realization hit like a punch, stealing his breath.
Simon bumped his shoulder. “You okay?” Wille nodded, unable to speak. His throat felt full of honey and pine needles. The key in his palm was heavier than any royal seal.
Simon tugged gently at the ribbon still looped around Wille’s fingers. “I mean, you practically live here already,” he teased, voice softening at the edges. His socked toe nudged Wille’s ankle, the same ankle Simon had complained about just last week when he tripped over Wille’s boots by the door. Wille’s boots. His half of the bathroom sink. His toothbrush tangled with Simon’s in the mug Wille had bought at a flea market because Simon liked the chipped blue glaze. Bits of him scattered through the house like breadcrumbs marking a trail home.
Linda hummed in agreement, stirring her tea. “Your laundry’s been in our hamper since the summer,” she pointed out mildly, as if Wille had somehow missed the fact that his shirts now smelled like her detergent, folded alongside Sara’s mismatched socks. Wille blinked. Since the summer? The realization prickled down his spine. How many mornings had he woken up tangled in Simon’s sheets, borrowing Simon’s hoodies, stealing bites of Linda’s arepas without asking?
Sara rolled her eyes, flicking the ribbon on the key. “And you already have your own mug,” she added, nodding toward the cluttered shelf where Wille’s chipped blue monstrosity sat wedged between Simon’s favorite and Linda’s floral one. Wille’s stomach tightened. They’d noticed. Every dumb little habit, every time he lingered too long in the doorway, they’d seen him.
Simon’s grin was smug. “Face it, Your Highness. You’ve been unofficially adopted for months.” The nickname, once barbed, now curled warm around Wille’s ribs. He pressed the key harder into his palm. Unofficial. Before, the word would’ve clawed at him, a reminder of how easily he could be erased. Now it tasted like honey on burnt toast, it tasted perfect.
The fridge hummed in the sudden quiet. Wille realized, suddenly and stupidly, that he’d memorized its rattle, the exact pitch it hit at 2 a.m. when he crept in for water. The dent in the linoleum where Sara dropped a skillet last spring. The way Simon muttered Spanish curses when the shower knob stuck. These weren’t just memories; they were facts.
Simon’s fingers tightened around his. “Hey.” His voice was rough, like he’d swallowed too much syrup. “Look at me.” Wille did. Simon’s eyes were dark, serious in a way that made Wille’s ribs ache. “You think we give keys to just anyone?” A pause. “My abuela would haunt me if I brought home some random Swedish boy.”
Wille choked on a laugh. Simon’s thumb traced his knuckles, slow and deliberate. “This isn’t just some spare room, Wille. This is your home too.” The words landed like a punch. Wille’s breath stuttered. Simon leaned closer, their foreheads touching. “You’re ours,” he whispered, so quiet Wille felt it more than heard it. "And mine." Simon said that last part so only Wille would hear him.
The refrigerator hummed again, familiar as Simon’s heartbeat under Wille’s palm. Outside, snow tapped against the window like fingers asking to come in. Sara groaned dramatically, “Ugh, they’re doing the eye thing again.” Linda patted her head absently, her gaze soft on Wille. “Let them have this.”
Simon’s lips twitched. “Yeah, Sara, let us have one moment.” He dragged Wille closer until their noses bumped, breath warm and sweet with maple syrup. “Happy?” Wille exhaled, half-laugh, half-sob, and nodded into Simon’s shoulder. His key. His home.
Across the room, Linda stood with a groan, gathering plates sticky with pancake remnants. Sara made a show of gagging at them but leaned in when Simon flipped her off, her shoulder pressing into Wille’s. The snow globe wobbled precariously in her lap. Wille watched Linda hum as she stacked dishes, her sunflower pendant swinging with each movement.
The key’s teeth left crescent marks in his palm. Wille traced them absently, studying the way light caught on Sara’s new hair clips—how the imperfect horses seemed to gallop when she shifted. His chest ached. At the palace, Christmas had been measured in silent glances and stiff handshakes, gifts wrapped in precision but devoid of warmth. Here, Sara was already attempting to clip them into Simon’s curls despite his protests, Linda laughing as syrup dripped onto the floor no one cared about.
Wille exhaled slowly, watching Simon duck away from Sara’s grabby hands, his laugh bright enough to eclipse the snow globe’s swirling glitter. This was messy. Real. The kind of belonging that settled under his skin, pressing against his ribs every time Simon’s knee bumped his or Linda ruffled his hair like he was hers. No protocols. No expectations. Just them.
Sara finally succeeded in clipping a lopsided horse into Simon’s curls, crowing triumphantly as he yelped. “Now you match,” she declared, ignoring his half-hearted swat. Wille reached over without thinking, fingers brushing the metal, warm from Simon’s scalp. Simon stilled, eyes flicking to Wille’s face. Wille didn’t look away. He curled his fingers around Simon’s wrist instead, thumb pressed to his pulse point. Grounding him in a silent realization that he was home now.