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"...Thank you so much!"

Simon clapped politely as the winner of the QX Gay Gala Book of the Year award walked off the stage after an acceptance speech that probably would've been rousing had Simon had any idea what they were talking about.

He did feel a little bad that he hadn't read the book in question. Normally, he made it a point to consume standout queer media, especially books, to support the community. In his defense, he was preparing for a Nordic tour in the coming weeks, so he hadn't had a lot of time to read recently. But he made a mental note to get a hold of a copy as soon as he could, just to be in the loop.

The person sitting beside him elbowed him on the side. Simon looked at Rosh, his best friend since childhood and fellow LGBTQ of the Year nominee, with a mildly exasperated expression. "Would you quit that?" he said. "We're supposed to behave like adults, you know."

Almost as if to prove him wrong, she asked, "How much longer until we're up, do you think?" She posed the question with the same general vibe of a five-year-old on a long car trip asking their parents "Are we there yet?" every ten minutes.

Simon rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "We're at one of Sweden's biggest award shows, and you're bored?" He knew the answer to his own question, of course. Rosh was a professional football player and tended to have a hard time sitting still for too long. And though she was a very smart woman and gave great advice when she needed to (and Simon had needed her advice innumerable times through their friendship, for sure), she was more of a doer than a talker and had no patience for frivolities.

That alone would be enough to make her restless in a situation such as this, but on top of that, there was also the general annoyance that the QX Gay Gala Awards did not include a category for sports. "It's just such stereotyping to think that homosexuals can't do sports," she had complained to him over and over again through the ceremony. "And, frankly, lesbian erasure. Don't even fight me on this. You're a gay dude; you don't get an opinion on butch lesbians."

Now, though, she just sighed despondently and took a sip of her drink. "There's so much unnecessary chatter. Wish we could just fast-forward till you win your award, and then we can move on to the after-party. That's the real good part of all of this."

"I'm not going to win the award," Simon mumbled back, bringing his own drink— non-alcoholic, of course— up to his lips for a sip.

Rosh didn't refute his assertion. They had agreed, the moment they found out they were both nominated for LGBTQ of the Year, that with the steep competition they were facing, neither of them was likely to win the statuette. It was kind of sad to admit, but also the only reason Simon wasn't a bundle of nerves at the moment. Rosh still liked to tease him about it, though, especially with the more alcohol she consumed.

She did snort, however. "Can you imagine if you did win, though? How you'd have to go and accept the award from the spare prince and smile and hug him and stand next to him while you give your acceptance speech? You, the only person I know who is more prone to break out into anti-monarchist rants than I am?"

She had a point. Simon had almost balked when his manager told him a member of the royal family would be handing out the award, but then he figured his chances of winning were low, anyway, so there was no point in sitting the ceremony out on principle. "It could've been worse, I guess," he replied. "At least Prince Wilhelm isn't the worst of them. It could've been the Queen."

Rosh snorted. "That woman wouldn't be caught dead in this place," she said, amused at the mental image. Simon thought that was going to be the end of that line of conversation, but then Rosh nudged him with her shoulder. "And what's that? You got a soft spot for the baby prince now?"

"What? No!" Simon retorted with a scoff. He didn't follow the royal gossip, so he knew nothing whatsoever about any of them on a personal level; his opinion on the royals only extended as far as his belief that monarchies should not exist. They were all probably a bunch of snobs, anyway.

His best friend wasn't buying it. "Oh yeah, you do!" She poked at him with her elbow again. "You think he's cute, don't you?"

Simon shook his head stubbornly, hoping he wasn't blushing. Okay, so the youngest prince was objectively good-looking— Stupid inbreeding, he grumbled to himself. And he was Simon's age so there was a smidge of relatability there, at least as much as a normal person could relate to one of the most privileged individuals in the country. Simon may be a successful recording artist now, but he came from a working-class, immigrant, single-parent home, and he was never going to forget that.

"Shut up," he told Rosh, swatting at her like she was an annoying mosquito. It's not like he was ever going to meet Prince Wilhelm, anyway, because he wasn't going to win the stupid award. It was a pointless hypothetical to formulate.

Rosh was still laughing to herself. "Wait until I tell Ayub about this," she muttered, bringing up their other childhood best friend, who was most likely watching the ceremony on TV along with Simon's mother.

Simon pointedly ignored that last quip. Once their category passed without a win and they could move on to the after-party without any major incidents, the presence of the prince at this event would be little more than an afterthought. Simon wasn't going to overthink it.

Three more awards were given out— which Simon placidly bore through uninterrupted complaints from Rosh, only mildly funny jokes from the presenters, and at least two refills of his glass of Coke Zero— before finally it was time for their category, the final category of the ceremony. Much against his own self-assurances, his stomach started to twist anxiously the moment the host, Shima Niavarani, introduced the last presenter of the night.

"Friends, everyone," Shima said from where she stood on the stage, smiling, but sounding more serious than she had in the last few segments of the show. "We are all in this room Kings and Queens and non-binary royalty. That much we know. But only one among us does actually hold that title by law, and he is here to give out the biggest award of the night. Please give a warm welcome to His Royal Highness, Prince Wilhelm."

Applause roared the moment she finished speaking, and Simon joined in, albeit less enthusiastically. The intense reception didn't surprise him. He knew the people of Sweden liked the princes much better than the Queen and Duke Ludvig; they were younger, more modern, and seemingly more down-to-earth than the rest of the Royal Family had historically been. He understood that it was a big deal to have someone from the Royal Family here, supporting the queer community with their large and mostly unfairly obtained platform. It was more than they would've done just a few short years ago. A visible sign that progress had been made. And he was dimly aware— maybe Sara had mentioned it at some point?— that some of the charities the youngest prince personally sponsored were LGBTQ+ charities. Simon could give him points for that.

At the same time, human rights were rights all humans were entitled to by the mere fact of their existence, even in the case of queer people, and he didn't believe anyone, not even the spare prince, deserved to be celebrated for doing the bare minimum in recognizing that fact. Especially not since the only reason their opinion even mattered to anyone was due to the accident of their privileged birth.

As people began to get to their feet, Simon allowed himself a brief glance at the prince, who was walking up the stairs at stage right toward the main podium. He was wearing an immaculately tailored powder-blue suit— nothing too flashy, but a distinct (and probably purposeful) deviation from the standard navy, black, or charcoal the men in his family usually wore. It went along nicely with his dark-blond hair and his tan shoes. When he made it up to the stage and Simon could see him from the side, he noted he was wearing a white dress shirt under his jacket, but without a tie, the first couple of buttons unbuttoned. Quite casual for the type of event the Crown would usually consider formal.

He looked self-assured... relaxed, somehow. It was a good look on him.

Rosh caught him staring and started nudging him with her elbow again. Simon just ignored the annoying gesture and instead grabbed her arm, pulling her along with him as he stood up. He had no personal desire to give any royal a standing ovation, but he also wasn't going to be the only one still sitting when TV cameras were pointing at him from several different angles.

The prince waved as he made his way to the podium, and once he got there, he thanked the audience a few times. That did nothing to contain the applause, which was now compounded with loud cheers and whistles.

As the seconds went on, it became clear that he was starting to feel overwhelmed by all the attention. He tried to start his speech several times, but the audience wasn't done applauding yet. "Please," he begged, cheeks flushed, "this is lovely, but I'm just here to present an award." The standing ovation went on for nearly a full minute.

The applause eventually petered down enough for him to finally get to his prewritten address. "Thank you," he repeated into the mic, smiling humbly. He took a deep breath before he continued speaking, almost like steadying himself, and Simon flashed back to a memory of someone— his sister, most likely?— commenting on how the Crown Prince was a much better public speaker than his younger brother.

"I am here tonight to celebrate the queer community"— More applause bubbled up, but only a brief burst this time— "but especially one person whose achievements and effort have particularly distinguished them among the rest in a year full of incredible successes and joy." He nodded slightly, more to himself than to the audience, really. "Dear all, it is my honor to present the award to the homo, bi, or trans person of the year."

He signaled to the side, to the giant screen set up at the back of the stage. Simon wasn't sure what he'd been expecting of the spare prince, but he thought he'd done a fairly decent job with his one task. Now all that was left to do was not mess up the winner's name when he read it off the card. Seemed easy enough.

He didn't get much more time to ponder on it, though, as that's when the nominees montage started rolling, and Simon's earlier nerves came back with a vengeance. He smiled and clutched Rosh's hand tightly when her picture came on the screen— it was one of Simon's favorite pictures of her, lifting the UEFA Women's Euro trophy, which she and her teammates had won for Sweden just that summer. One of the proudest moments of Simon's life.

Then Simon's own photo came up: a shot from the promo shoot for his latest single where he was wearing bicolor pants and a brown winter jacket with nothing underneath it, the tattoo on his shoulder of his mother's name on full display as he pulled the jacket off. It was a good picture if he did say so himself. The wolf whistles from the audience certainly made it seem like they thought so, as well.

The spoken description mentioned the international success of his latest album and his vocal support for several campaigns for marriage equality and LGBTQ+ visibility in Latin America. Simon still didn't think he was going to win, but regardless of that, it was still surreal to see his name and image up there alongside these people he respected and admired.

The montage faded to black, drawing everyone's attention back to the stage. The prince waited until the applause died down to speak again. "Just an extraordinary group of people. A veritable feast of incomparable talent, truly. But one of them shone brighter than the rest."

He opened the envelope that revealed the winner, and as he read the name to himself, a wide smile drew itself on his lips. A genuine, beaming smile— not just a polite "public speaking" one. Then he leaned into the mic and said, "Making the world go crazy for his love..."

The crowd erupted into cheers. Rosh screamed "Holy shit!" right into his ear and tugged frantically at his hand that she was still holding. It took Simon an embarrassingly long time to realize that it was one of his lyrics the prince had just paraphrased.

"...I won?" Simon mumbled, completely flabbergasted.

"Simme! Holy shit!" Rosh repeated, this time throwing her arms excitedly around him. Simon was in shock; he couldn't move if he tried, but his eyes were drawn to the stage, to the podium, where the prince stood, now looking right in his direction. Smiling.

"Singer, songwriter, activist, and absolute shining star," he listed proudly— almost reverently?— into the microphone, grinning so hard that his cheeks had to be hurting. He signaled toward Simon's table with one hand. "Simon Eriksson, everybody."

Later, Simon would barely be able to remember how he made it from the table all the way up to the stage; he assumed someone, possibly Rosh, had pushed him back on his feet and nudged him in the right direction, reminding him that humans walked by putting one foot in front of the other— but he had no direct recollection of it. All he knew was that somehow, he found himself up on stage, with the prince of freaking Sweden smiling affectionately at him, extending a QX-shaped statuette toward him.

And maybe someone had spiked one of Simon's glasses of Coke, or perhaps he'd just gone temporarily insane, because instead of taking the award from him, what Simon did was throw his arms around the prince's shoulders, going up on his tiptoes to press close to him in a tight, emotional hug.

He felt the prince freeze, as he hadn't expected the sudden effusiveness, and Simon was about to pull back, horrified at his own behavior. But before he could, the other man's shoulders relaxed, his arms coming up to wrap around Simon's torso— one fully, the other one only lightly, as he was still holding Simon's award in his hand.

His embrace was solid, comfortable, and Simon found himself leaning into his warmth. He smelled good, too.

"Thank you," he said, even though the prince wasn't the one awarding him the win, just the one announcing it. But what else could he say? He'd just won the most important award given by the queer community in Sweden; he'd thank a potted plant if he came across one at the moment. Anything to keep himself from crying.

"You earned it," the prince said near Simon's ear. His voice sounded deeper up close than it did through the speakers.

They swayed a little in place just from the strength of the embrace, and that's when it occurred to Simon that the hug had gone on for a little too long for it to be considered appropriate, especially considering they'd never even met before this. That would be mortifying under the best circumstances, but it was doubly, triply as embarrassing when they had hundreds of eyes directly on them, not to mention a dozen or so TV cameras.

The cheers and whistles made it clear that the audience had not missed the awkward moment. He was sure one of the loud finger-whistles was Rosh's. God, he was never going to hear the end of this.

Clearing his throat, he stepped back, hoping his face wasn't flaming. "Sorry," he said, giving the prince a sheepish smile.

Simon might or might not have managed an unaffected look, but Prince Wilhelm was definitely blushing. He shook his head. "It's okay," he said, and rather gallantly gestured for Simon to move toward the podium.

Simon moved past him to do just that when he felt the prince pull him back by the sleeve of his shirt. He looked back to find the other man gesturing to the statuette he still held in his hand; he'd forgotten to actually take it from him. He did that now, exchanging a chagrined laugh with the prince before finally coming to stand behind the podium.

It was a bit of a shock to the system, stepping out of a literal prince's arms and finding himself under the microscope of hundreds of eyes on him, waiting on bated breath for the first words that were about to come out of his mouth. And Simon had not prepared one bit for this, so it was no wonder those first words were... well, stupid.

"Hey, listen," he started, then pointed at Prince Wilhelm, who was standing a few feet away, applauding for him along with the crowd. "I'm a republican, but even I have to admit that he gives great hugs." The audience laughed— pity laughs, he was sure.

It was only as he was frantically searching for what to say next that he realized that might not have been the best thing to say to begin with. "Wait. Crap. Am I in trouble now?" He snuck a glance at the prince, whose shoulders were shaking from mirth. "I'm not going to be thrown in jail, am I?" He was only half joking, to be fair.

"You said you like my hugs, so I'll allow an exception," Prince Wilhelm retorted, a better sport than Simon would've expected him to be. He was away from the microphone, so no one but Simon and the stage attendant standing on Simon's other side actually heard him. The quip drew a chuckle out of Simon.

He turned back to the audience. "Wow," he said into the mic, extending the "ow" sound as he glanced down at the statuette he now carried in his arms. "This is crazy!" He shook his head, still stunned. The crowd's response was only to applaud and cheer even louder.

"This is a terrible thank-you speech, but in my defense, I was so sure I wasn't going to win that I didn't even bother thinking of what I would say if I did." He was so flustered, and there was no way the public couldn't see it on the screen.

Those present at the event only seemed to find it funny, though, especially when he waved at the back of the room— where he assumed a camera had to be— and chimed a cutesy, "Hi, Mamma!" That produced a new round of laughter and applause, along with scattered "awws."

He shrugged the awkwardness off as much as he could. "No, but seriously: thank you for this," he said, holding the award up proudly. "It means so much to me, you have no idea. I'm just a boy from Bjärstad; I never imagined I would ever be standing here, receiving an award from a community that I love, that feels like home to me." He shook his head, still in shock.

"Y a mi gente de Latinoamérica..." he added, incredibly proud to address the public in his second native language— his mother's language— at such a significant occasion, where so many people could hear it. "...siempre estaré a su lado, luchando por la igualdad hasta que cada uno de ustedes gane el derecho al amor y felicidad que se merecen. Ustedes son los que me dan la fuerza para seguir haciendo lo que hago. Los quiero mucho. I love you all. Thank you so much."

Music started playing as the stage attendant who, after handing him a bouquet of flowers, prompted him to exit via stage left. Simon waved at the crowd as he left the stage. Prince Wilhelm followed a few steps behind. The rumble of applause continued until Shima took the mic again, this time to close out the ceremony.

Instead of going around the backstage, either toward the press area or through the backstage entrance to the main hall and back to his table, Simon just... stood there, just off to the side, staring at the statuette in his hand and trying to process everything that just happened.

He was so lost in the myriad of thoughts and feelings churning inside him that he nearly jumped when someone spoke behind him. "That was a beautiful speech," they said. Simon looked over his shoulder to find Prince Wilhelm there, smiling.

Simon turned around; he wasn't going to bow or anything, but his earlier effusivity was starting to die down now that the rush of his big win had passed. Still, his mother hadn't raised a brute, so he could at least be polite to the man. "You understand Spanish?" he asked, curious.

"Well, enough to get the gist of it," the prince conceded. In a most unprincely demeanor (well, Simon could only assume), he stood there with his hands inside his pockets. Simon didn't know what it was about that specific posture, but he found his gaze repeatedly sweeping up and down in an appraising manner.

"To be honest, my Spanish is a little rusty," the other man admitted, his smile tightening sheepishly. "I've been trying to get some practice in, though. Your songs help!" He leaned forward as if voicing a secret. "I'm a huge fan, by the way."

The corners of Simon's mouth started crinkling upward almost involuntarily. The prince of Sweden listened to his music? Well, that was one item he did not have on his bingo card. "Thank you, Prince Wilhelm. That's very sweet of you to say."

The prince shook his head, taking a step closer. "No, please. Just Wilhelm. Or Wille, if you'd like. That's what my friends call me."

Simon's brows arched high. "Oh? Are we friends now?" he asked teasingly.

The man's response was a chuckle. "Given that we've awkwardly hugged in front of the whole of Sweden, I sure hope so," he said with an unconcerned shrug. Simon rather liked the mildly self-deprecating tone. It was endearing.

He laughed. "Well, now I feel bad about telling the whole of Sweden that I'm an anti-monarchist." He stepped closer himself, maybe feeling a little bit cocky as he met the other man's gaze.

The prince— Wille— chuckled again. "You're allowed your own opinions. It's cool."

Simon tilted his head to the side just slightly, trying to figure out this enigma of a royal who seemed so... oddly normal. "You're... not how I expected you to be," he admitted grudgingly, a little mystified.

"Yeah?" Wille asked. "How so?"

"Well, I always thought you'd be an entitled, arrogant little prick, for one," Simon said easily— maybe a bit too easily. It was his turn now to punctuate the sentence with an unconcerned shrug of his own.

Instead of clutching his metaphorical pearls at the language, Wille burst out into laughter at his boldness. "Okay, maybe there are some opinions you're better off keeping to yourself," he said, pulling one hand out of his pocket to direct a mollifying gesture Simon's way. It was all in good fun, though.

"Maybe next time they'll give you the Hetero of the Year award," Simon suggested, fascinated by the way the prince's brown eyes glittered in his mirth. "You can make fun of me in your acceptance speech, and then we'll be even."

Simon had never seen someone sober up so fast. It caught him off-guard, how quickly Wille went from laughing brightly, without reserve, to ashen and uneasy. He worried he'd said something wrong and had unwittingly made the other man uncomfortable.

"Oh, um, I don't..." Wille cleared his throat loudly. "I don't think that would be appropriate. My winning that."

Simon frowned, confused. He thought what Wille might've objected to was the second part of the statement, the invitation to jokingly badmouth Simon onstage at the next awards. He could understand if that wasn't a "proper" thing for a member of the Royal Family to do. But accepting the Hetero award? Why would that be an issue? He was already publicly associated with the gala and its objectives— he was present at the event right now.

Could Wille's presence here today be one of those cases where conservative institutions played footsie with progressive organizations once in a while because they knew it was good PR and would stop the average person from labeling them as bigots? It was good optics to offer some amity, just not too much that you were seen as one of them. Was that it?

But Wille didn't seem to be a homophobe— and Simon knew he couldn't be certain given that they'd only just met that day, but he just didn't get that feeling from him. Simon was predisposed to walling himself off from bigots and snobs; he usually had a good radar for them. Wille just didn't give off that vibe and seemed like a genuine ally.

Maybe the Crown, though? It sounded just like a centuries-old institution to be just supportive enough to seem "modern," but at the same time keep the community at arms' length so as not to taint their precious reputation. And as much as Wille might not share that view on a personal level, he still had to follow their rules when he was acting as a representative of the Crown. Was that why he was uncomfortable, then? Had he been warned by the Crown not to get too involved? The odd charity event was fine, and handing out an award was kind of a "hip" thing to do, but nothing more permanent than that. That would be a bridge too far.

He was about to ask when a blonde woman in a black suit approached Wille— a bodyguard, obviously, but Simon had been so focused on their conversation that he hadn't even noticed she'd been standing nearby the entire time. She said something in Wille's ear, to which he nodded. "I'm so sorry to cut this short, but I need to get going," he told Simon ruefully.

"You're not going to the after-party?" Simon asked, surprised at the revelation.

"I'm afraid I can't. I have another royal engagement early in the morning," the other man said by way of an explanation. "It was really nice to meet you, though," he added with a small smile.

"Yeah," Simon said, a bit like someone had pulled the rug out from under him— like their interaction had ended too abruptly to feel complete. Maybe that's why he said what he said next. As Wille turned to leave, his bodyguard close at his heels, Simon blurted out, "You should come to one of my concerts."

The prince stopped, glancing curiously back at him. Simon felt like he had to elaborate. "You can join us backstage. We could hang out."

Wille's smile slowly widened into a boyish grin. "Yeah. I'd like that."

"Cool." Simon smiled back. "Bye... Wille." His tone emphasized the nickname.

"Bye... Simon," Wille replied in a similar, significant manner. He gave Simon a little wave— okay, that was kind of cute— and headed, trailed by his bodyguard, in the direction of the back exit. Simon watched them disappear into the backstage crowd.

When they left his line of sight, he looked down at the items he still held in his arms, the flowers and the statuette for his LGBTQ of the Year award he'd just won. Thinking back to his conversation with the prince, he couldn't say which of the two occurrences felt more surreal.

It would take some time for him to be able to wrap his head around everything that had happened that day.

Simon wasn't surprised his awkward hug with the prince made the entertainment pages, but he didn't expect the angle they took.

"FAST FRIENDS?" read the headline on the link his manager sent him via text. Below it was, of course, a picture of the now-infamous hug— but Simon was surprised to find it split-screened with a second photo: one of Simon and Wilhelm standing face to face, backstage at Cirkus. The prince had his hands in his pockets, Simon was holding an award and a bouquet of flowers in his arms, and they were smiling at each other.

He hadn't noticed anyone taking a photo of them that night, but of course, that didn't mean anything. Anyone with a decent-quality phone could've discreetly snapped a pic, and neither of them would've known. Still, the hint in the article about a quick friendship suggested that someone might have overheard their quick conversation, and that was more Simon's immediate worry.

You're friends with Prince Wilhelm now? read the message his manager had sent along with the link. This sounds like something I should be made aware of. Knowing them, Simon assumed the question was posed with a tone of sarcasm. Probably just teasing, given they'd been witness to a fair number of complaints about the monarchy from him (Rosh was right: he was prone to going on rants).

His gaze was drawn to the second picture again. If he thought about it some more, he could see why people might've imagined some fondness there. They were standing fairly close— closer, somehow, than Simon had thought they were at the time. And there was almost a softness to the way they looked at each other, a warmth. The smiles they gave each other were easy, comfortable, possibly teasing.

In fact, a more enterprising and less scrupulous gossip columnist might've implied they looked somewhat flirty. Simon himself might have thought so, had he been a third party to the situation. But this was a single frame taken out of context from a larger interaction, and with such limited information, onlookers were bound to make interpretations out of it that simply did not apply. Certainly that's what Simon found himself doing as his eyes swept through every inch of the picture: putting things into this still image that weren't there. But of course, no writer would dare suggest that the prince of Sweden might be anything but straight, so the article itself only pushed it as far as friendship.

Which was good. It was good that they weren't sensationalizing a perfectly innocent moment just because Simon happened to be gay. It had happened before. For a while there, every man that even stood near him was labeled a potential boyfriend. In this case, even friendship was a stretch, but it could've been much worse.

Acquaintances at best, he typed back to his manager. Tell Aftonbladet to get better sources. With a shake of his head, he locked his phone and went back to the TV show he'd been watching.

The "news" of his new royal "friendship" lasted all of two days, maybe three, and by the time Simon's tour started some weeks later, he'd pretty much forgotten about his short encounter with the prince. Which is why he was so surprised the night of his concert in Trondheim: after the show, he was resting with his band at a backstage lounge in the concert venue, when his tour director burst in, all aflutter.

"The prince of Sweden is here, the prince of Sweden is here, the prince of Sweden is here," she repeated over and over as she ran around the room picking up leftover plastic cups, errant pieces of clothing hung over the backs of chairs, and fluffing up throw pillows.

Simon didn't even look up from the notebook he was writing on, making note of the songs his fans had asked him to perform at his pre-concert meet and greet. "In Norway? Yeah, I heard." And he had; he might've pushed all thoughts of Prince Wilhelm to the back of his mind, but Rosh hadn't forgotten, and she'd told Ayub, and they'd kept up a play-by-play of each of the prince's public movements over chat, much to Simon's annoyance.

So yeah, he was aware the prince was on a state visit to Oslo this week. He didn't get why that was such a big deal.

"No, I mean he's here here," she said as she oh-so-rudely pulled the pillow Simon himself was resting against from behind him so she could fluff it. "Like on-the-other-side-of-that-door here." She pointed to the door of the lounge which she had just walked through.

"Wait, what?" Simon said, finally putting down the pen and looking up at the woman for confirmation that he'd heard her correctly. He thought he heard one of his band members whisper "Holy shit" behind him.

His tour director did not stop the frantic tidying up of the lounge that wasn't hers to tidy up, to begin with. "He said you invited him backstage, but he doesn't have a pass. What the hell was I supposed to do, tell him no? He's the prince of a whole freaking country!"

Simon put the notebook and pen down beside him on the couch. "Okay, Marie? I'm going to need you to chill for a second, alright?" he said placatingly, trying to get her to stay still for a minute. It was already difficult enough to wrap his head around the idea of Wille being here, at his concert without her running around the place like it was about to blow up.

"I did invite him backstage," he admitted. It's not like it was a secret that he'd talked to the prince the one time; the tabloids had made sure of that. "To a concert. I didn't know it was going to be this one, but since he's already here, maybe we shouldn't leave him waiting out in the hallway for much longer?"

Marie paled when it hit her that she'd quite literally slammed the door shut in the prince of Sweden's face. "Right. I should—"

"It's okay, I'll handle it," Simon said with a wave of his hand as he stood up. "You've been running around making sure that everything went well all day, Marie. Sit down. You can take a break now; you deserve it." She gave him a small smile and sat down in a lounge chair as Simon made his way to the door.

Wille was, indeed, waiting on the other side of the doorway, conversing in low tones with his bodyguard— a tall, burly man this time around. His face brightened when he saw Simon standing there. "Hey!"

"Hi," Simon said casually like it was a regular occurrence for someone of Wilhelm's position to be at one of his concerts. "Wasn't expecting to see you here tonight. You should've told me before the show; I would've given you a shout-out."

Wille shook his head. "It's probably better that you didn't," he said but did not elaborate further. Simon wondered why he thought it was better to keep his presence on the down-low: if he just thought it was easier or safer logistics-wise, if he didn't feel comfortable taking the spotlight and attention away from Simon, or— going back to the idea of the Crown controlling how much association with the LGBTQ+ community might be too much— if he knew how the tabloids had spun their "friendship" and didn't want to give them more fodder to speculate. That last one still didn't sit well with Simon.

Wille didn't seem uncomfortable now that they were talking face to face, though, so whatever it was, it must not have been personal. "I just figured," he added with a quick shrug, "since I was nearby, anyway, I could just stop by."

Simon found that response very amusing. "You know I'm performing in Oslo in two days, right?" he asked with a chuckle, leaning his weight against the doorframe and crossing his arms. "You didn't have to drive six and a half hours just to see me in concert."

"Oh, we took the train," Wille corrected with a satisfied smile. "It's more environmentally friendly. Although, admittedly, I did not know about Oslo..." His expression turned a little sheepish at that. "But honestly, I don't even mind. The show tonight was amazing."

"Thank you," Simon said sincerely, and maybe a little bashfully. "Hopefully the show in Oslo will be as well." He looked over his shoulder at everyone inside the lounge who was pretending— abysmally, if he was honest— that they weren't eavesdropping on their conversation.

"Do you wanna come in?" Simon asked. "I'll introduce you to everyone."

Wille nodded earnestly. "I'd love to."

Simon led the two of them in and introduced Wille to the whole gang. Marie was a little flustered, but all of his band members came up from the middle class as Simon had, and they had been working in music for long enough that they didn't easily get starstruck, even in the presence of royalty. If anything, most of them seemed to regard the monarchy much as Simon did. This seemed to suit Wille just fine.

They played cards for a good while, which was an activity Simon liked to do on tour because it reminded him of when his family and friends would play on weekend dinners back home. It was a comfort activity for him when he found himself missing his people.

Wille had the worst poker face he'd ever seen, but even if he was terrible at it, he seemed to have fun. As they found themselves joking with each other and exchanging glances and grins across the table, it occurred to Simon that the friendship thing might not be as much of a stretch anymore.

Simon definitely wasn't expecting to see Wille at his concert in Oslo, or for the rest of his tour. So it came as a total surprise when he opened the door to his dressing room to find the prince— and his blonde bodyguard— standing there.

"Hi!" Wille greeted him with a grin. He seemed entirely too pleased at having caught him unawares. Simon could only imagine the prince of Sweden, along with his usual entourage, didn't exactly get to sneak up on people very often.

"Wow," Simon said in place of a greeting. He shook his head in sheer disbelief. "You know, you don't need to waste taxpayer money like this just to hang out with me. You could have just called."

"I would if I had your number," he retorted matter-of-factly. Fair point, really. "Besides, I'm not using taxpayer money to pay for any of this. It's all coming out of my personal funds. Though I can't imagine that makes it any better in your eyes."

"Bingo," Simon said, pointing at him with a finger. Government allowance, inherited wealth— it was all equally unearned, which only underscored the monarchy as being doubly privileged, even more than just regular rich people. But that wasn't Wille's fault, he figured, and it was good that he was at least self-aware about it. And something was interesting— special?— about the fact that he could tell, after such a short acquaintance, how Simon would feel about it.

"Give me your phone," he said, extending his hand toward the other man. It didn't occur to him until he had the device in his hand that it might be dangerous for a prince to just be handing his phone out to someone he'd only met twice, but Wille seemed to have no problem with it and the bodyguard didn't even flinch, so he proceeded to put his phone number on Wille's contacts like he would with any other friend of his.

"Wanna go to the lounge?" Simon asked as he handed Wille's phone back. He was glad they'd decided to switch things around for this tour and have the VIP passes and meet-and-greets earlier in the day, before each concert. There was no way Wille would've been able to hang out if there were random people allowed backstage.

"Lead the way," Wille said, pocketing his phone. They started walking down the hallway. His bodyguard kept pace with them, a few steps behind. "What are we playing tonight?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted. Ahead of them, he caught sight of his drummer about to enter the lounge, a towel around his neck. "Hey, Nicke! What are we playing tonight?"

The man, tall, broad, with a half-shaved head of curls dyed a shockingly bright blue, turned to look at them over his shoulder. When he caught sight of Wille, he smirked. "Go fish," he offered teasingly. "Maybe His Majesty can actually win that one."

"Fuck off," Wille retorted good-naturedly. Simon snickered.

(They ended up playing rummy. Wille sucked at it, too.)

That night, when Simon was safely back in his hotel room, he heard his phone ping with a text notification as he made his way out of the shower. He wrapped himself in his favorite fluffy bathrobe and threw himself down on the bed, unlocking the device to check his messages.

I had fun tonight, the text read. There was no name to the contact, but he didn't need it to know who it was. I'd love to hang out with you again.

Simon checked the time before replying— it wasn't that late yet. Wille had probably just arrived at his own hotel, as well. Sure. But I won't be back in Stockholm until late next month, he texted back after taking a second to recall all the stops left on his tour schedule.

I know, came the reply, almost right away. I'll see you soon. Have a good night.

Good night! Simon texted back, with a wave emoji tacked on at the end. He went into his contacts and edited the name there— "Wille," followed by a crown emoji— before locking his phone and letting it drop on his chest.

It was only as he lay there staring up at the sunburst chandelier that hung above his bed that it really hit him how random Wille's response had been. "See you soon"? That didn't seem like it jived well with not seeing someone for nearly a full month, but oh well. It wouldn't be the first time their interactions were a little bit awkward. If anything, that was kinda their thing.

He closed his eyes and went to sleep with a smile on his face.

After his show in Bergen, Simon took some time to call his sister, tell her how the tour was going. She seemed especially interested in one particular aspect of it.

"Wait, wait," Sara said with a disbelieving shake of her head. "He went to two of your concerts in the same week?" She put up two fingers like she expected Simon not to understand what the word "two" meant. "Like, he saw the exact same show twice in the same week, just so he could hang out with you backstage afterward?"

"Yes," he confirmed warily, tiredly. It's not like he hadn't told her exactly that just a few seconds ago.

She frowned lightly— what Simon recognized from knowing her for nearly 26 years as her "pondering" face. She didn't say anything as she thought, but her silence spoke volumes. And when she did speak again, it was exactly what he thought she would say: "If you ask me, this almost sounds like a 'big romantic gesture' kind of thing. You know, like in rom-coms and such."

Simon narrowed his eyes at her, though the glare had very little fuel behind it. "I didn't ask you," he pointed out smartly. "And it's not like that."

"What's it like, then?" she asked, and not for the first time Simon cursed the fact that she was so incisive.

He sighed. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought long and hard about that, himself. Probably more than he should have. "I think..." he started, hesitating. "I think he's lonely. I think he saw something in me that he doesn't usually get from... most people who want to be friends with him."

"Like the fact that you hate everything about the institution he represents?" Sara shot back almost immediately.

Simon chuckled, recalling how he'd blurted out he was an anti-monarchist in front of all of Sweden and their prince during the awards ceremony. "Pretty much, yes," he conceded, amused. "And for the record, I don't hate everything about it."

"Mm-hmm," Sara sing-songed. Simon felt the urge to squirm away from her knowing smile. "That's right. You certainly seem to like him."

"We're friends, Sara," he replied with a slightly annoyed but fond shake of his head. His sister was always looking for romance where there was none. "He's a prince, for fuck's sake. There's no way he's anything but straight."

"Why not?" his sister retorted, like the absolute know-it-all she was. "Sexuality doesn't abide by class lines, Simme. I shouldn't have to be the one to tell you this."

"I know that." Simon rolled his eyes. It's not that he didn't see how Wille's actions could be interpreted in a certain way. He did; of course he did. But he also remembered how uncomfortable Wille had looked at the mere possibility of the QX awards recognizing him as an ally, or at the suggestion that Simon might confirm their friendship in front of his audience at a concert.

"Just trust me on this, okay? He's straight," he declared, schooling his features so as not to give away the pang of disappointment that pulled at the pit of his stomach as he said those words.

"All right. If you say so," Sara said, though she didn't seem fully convinced. Still, a moment later she regarded him with a smile. "Right. Tell me where you're performing next, then. Is it Reykjavik? I can't remember if you're going to Iceland this time."

Simon pulled his feet up onto the seat of the club chair he was resting on and got comfortable, telling Sara all about the upcoming stops on his tour— which he really should be focusing on instead of wondering about the current whereabouts of a certain prince of Sweden whose presence he was definitely, positively, not missing tonight.

Simon didn't go to Reykjavik— not on this tour, at least. His next concert was, instead, an intimate show at a ski resort arena in Levi, capacity 1700. Because the place was so small, there wasn't space for large meet-and-greets or hanging out backstage, but the band was given a deluxe two-story suite at the hotel (which was, much to Simon's delight, named "The Crazy Reindeer"). They wouldn't have time to go skiing before they had to move on to the next tour stop, but his room did have a lovely view of the slopes.

Because their schedule was so tight, Simon certainly wasn't expecting any guests. So when Nicke picked up the internal hotel landline and hollered "Hey, boss! Reception says there's someone here for you," Simon didn't know what to make of it.

In hindsight, he should've known it would be Wille standing there when he opened the door; it's not like reception would let just anyone come up to their suite unannounced and incognito. But there Wille was, wearing a thick navy-blue ski jacket with the hood pulled back, along with white ski pants with navy-blue accents: an outfit that probably cost more than the monthly payment on Simon's Stockholm apartment. His blond hair was windswept like he'd been born to go down the slopes. His cheeks were rosy from the cold. His bodyguard— a new one Simon hadn't met before— stood behind him.

"You are insane," Simon informed him with wide eyes and high-arched brows. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"What?" Wille replied with a devilish grin. "I take a ski trip every spring. This year, I wanted to try someplace different, and I'd heard that Levi is lovely." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'd say they were right."

"Uh-huh," Simon said, not buying it for one second. "And I suppose the fact that I was performing here tonight is just coincidence."

Wille laughed, deep and effervescent. "Wow. You think really highly of yourself, don't you?" he teased back. He shook his head. "I don't know that I'd chalk it up to coincidence, but... let's call it good luck."

Simon had to fight really hard not to react to the swoop his heart did at those words. He barely managed. The beaming grin that overtook his lips, however, was another matter.

"Well," he said, reaching to grab his own winter jacket from the hanger beside the door, which was what he'd come downstairs to do in the first place, "I was about to go check out the northern lights. You wanna come with? My room opens up to a balcony."

Wille agreed eagerly, and Simon led him through the lounge room toward the stairs. The few band members that were resting on the couches didn't even blink at Wille's presence, though they did have the gumption to smirk as the duo passed by— Simon made a mental note to fire them all (not really, but it would be better than murdering them with his glare).

As they made it upstairs, Simon tried his best not to think about the fact that he was literally leading Wille into his hotel room. He shrugged on his winter jacket and zipped it closed all the way up to his nose, took a beanie out of his suitcase and pulled it on, then pulled the hood of his jacket over his head on top of that. While he did that, Wille looked around, commenting on how nice the accommodations were in this hotel. (He was staying in a private villa, because of course.)

Once Simon was properly layered up, they made their way out to the balcony, where they were greeted by the amazing sight of the northern lights above the ski slopes. They stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder, in the small space, looking up at the sky. The view was breathtaking.

"It's so beautiful," Wille whispered in wonder, the colorful lights reflecting, shimmering, in his dark irises.

Simon turned his head to look at him, let his gaze trace Wille's profile, so close now. He didn't know that he was echoing the very thoughts running through Simon's head, but Simon's heart sure did. And if he let his heart do the thinking, he'd have to admit this junction in time, this moment with Wille... felt almost like a date.

He forced his eyes back toward the sky. "Yeah," he replied through a suddenly dry throat. "It's beautiful."

They stayed there for a few more minutes before the cold chased them back in. The rest of the night was spent having drinks with the band (or in Simon's case, honey milk tea) and trading funny stories until finally it was time for Wille to go back to his own lodging.

Simon didn't get a lot of sleep that night, even though he had to be up and ready to travel bright and early in the morning.

Wille didn't show up in Tampere, and that was fine. Really, it was. Simon should know better than to expect him, and certainly than to feel disappointed when he didn't pop up. If Wille wanted to come to his concerts to support him like the good friend he was, that was great. It wasn't an obligation, though.

He did show up in Helsinki, however. After the concert, instead of hanging out with the others (the band was hitting that stage of the tour where they were just getting sick of being around each other all day every day, honestly), they donned dark jackets and hats and sunglasses-at-night and braved the city streets incognito— or at least as incognito as they could get with a bodyguard trailing two meters behind them every step of the way.

They had a Very Serious (TM) conversation about possibly wearing fake mustaches next time, and then they giggled at their own ridiculousness over Hesburger chicken nuggets. Simon's mind was stuck on the "next time" part, though. "Why are you doing this?" he finally asked, bluntly, as he dipped a french fry in a tiny mountain of ketchup.

Wille didn't even need to ask what he meant. "Because I think you're amazing," he said simply as he polished up the last of his chicken nuggets, dipped in just a small bit of BBQ sauce, comparatively speaking. "Not just your music, either— though obviously, that's incredible, too. But you, like, as a person. I think you're amazing and I want to spend as much time with you as I can."

He said it in such an easy, nonchalant manner, completely unaware of the turmoil he was causing inside Simon. "We haven't even known each other that long."

Wille shook his head, scooping up the last bit of dipping sauce with one finger in a way Simon was sure would scandalize his mother. "I only needed one day to know that you're not like anyone I've ever met." He sucked the BBQ sauce off the tip of his finger and Simon had to look away just so he wouldn't stare. Somehow thinking of the Queen having an aneurysm at her youngest son's lack of table manners seemed like a safer bet.

"So, like... a real friend," Simon said, "as opposed to people who just want to use you and your title for clout." He chose very carefully where to put the emphasis. It was a reminder to himself more than anything.

He hadn't posed a question, but the assumption hung in the air that Wille would confirm what he'd just said. However, for a little while, Wille only stared at him unwaveringly, intensely, as he offhandedly wiped his fingers with a napkin.

Simon snuck a peek at him and could only hold his gaze for a heartbeat; a moment later, Wille was looking down at the table. He dropped the greasy napkin on his tray along with the rest of the used fast food packaging. "Real," he said with a tight smile. "Yeah."

They dumped their trash in the bin, got back into the rented car with tinted windows, and Wille's bodyguard drove Simon back to his hotel.

Wille skipped Sundsvall ("skipped"— whatever happened to not expecting him?), but he did make it to Göteborg. That was kind of a big deal for Simon because it meant Wille got to meet Rosh and Ayub, his closest friends since childhood.

After the show, Rosh invited them over to her place, where they had pizza (because Ayub) and played boozy Ordjakt (because Rosh). Wille was worse at it than he'd been at any other game Simon had seen him play, which he hadn't thought was possible. Wasn't he supposed to know people? That seemed like it would be part of his job description— though admittedly Simon made it known that he thought using the word "job" was generous since it referred to stuff like cutting ribbons and schmoozing with diplomats.

It only took about 4.3 minutes into their hangout for Ayub to be absolutely convinced that Simon was pining as he'd never pined before. Simon did not dignify his teasing with a confirmation. Rosh, on the other hand— despite the fact that she was technically the one who started this whole thing at the Gay Gala— was wary. She liked Wille just fine, which was surprising given his title, but she worried about Simon falling for unavailable or unattainable guys. She wasn't making any assumptions about Wille's sexuality, no matter how much Simon insisted he had to be straight, but she did caution him about catching feelings for a literal prince. That couldn't go anywhere good.

As if Simon wasn't acutely aware of that already.

His concert in Stockholm was the last stop on his tour, and the producers had gone all out to make it the biggest spectacle of the season: pyrotechnics, two encores, and also a professional recording that would be sold for home media.

Simon found himself rather nervous about it, which was why Wille had joined him and the band before the concert, rather than just after. This was big not just because it had never happened before, but also because Wille got to meet Simon's mother and sister, who were also there to support him.

Sara gave Simon knowing glances all evening, much to his chagrin. Linda was just happy to meet any new friend of her son's, royal or not. She mentioned to Simon later, as the three of them left to take their VIP seats, that she found Wilhelm to be "a sweet boy" and "very charming." He couldn't disagree, but he also hoped she wasn't getting her hopes up. Simon definitely wasn't.

He wasn't.

The concert was a resounding success. As Simon stood on the stage with a rainbow flag in his hand, waving at his audience and basking in their applause and love, the rush of performing still coursing fast through his veins, he couldn't recall ever feeling so proud of himself, so fulfilled.

He was so high on that feeling that he almost didn't notice his bassist gesturing toward the side of the stage. It was only when the cheers of the crowd soared for no apparent reason that he turned his head and saw a small group of people coming on stage, including Marie, Sara, his mamma, and in the front, Wille himself, carrying a bouquet of purple flowers. No wonder the audience was going nuts.

"Oh, this is too much!" he said, more to himself, as his band parted like the Red Sea to allow the other group to come to Simon. Wille extended the bouquet to him, but instead of taking it, Simon threw his arms around the taller man, squeezing him tight.

Unlike the last time they hugged in front of an audience, Wille didn't freeze; instead, he immediately wrapped his arms around Simon's waist and pulled him close, not caring in the slightest that Simon was all sticky and sweaty from performing for hours.

"This feels like déjà vu," Wille commented. He had to speak into Simon's ear because the roar of the crowd was so loud, and Simon found himself suppressing a shiver.

He shook his head, his cheek brushing against Wille's neck with the movement. "I thought you didn't want the public to know that we're friends," he said. It probably wasn't the right moment to bring it up, but once again, he was so overwhelmed that he couldn't bite down the one doubt that had weighed on him for weeks. He blurted it out almost without consciously realizing it.

"What?" Wille interjected, pulling back to look at Simon with a confused frown. "Are you kidding me? Getting to know you has been the best thing that's happened to me in... years, at least. Why would I ever want to hide that?"

Simon wanted to say something— what, he wasn't sure— but that's when Sara couldn't hold herself back and jumped in to hug them both, followed closely by the others, and even the band. The group hug/pile-on kept going for a minute or so before everyone pulled back and stood to the sides, applauding, giving Simon one more opportunity to bow to his audience.

As he waved and thanked everyone, he snuck a glance to his left, where Wille stood beside his mother, clapping and grinning. He was glowing with pride and affection for Simon, right there, where everyone could see it.

That was the moment Simon realized he was well and truly gone for this man, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Over the summer, the two became inseparable.

The media had a field day with their now-public friendship, of course. It seemed like every week there were new photos of the two of them out and about plastered all over the gossip pages; sometimes with other friends in a larger group, and sometimes by themselves. Simon didn't mind anymore. Now that he knew Wille didn't mind, he was no longer insecure about it.

Which was not to say they were out in front of the cameras all day, every day. One thing Simon had come to learn was that Wille, having grown up under public scrutiny in a way few other people in the world could relate to, intensely guarded his privacy and his relationships. There were things that, as a prince, he owed to the public; however, he was still a human being, and as such, he had a right to a private life, to have personal thoughts and intimate moments with his loved ones that no one else should be privy to unless he allowed it. He could deal with some level of media attention so long as it was on his terms.

Having been a public person for a few years now, Simon could definitely relate to that.

So they went out to eat at a public space every once in a while, or to a show, or to an event. They attended a movie premiere once, as well as a couple of charity drives. They had a party at a karaoke bar with a big group to celebrate Simon's 26th birthday. They greeted and took selfies with people at the opening of an amusement park (Wille's bodyguards were very useful to keep the fans from getting handsy). They walked side by side at Stockholm Pride, Simon wearing a rainbow cape and Wille wearing a pin of the Swedish flag crossed over a Pride flag— a small but noticeable gesture when worn on his otherwise Crown-approved outfit. The entertainment media seized on such outings to spin dozens of pieces that kept them satisfied for the time being, and at the same time brought positive press for both of them.

But most of their time together, they spent either visiting mutual friends or at each other's places— and wasn't that quite the thing? If someone had told Simon just a few months ago that he would routinely be hanging out at Drottningholm Palace like he used to hang out at Ayub's place when he was a teenager, he would've laughed in that person's face.

Yet here he was, lounging on the prince's bed, browsing TikTok, while the prince himself reclined in his probably ancient rococo chaise longue like some 18th-century duchesse, except with a laptop propped open on his chest. It was an image of life he never would've pictured for himself before, but one that had become so familiar to him over the past few months that he couldn't imagine not having it anymore.

So if he found himself aching to be in Wille's bed in an entirely different context, well, he'd learned to keep that to himself by now. No one had to know.

Simon swept his gaze away to keep his thoughts from turning down that bad, bad road. Instead, he snuck a glance at the pinboard with a bunch of photos and mementos Wille kept on top of his desk, propped up against the wall— it was the only way he could bring any sort of personality into his bedroom without damaging the probably ridiculously expensive décor. Among the items pinned onto the board was the pin he wore at Pride, and the bright colors caught Simon's eye right away.

"Hey," he said out loud, breaking the quiet for the first time in a few minutes— they'd grown very comfortable in silence lately. He turned his phone screen off and moved so he was lying down on his stomach with his head at the foot of the bed, rather than propped up on a mountain of pillows against the headboard.

"Hmm," came Wille's noncommittal response, focused as he was on the schedule he was trying to figure out. The royal family had foregone their usual summer retreat at Solliden in favor of a shorter trip near the end of September that coincided with his baby niece's birthday.

Wille did not seem particularly enthused about family holidays in general (with parents like his, who would be?), and had whined incessantly for weeks about not being allowed to bring any friends (read: Simon) with him. But he adored his little niece— something Simon could personally attest to, given the frankly ridiculous number of pictures of her that made their way to their chat conversations— so he was actually looking forward to this one. If only he didn't have to browse through dozens and dozens of emails from his team and his mother's team and his brother's team to try and figure out which schedule worked best for everyone.

"Wille," Simon insisted. He kept his eyes fixed on the pin. "Do you think you'll be at next year's QX Gala? I think I heard my manager say something about me being invited to present one of the awards."

"I don't know," Wille mumbled distractedly, similarly fixated on his computer screen. "It might be Erik's turn this time."

Simon frowned, turning his head back in his direction. The way he said it so indifferently, "Erik's turn," like supporting the event was a chore— it grated on Simon a little. But before he could ask, Wille met his gaze, curious. "Why? Did you want me to go?"

Simon shrugged. "I mean... only if you want to go," he said. The "with me" that belonged at the end of the sentence was left implied. "If you don't want to go, I can ask Rosh if she can make the trip—"

"Why would I not want to go?" Now Wille was the one frowning, puzzled. He closed his laptop and sat up, turning sideways so he could look at Simon directly.

"I don't know. I guess..." Simon hesitated. "Do you remember when we met, how I made that joke about you possibly winning the Ally award? You just... you looked so uncomfortable." He shook his head. "It made me wonder if maybe the Crown wanted you to be involved for PR reasons, but not too much that it would give you a reputation if you know what I mean."

"What? No!" Wille stood up, taking a few steps closer to the bed. "I mean, yes, that totally sounds like something the old bags at the Royal Court would do. But that wasn't why I was there. I wanted to be there." He sat down beside Simon and held his gaze so he would know he was telling the truth. "I still want to be there."

"Then I don't get why you seemed so upset," Simon retorted pointedly.

"I just..." Wille dropped his gaze down to his hands. "I'm not..." He struggled with the words for a moment before sighing. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyelids, then ran them through his hair as if frustrated.

"I just don't like being the center of attention, you know that," he finally said, sounding resigned. His shoulders sagged. He wouldn't look at Simon.

"You had already been a part of the show when you presented my award," Simon reminded him.

Wille shook his head. "Yeah, but that award was for you. Because you're incredible and no one deserves it more. It wasn't about me. I don't want anyone to give me an award just because of who I am."

"Hey, now." Simon pushed himself upright and moved so that he was seated beside Wille on the edge of the bed. "I know who you are better than any of them do— not your title or your family, but you— and I think you're pretty great." He smiled and playfully nudged him with his shoulder. "I think you deserve every good thing you get."

Wille smiled shyly and said "Thanks," but otherwise did not opine any further. Simon didn't expect him to; he was too humble for that.

They were quiet for a minute, gazes lost in infinity as they pondered this conversation. Simon was so lost in thought that he didn't notice Wille's hand moving until it touched the back of his. Just the lightest touch at first, the contact of pinky on pinky with the softness of a feather. Simon swore he could hear the echo of his furious heartbeat bounce against the antique wallpaper.

"Have you... have you been thinking about that moment this whole time?" Wille asked, looking down at their hands where they met. His own covered Simon's now, more confident. Simon turned his hand into his and intertwined their fingers. A squeeze was his only response.

Wille chuckled. "That's so dumb. You almost made me sound like I'm homophobic or something. What the fuck?"

"I don't know," Simon replied teasingly, his thumb brushing delicately over Wille's knuckle. "Isn't it a thing that if you have to say you're not homophobic, then you're probably homophobic?"

Wille rolled his eyes and mock-angrily pulled his hand out of Simon's grip. "I hate you," he said dryly, standing up and making his way back to the chaise longue.

Simon pointed at him with a finger, grinning triumphantly. "See? Homophobia."

Wille shook his head and picked up his previously discarded laptop. "You're an idiot," he volleyed back, giving Simon a mock glare. "I'll talk to Yara about the Gala, okay? It shouldn't be that hard to organize." Simon was sure Wille's assistant wouldn't have a problem with it. He'd never met a more efficient person in his life. "Would that make you happy, Your Majesty?"

"Perhaps," Simon retorted loftily, throwing his nose in the air in an exaggerated imitation of Queen Kristina. Wille recognized it for what it was and laughed at his antics.

He walked around the bed and set the laptop down on his desk, just a few centimeters from the pinboard Simon had been looking at earlier. "Let's get something to eat. I can't stand to look at one more email."

"I could eat," Simon conceded, and stood up, following Wille to the kitchen.

That conversation went a long way in assuaging Simon's worries about Wille's commitment to the queer community, so he pushed the issue to the back of his mind. He didn't even think of the QX Gala for months, save from sporadic updates from his manager.

By the time November rolled around, Simon had started working on his next album. That meant he didn't get as much time to hang out with Wille, but to be fair, Wille was equally caught up with work, the pre-holiday period being a busy one for the Royal Family. Simon himself was trying to push as hard as he could to get as much recorded as possible before everybody went on holiday break. He was hoping to get the album out early the following year.

That's why he was at the studio when, the week before Christmas, a call from Wille came in. At the vibration in his pocket, he signaled to his producer to stop recording and give him a minute to take the call.

"Hey, what's up?" he greeted when he took the phone to his ear. It was odd for Wille to call like this. First off, he knew Simon was at the studio and any extraneous, unexpected sound could ruin a take, so if he needed something, he wouldn't call; he'd just text. And second, he hadn't heard from Wille since that morning, so this seemed really out of the blue.

"Simon." Wille's voice was raspy and noticeably agitated like he was in pain. That immediately alarmed Simon.

"Wille, what's wrong?" he asked, concerned. There was no response on the other end of the line, only heavy breathing. He tried again, insistent. "Did something happen? What's got you like this?"

"Simon, I'm—" He cut himself off with an abrupt gasp, almost a whimper. Simon feared he was having trouble breathing and debated whether he should call a doctor, but he didn't know what the protocols for that were when it came to members of the Royal Family— if an ambulance would even be allowed near. "Can you come, please? I just— I can't—"

"Of course, it's just..." Simon hesitated. The studio was a good twenty-five minutes away from Drottningholm with no traffic, and closer to an hour in the middle of the day. If Wille needed help urgently, then maybe it was better for someone else, someone who was closer, to give it. "I'm so far away from the Palace right now. Have you tried your brother?"

"No, I just want you," Wille interjected quickly. Simon's heart nearly stopped inside his chest. He'd imagined Wille saying those words to him countless times, but not like this. Not when there was clearly something wrong. Wille was so distressed that he probably didn't think of how it could sound, but it was still a jolt to hear him say it.

"I'm okay; I can wait," he said, though he blurted it out so quickly that it wasn't very convincing. Then, he was pretty much begging when he spoke next. "Please, please, Simme, can you come? I need you here."

"Okay," Simon whispered, because what else was there to say? This man had him wrapped around his little finger; he would crawl on broken glass to get to Wille if he needed him. "Okay. But you have to wait for me, alright? I'm on my way."

Wille's response was a low, weak hum. It was all Simon needed to leave the recording booth and inform his producer and sound engineers that he was going to have to cut the session short because of a personal emergency.

He made it to Drottningholm in just over fifty minutes and didn't even have to announce himself at the security gate for them to immediately let him in. He parked at the sea wing and rang at Wille's door. There was no response. He hadn't been given an access code.

He tried the door and found it open. That wasn't good, was it? It wasn't a good idea for princes to just have their front doors open like this. But he didn't have time to ponder on it any further as he took the stairs two steps at a time.

He found Wille right after he hit the upper-floor landing, as he was sitting on the couch. He had his legs pulled up to his chest, arms around his knees, and he was biting his thumbnail so intensely, Simon was sure his nailbed was going to be sore for days.

"Hey," he said from where he stood, announcing his presence as innocuously as he could so as not to startle Wille. He looked like a scared woodland animal, the way he sat, but the tension in his shoulders lessened when he saw Simon standing there.

He walked around the couch and sat down slowly, both of them positioned sideways so that they were face to face. "Are you okay? What happened?" he asked.

Instead of answering, Wille shook his head and then unfolded his (long) limbs from their tight lock to push up on his knees until he could throw his arms around Simon's shoulders, clinging on for dear life. Simon returned the embrace with a comforting grip. "What's wrong, Wille?" he asked. "You're scaring me."

His reply was muffled against Simon's shoulder. "I've been nominated for the Hetero of the Year award."

The reveal made Simon feel like someone had dropped a bucket of ice water on his head, and for a second he was angry. That was it? He'd been worried something was really wrong, and it turned out this whole thing was about a stupid award show?

But then he remembered that Wille had already expressed some reluctance to this making him "the center of attention," and he knew that Wille had dealt with anxiety issues his entire life. So he could understand him being a little freaked out at this news, perhaps.

But still... this reaction felt a little extreme. "Okay?" he said, not sure how to toe the line between those two positions. "Wille, it's okay. You don't have to go to the gala if you don't want to. You know that, right? I know I asked you, but you don't have to worry about me. I can—"

Quite abruptly, Wille pried himself out of Simon's arms, and getting up off the couch, he started pacing. "It's not about the stupid ceremony, okay?" he declared with an impatient huff as lifted a hand to his hair and tugged hard at the strands. "I can't be nominated for this award."

Simon frowned, utterly stumped. "Does it matter? You might not even win," he pointed out, his eyes following Wille's back-and-forth movement.

"It does matter. Just being nominated is bad enough," Wille retorted. He rubbed at his chest as he took long strides between pieces of furniture. "I have to find a way out of this, Simon. I can't do this. I just can't."

The spark of irritation reignited once again inside Simon. "I don't understand," he said, and it felt like a massive understatement. "You said you didn't mind being associated with the Gay Gala. And I know you get anxious about public speaking, but you've already been up on that stage once. Why is it so different—"

"No, you don't get it," he cut Simon off sharply, shaking his head emphatically. "I can't be nominated for the straight ally award because I'm not—" He groaned and stopped in his tracks, covering his face with his hands and then running them through his hair, frustration obvious in the jerky motion.

He turned toward Simon and concluded, with a sigh, "...because I'm not straight."

It took Simon a beat, maybe two, to process those words. Wille stood there, looking more and more terrified with every second that passed in silence, and all Simon could do was look up at him and murmur a wispy "...Oh."

That made a lot of sense, actually. Wille wasn't going through a PR crisis; he was going through a queer crisis.

He seemed to take Simon's silence as disapproval, because he went as pale as a sheet and started pacing again, babbling up and down the edge of the living room rug. "I know I should've told you ages ago and I'm sorry; I understand if you're angry and it's not that I don't trust you, it's just that I wasn't—"

It was the "angry" bit that made Simon snap out of his shock. "Hey, no. No." He got up off the couch and approached Wille, standing in front of him to get him to stop pacing. He put his hands on Wille's shoulders, drawing his attention straight to him. "You don't owe your sexuality to anyone, okay? Not even me. It's up to you when and how and to whom you want to disclose it."

He smiled at Wille, then hugged him tight. He could feel Wille's arms shaking as they wrapped around his waist. "And I'm not angry at all. I'm so proud of you, Wille. I'm so happy you told me."

"Thanks," Wille mumbled with a sniffle. His face was buried in the crook between Simon's neck and shoulder.

They stood in that embrace for a little while, and Simon could feel Wille starting to relax into it. When they pulled back, there was still a sniffle here and there, but he didn't seem as anxious as before. "I still have to figure out what to do about the award, though," he said, rubbing at his eyes.

Simon pondered that for a minute. He could understand Wille's predicament a bit better now: accepting the nomination (or worse, the actual award) would be lying, but at the same time, turning it down would require him to come out. It was a lose-lose situation.

"Could you just bow out without saying why?" Simon asked. He'd had some experience in the limelight and he'd thought "No comment" was always an option, but his media exposure, significant as it was, was nothing compared to what Wille had had to deal with his entire life. Maybe it was just different for him.

As if confirming that though, Wille shook his head. "Turning it down would only invite more questions. Secrecy is like catnip to the gossip rags." He sighed. "Plus, it would look horrible. Like I'm thumbing my nose at the LGBTQ+ community, which is the last thing I want. And it would be terrible PR. My mother would probably have a heart attack if I did that without warning the media team."

"Don't threaten me with a good time," Simon mumbled jokingly under his breath. Wille heard it, anyway, since they were standing so close, and gave him a mock glare. He was also smiling, so it was very ineffective.

"Well, what if you come up with some believable excuse to turn it down? I can't think of any right now, but..." Simon tried instead. He was just throwing ideas at the wall by this point, to see what stuck. Usually, Wille had a whole team to take care of these things, but he couldn't exactly go to them in this case. Not with something this personal.

Another idea occurred to him then. "Maybe you should talk to Erik? You're always saying how he's so much better at the PR thing than you are. Maybe he could come up with something." It was a shot across the bow, really, since Simon didn't even know if Wille had come out to Erik yet. But they were so close— Wille idolized his older brother, and for good reason. Simon had seen them interact once or twice and couldn't imagine Erik ever not being supportive.

Perhaps that wasn't going to be a problem after all, since Wille's eyes lit up at the suggestion. "You're right! I should call Erik; he'll know what to do." He told Simon to wait for him in the living room as he went to his bedroom to look for his phone— apparently, he'd just dropped it... somewhere... after calling him earlier.

Simon sat back down on the couch. Now that Wille was out of the room for at least a couple of minutes and he didn't have to be in supportive mode, he finally had time on his own to process... well, everything.

Wille's revelation shook him to the core. He'd been so sure, for the better part of a year, that Wille was straight. Because princes couldn't be anything but, and surely any behavior of Wille's that pinged his gaydar was just him fooling himself because he'd developed a stupid, stupid crush on his new friend.

And now it turned out that he was wrong about that— wrong about everything— and it felt like he'd been, for the past several months, living a lie. Not one that Wille had imposed on him, of course; he'd meant it when he said Wille had no obligation to inform him, or anyone, of his sexuality. No, this was a lie of his own making, truly.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to make sense of the rampaging whirlpool of conflicting and compounding thoughts inside his head. One question stood out among the bedlam, much to Simon's chagrin, but he couldn't stop thinking about it now.

What was worse: pining for someone who couldn't reciprocate his feelings because he didn't like men, or pining for someone who did like men but still wouldn't reciprocate his feelings?

Either way, he ended up hurt.

That's when Wille came back to the living room and Simon had to put his supportive smile back on. No time to dwell on illusions when his friend needed his help.

Erik laughed so hard he nearly fell off his chair.

Wille, standing directly in front of him with his arms crossed, glared at his brother. "It's not funny."

Erik tried to speak several times but couldn't stop laughing, bent forward in his seat like he was in pain. His face was so red, it nearly matched the af Klint that hung behind him. "Are you kidding me?" he finally managed, in between heaving gasps of air. "This is hilarious!"

Simon had to admit that, when Erik asked them to come to his home so they could have a conversation, this was not how he expected the conversation would go.

Wille had mentioned that Erik was working from home today because his wife was at some charity event and they always tried to have at least one of them stay with their daughter. Simon was sure they had nannies that could take care of the little princess just as well, but he thought it spoke well of the Crown Prince that he wanted to be involved in raising his daughter even though he technically didn't have to and historically his family hadn't bothered.

Simon still thought the monarchy was an obsolete, unnecessary institution, but ever since he'd become friends with Wille, he'd witnessed at least a few of the changes the princes were introducing in an attempt to modernize the system. He'd still rather Sweden be a republic than anything else, but if he had to live in a monarchical form of government, he'd take a somewhat modernized one over the old guard, for sure.

Regardless, he would've figured Erik would be too busy or tired to see them today, but Wille had assured him his brother was going to put the little one down for a nap while they made the drive to Haga, and anything else he had to do could wait until they'd dealt with Wille's urgent problem. He was a good brother.

Though you wouldn't think so by the way he was cackling at his little brother's misfortune.

But then again, Simon had to admit it was kind of funny— under the Alanis Morisette definition of irony, at least. If you were a third party to the situation and weren't too emotionally invested in the outcome, you'd probably find it somewhat comical. Simon certainly could see some humor in it.

Wille caught the upward curl of his lips out of the corner of his eye and turned his glare on him. "Well, I'm glad my misery is so amusing to you two!" he said, annoyed. Simon pressed his lips together tightly to keep himself from snickering.

"Okay, okay. No need to get dramatic," Erik said with a placating gesture once he had enough air back in his lungs. "It's just one hell of a coincidence that, out of everyone in Sweden, they nominate you for the straight-person award." He shook his head. "If they only knew."

Now that comment bugged Simon a bit. "You say that like people can just take one look at him and know." He gestured to Wille, who, apart from the pout, looked every bit the picture of the perfect straight European royal. "It's not like it's obvious." He would know; he'd been completely oblivious to Wille's queerness— Sara would call it completely in denial— for nearly eleven months.

Erik then turned his amused gaze at Simon, which made him feel a bit like he was the obvious one now. "That's true," he conceded, "but it's one of those things where, once you see it, you can never unsee it."

Simon had to give him that one. Lord knew he could now feel Wille's queerness radiating off him like a force field, making his skin tingle like some kind of Wille-induced Spidey-Sense. And God, wasn't that just the height of patheticness? He had to get a grip.

"Okay, can we get to figuring out my problem, please?" Wille insisted, now that his brother's laughing fit was out of the way. "Simon suggested coming up with some excuse to turn down the nomination without sounding like I'm insulting the entire queer community, but I can't think of anything that doesn't make me sound like a total snob. I figured maybe you'd have some ideas. Mamma will murder me if our approval rate dips even a little."

He ran a hand through his hair, disheartened. Simon didn't follow the movement of the dark-blond strands through his pale fingers. He didn't.

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that for a group of people who were supposed to be non-political, the Royal Family was all about politics. Every choice was more about the optics than about the choice itself. Simon didn't envy them one bit.

Perhaps that's why he wasn't bothered by what Erik suggested then. It was kind of refreshing for a royal to want things to be what they were.

"We could come up with something, I'm sure, but I'm thinking there's an opportunity here. Listen..." Erik bent forward in his chair, supporting his forearms on his knees. "What if you just... tell them the truth?"

Wille's entire body stiffened. He was really still for a brief moment, then started to shake his head almost by reflex. He opened his mouth, probably to refute the suggestion outright, but Erik beat him to it. "Just hear me out," he said, once again making that calming gesture with his hand. Simon wondered just how often the gesture came up as part of their regular brotherly dynamic. "I'm not telling you when you should come out. If you don't think you're ready, then you don't have to. We'll figure it out. But... don't you want to?"

Wille didn't say a word, still looking aghast and mildly nauseous. Erik sighed. "I just think it would be such a relief for you, little brother," he said, softer than Simon had ever heard him. "You're twenty-six years old. You've been keeping this part of you locked inside for so long already. Aren't you tired? You're wound so tight. Don't you want to take that weight off your shoulders?"

He shook his head. "There's always going to be backlash, whether you do it now or in fifty years. And I think we're at a point now with our approval rates, as you helpfully just pointed out, that the backlash might be minimal, and in return, you get to be yourself— fully yourself— for the first time in... years!"

The next argument was accompanied by a small chuckle. "Plus, with a little bit of luck, you get to have that moment in front of a community that already loves you, even if they don't know." He smiled genuinely. Wille's eyes watered. Simon thought his just might as well.

"I know it's scary," Erik continued, "but Wille... you could be free. Or at least as free as you can be in your position as a prince of Sweden." He stood up, walked the couple of steps that separated him from Wille, and put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Don't you want that?"

Wille still couldn't speak. He stared at Erik intensely, hopefully. The only moment he broke his gaze was when he lifted a hand to wipe his eyes. "Mamma will never—"

"You let me deal with Mamma," Erik interrupted with a shake of his head. "I know it doesn't feel like it sometimes, but she does want what's best for you. It's just a question of balancing it out with what's best for the Crown." He squeezed Wille's shoulder. "I'll talk to her. I'm sure I can make her see that this is a win-win situation."

Wille wasn't quite convinced yet. "But the line of succession—"

"—is perfectly secure as it is," Erik declared, finishing the sentence for him. "I will be King when Mamma retires, and Lulu will be Queen after me. And she'll have her favorite uncle by her side when she does, to teach her how to be brave." He grinned, messing up his brother's hair. "You don't have to worry your pretty little head about the line of succession, alright?"

"Stop that!" He swatted Erik's hands away, but he was smiling for the first time since they arrived at Haga Palace. Simon found himself smiling as well.

"Okay," Wille said then, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand again. Simon noted they were red rimmed. "Okay. So, how do we do this?"

Erik grinned and patted both his brother's shoulders proudly. "Okay, so I'm thinking you probably don't even have to be there in person if you don't want to?" He stepped back, addressing both Wille and Simon for a moment. Simon appreciated being included, though there wasn't much he could do other than support Wille. "It should be easy enough to get QX to give us some space during the ceremony, whether you win the award or not."

He looked at Wille again. "Once we have that, we can have someone read a statement in your stead, or you could even pre-record a video and we'd have them play it during the ceremony. There are options, so we can go with whatever you feel most comfortable with."

Wille looked for a beat like he was overwhelmed with even just those two options, but he shook it off quickly. "No, I think I should do it myself," he said with a shake of his head. "I feel like I kind of owe it to them, you know?" He glanced at Simon, just a few steps away, with a determined glint in his brown eyes. "I have this platform, so I should use it, right? If I'm going to make news, I might as well go big."

Simon grinned, feeling so much love for him that he felt his chest was about to explode. Wille not only wanted to live his truth, but he wanted to announce it in a way that gave the LGBTQ+ community as much visibility and public support as possible. Even though his anxiety was probably screaming at him at the mere prospect. Simon had never been more proud.

"If that's what you want," Erik conceded, but Simon thought he looked much like Simon felt. "I'll talk to Mamma as soon as possible, and then I'm sure we'll have to have some meetings with the media team— they'll help us set everything—"

He cut himself off when his smartwatch vibrated. "Ah. Looks like a certain someone is up," he said with a soft smile. Simon assumed he meant his daughter. "I'll just go check on my spawn real quick. You guys just wait here, okay? Don't leave without saying bye." He left through one of the two doors that bookended the parlor, and Simon and Wille were left alone in the huge space.

Wille turned to look at Simon with a sigh. That, along with the red-tinged eyes, made him look tired. But he also looked almost hopeful in a way— or perhaps Simon was just projecting. He liked to think he could read Wille well enough by now.

"Hey," he said, approaching him carefully and gently laying a hand on his arm. "Are you okay? You don't have to do this if you don't want to, you know. Erik himself said it's okay if you aren't ready."

Wille shook his head. "No, I want to." He took a deep breath in. "Erik's right; it's time. I don't want to keep pretending. Or allowing people to believe I'm someone I'm not, I guess," he amended quickly.

"And I want to be happy," he added with a small shrug, in a kinda "aw, shucks" manner that Simon would never associate with a prince but was so inherently Wille. "I want to be with someone I love. And if that happens to be a man, well..." His gaze locked on Simon's. "...I don't want to miss my chance."

And God, Simon knew he was just speaking in a hypothetical and it wasn't about him, but they were standing so close and he just couldn't look away. "Wille..." he whispered, inching just a little bit closer, the already narrow space between them reduced infinitesimally.

"Simon, I..." Wille whispered back, and if Simon didn't know better, he would've sworn he was leaning in...

...except that's when Erik popped his head back into the room. "Hey, Wille," he called out. Then he gave them a surprised-slash-amused look as they quickly sprang apart. "Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt. Was just wondering if I could talk to you in private for a second?"

He signaled behind him with a nod of his head. "Also, Lulu is demanding that you go say hi." He grimaced a bit. "Please don't upset Her Majesty; she'll be grumpy all afternoon, and I'm the one who has to deal with her."

Wille cleared his throat. "Yeah. Of course." He turned to Simon. "I'll be right back, okay?"

He followed Erik, presumably to Princess Lulu's room, and Simon let himself fall on the nearest canapé. He felt like he'd just run a marathon, even though he'd just been standing there quietly for most of the conversation. Wille was going to be the death of him, he was sure.

But he'd be damned if he went before he had the chance to see him get the happiness he wanted. The happiness he deserved. Even if he had to push his own down into the ground to get there.

Simon was nervous as he stood backstage at the QX Gala, waiting for this year's host, Sanna Nielsen, to call him for his assigned category. He wasn't nervous for himself, though; all he had to do was read some stuff off the teleprompter and open an envelope— as long as he didn't pull a La La Land, he'd be fine.

No, he was worried about Wille. Simon's coming out had been pretty much a non-event: he'd just mentioned it one day, his family and friends accepted it without a fuss, and life moved on. It wasn't even something that came up very often, since he didn't even have a boyfriend until he was in his late teens.

Still, he knew that many, if not most, queer people didn't have it so easy. And while Wille had all the privilege in the world due to his title, that didn't necessarily guarantee his safety— physical or mental. Coming out to one's family at the dinner table one random Saturday wasn't quite on the same level as coming out to the entirety of Sweden on national television. He wouldn't blame Wille if he changed his mind at the last minute.

"He needs no introduction. Please give a round of applause to our winner of last year's LGBTQ of the Year award: Simon Eriksson!"

That was his cue, so Simon put on a confident smile and walked out onto the main stage. Although his reception wasn't quite as exuberant as Wille's had been last year, a fair number of people stood up to cheer for him, and after a careful sweeping glance at the tables closest to the stage, he saw that Wille was one of them. They exchanged a secret smile before the noise finally died down enough for Simon to start reading.

"Thank you," he started warmly with a cursory sweep of the wider room. "I was incredibly honored to be your LGBTQ of the Year in the previous gala, and I am equally honored to be here today to present the Hetero of the Year award." There was more applause after he said that.

"Although we have come a long way since the days when being openly queer was illegal, there are still battles to be fought if we want to achieve full equality. These are worthy battles, but not the kind that our community can fight alone. Like any battle, it is easier to fight with an ally watching your back, offering you support, and standing up for you when you aren't able to stand up for yourself, for any reason." He could see people nodding in the audience. "Winning this battle is going to require all of us, regardless of our sexuality or gender identity, because we all have a personal stake in making the world better and more inclusive."

He nodded before he moved on to the main point of his intro. "This is why it is so important to acknowledge and show our appreciation to our straight allies who go the extra mile to walk beside us on the long and often winding road to equality." He paused for a second, just for effect. "In that spirit, the nominees for Hetero of the Year are..."

He turned to the side to watch the nominees montage on the big screen at the back of the stage. Just like the previous year, still photographs of each of the nominees were shown, with a voiceover explaining who they were and what they did that earned them the nomination.

Simon had to smile when Wille's came on; it was actually one of his favorite pictures of him. It wasn't a posed shot but rather a still from some Instagram video he did at one point, probably for some charity cause, but Simon couldn't recall. In the photo, he was wearing a white t-shirt with a Celtic-blue sweater vest, and the cross necklace he always wore around his neck. His hair was lighter in the summer and his cheeks were flushed from the sunlight. He was smiling— a closed-lips smile, sweet and amused and maybe a little shy.

He didn't look like "the prince." He looked soft. Soft and a little dorky and a little posh, and if that wasn't the perfect description of Wille, the real Wille that Simon knew and loved, well, he didn't know what else it could be.

The volume of the cheers made it very clear who the favorite was. Still, Simon had to go through the motions. "And the nominee who got the most votes is..." He opened up the envelope and— of course. He grinned, leaned close to the microphone and read: "Prince Wilhelm."

The roar of the crowd was deafening.

To Wille's credit, he didn't pale, or make a face, or make any other exaggerated sort of gesture. His response was perfectly befitting someone of his social stature: he smiled, nodded at the crowd, and stood up, buttoning his jacket as he made his way toward the stage.

When he started up the stairs, however, the audience's cheers slowly started morphing into a chant: "Hug! Hug!" became clearer and clearer as more and more people joined in. It caught Simon off-guard because— really? Great, his (love?) life had become a meme. But sometimes you had to give people what they wanted, he figured, especially when it was what he wanted as well.

Wille was ready with his arms open as he approached, and Simon gladly sank into them, hooking his chin on Wille's shoulder in a way that was more than familiar to him by now. The audience's cheers intensified, but this wasn't a congratulatory hug. It was a comfort embrace; he could feel it in the tight clasp of Wille's arms around his shoulders, the tight grip of Wille's fist on the fabric of his shirt. A moment of vulnerability only Simon was privy to.

"It'll be fine," he said in Wille's ear, his turn now to offer barely audible assurances under the din of an adoring crowd. "You're brave." He felt Wille nod, then they stepped apart and Simon, award statuette still in his hand, signaled for Wille to move to the podium.

"Thank you," Wille said into the mic, once again having to wait for the crowd's applause to die down. It took less time than the previous year, but it was still a significant wait in TV time. "This is going to be a little unorthodox, but I would like to call the nominee who got the second-highest number of votes, my friend Felice Ehrencrona, to come up here."

Simon located Felice easily; he'd already caught sight of her earlier, as she was seated just a couple of tables away from Wille, with a group of fellow influencers. She stood and made her way to the stage steps, completely unruffled. She wasn't surprised and didn't even pretend to be; this was all staged, after all. At least it was good luck that Felice was nominated for the Hetero award as well. Both he and Wille felt better putting this whole production into motion if they had a friend on the inside.

Felice got to the stage and gave Simon a quick hug. She didn't approach the podium but put her hands on her chest to signal to Wille her affection and support. Wille smiled at her before he continued talking.

"I know you're all probably very confused, but before I explain, I just want to say that I'm incredibly grateful to every single one of you who took time out of your busy life to vote for me. Your support does not go unnoticed; it means the world to me, and that will remain so no matter what happens after I get off this stage."

Simon snuck a glance at the audience and could already see more than a few people looking confused, or at least curious. Well, they'd better wait for the rest of the speech, because the big bomb had yet to drop.

"I called Felice up here because I cannot accept this award," Wille said, right to the point. Gasps and murmurs already started bubbling up from the crowd. Wille resolutely ignored it all, only gesturing in the direction where Simon and Felice were standing. This was Simon's cue to hand Felice the statuette, which she accepted with a smile and a "Thank you" that went unheard by the audience or the cameras.

"I will let her give her acceptance speech in just a minute, I promise," Wille added. Felice promptly shook her head, curls flying around her with the movement, and waved the comment off emphatically. She'd already told him she didn't need to speak, but that didn't stop Wille from feeling guilty. In the end, she blew him a few kisses and indicated for him to continue.

Wille soldiered on despite the crowd's skepticism. "It may not be obvious right now, but Felice earned this. I may have gotten more votes, but the truth is that I simply do not fit the eligibility criteria to even be nominated for this award..." He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "...because I am not heterosexual."

The confused, stumped reactions from the audience became louder and louder, but even among the uncertain murmurs, scattered cheers and applause were already starting to filter through. Some excited screeching, too, which was familiar to Simon from his own concerts. He thought he heard someone near the front scream "The gays win, bitches!" and it made him laugh.

Wille must've heard it, too, because he chuckled. The moment of levity served to unintentionally break the tension of the big reveal. It was wonderful to see the rigidity of his stance soften, even if just a little.

"I wouldn't go that far," Wille said with a small, somewhat nervous laugh of his own. By this point, the whole room was on their feet cheering for him, even more than they had the previous year, and Wille once again had to wait until the volume of the ovation became low enough that he could be heard when he spoke.

"I haven't settled on a label," he continued, "and I don't particularly feel the need to do so just yet. But I guess if you have to call me something, I would say I am queer." Even more applause and cheers and chants burst out at that last remark.

"I hope this doesn't change anyone's opinion of me," he said thoughtfully, but then he smirked impishly. "Well, if you happened to dislike me before and this somehow changes your mind, I definitely welcome that." The audience laughed along with him. Simon rolled his eyes, amused.

"But realistically, I understand that this might make some people see me, and even the institution I'm a part of, differently. That is okay." He smiled at the crowd, and he no longer seemed nervous. He looked like he had hit his stride, a quiet but steely resoluteness taking over. Simon quite liked confidence on him.

"I am still a member of your Royal Family, and I will work as hard as I can to be the best representative I can be for all Swedish people, regardless of my sexual orientation— regardless of your sexual orientation, or gender identity, or any label you identify with— because everyone deserves respect. Everyone has the right to live their life however makes them happy. Everyone has the right to love who they love."

By now the applause was continuous; people weren't even sitting down between standing ovations anymore. Simon was pretty sure Felice was crying but trying really hard to hold it in so as not to ruin her makeup. As for Simon himself, he simply couldn't stop smiling. He was so, so incredibly proud.

"And I wanted to do this here," Wille continued, "because I have felt so welcomed by all of you, even back when you just assumed I was straight." Scattered laughter rang out around the hall again. "But even though I can't accept this award today, I wanted to be here so I could tell you all that, especially tonight, I am proud to be your prince. I am proud to be Swedish. And I am proud to be a member of the LGBTQ+ community."

The clamor of the audience was so loud, Wille had to yell into the microphone when he said, "Thank you, and have a good night." When he turned back to where Simon and Felice were still standing, he looked buoyant, like an immense pressure had been lifted off of him and he was just floating on air. It was brilliant. He was brilliant. Shining. Sparkling. And maybe Simon was a little bit biased, but if the unbroken applause of the crowd was any indication, he probably wasn't the only one who thought so.

Felice got to him first. She hugged him tightly and said something— Simon couldn't hear what— before stepping aside so he could take her place. Then he was right back in Wille's arms— and didn't it make so much sense for "Wille's arms" to sound like the origin of Simon's coordinate system, the point that every other event in Simon's life referred back to, the place where he always wanted to return?

"I can't believe I just did that," Wille said, the awe in his voice resonating with Simon's.

"You did that," Simon replied. He caressed the back of Wille's head with one hand, fingers threading through the soft hair there in what he hoped was a comforting, reassuring motion. "And it was amazing." Wille only squeezed him tighter in response, a deep, relieved sigh escaping his lungs.

Over Wille's shoulder, Simon could see the stage attendant gesturing for them to follow him off the stage. "We should move on," he prodded.

He tried to pull back so they could do just that, but Wille held him in place, just far enough that they could look each other in the face. "Wait, just— one more thing," he requested. He looked nervous again. Simon couldn't imagine why he would be. He'd already come out to an audience of hundreds, and within minutes he would to the entire nation; surely nothing could be bigger than that.

Simon looked at him expectantly. They weren't being rushed out just yet, but surely they couldn't just stand there chatting in the middle of the stage for as long as they wanted, so whatever Wille wanted to say, he'd better say it soon.

"I just—" he started, hesitant. "I just... I wanted to thank you. I would never have done this if it wasn't for you."

Simon's brow furrowed. Not that he wasn't touched by Wille's gratitude, but a thank-you was hardly something so urgent that he couldn't wait a few minutes to say it backstage. "I didn't do anything," he said, admittedly a little confused. "You did this for yourself, Wille."

"Yeah, but, like..." He shook his head like trying to rearrange his thoughts. "I would've... I would've just coasted through life just doing what was expected of me— being who I was expected to be— and I probably would've never been fully happy. And I would've been fine with that because I didn't know any better, you know? I thought that was just my lot in life. I didn't know I could have this— didn't know I could want this."

His hold on Simon's waist tightened almost by reflex. "But then you were here at the awards and— God, this is so stupid because I already had a massive crush on you before I even met you, but then I actually got to talk to you, and you were so... you were so much more amazing than I'd ever imagined. And I found myself thinking of, hoping for, things that had never even crossed my mind before."

Simon would've liked to say that he was listening carefully to Wille, hanging onto his every word. In truth, however, his brain had started short-circuiting the second he heard the word "crush" come out of the man's mouth. His heart was racing; he was sure his eyes had to be wide as plates. Wille couldn't be saying what it sounded like, right? "What—"

"Getting to know you this last year has been the best thing that's ever happened to me," Wille continued when Simon couldn't finish formulating the question— any question, really, as he wasn't quite sure what he'd even meant to ask. "Having you in my life made me realize that coming out wasn't just this thing I could do, on principle, in the abstract. It suddenly was a thing I should do because there was finally something on the other side of it that I wanted. Something that would make me happy, truly happy, in a way I never would be if I stayed in the closet. Something that would be worth all the anxiety and the fear and the unwanted attention."

He bit the corner of his mouth lightly before he spoke again. "And I realized I didn't want to let that thing go. I don't want to let you go."

That sounded very final and was perhaps why Simon finally managed to string more than two words together. "Let me go? Wille—"

He continued before Simon even had a moment to process what was happening. "And I understand if you don't feel the same, or if you think that being with me is too much. That's okay. I can deal with it if you just want to stay friends, but... I feel that we could be so much more, and I just..." He trailed off like he'd run out of steam. "I just wanted you to know."

He paused there, on edge, and Simon finally had the space to think about what was happening. Still, he couldn't make sense of all the thoughts in his head, all the hopes and longing that seemed, for once, like they could actually become a reality. With his heartbeat thundering in his ears, he asked: "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I love you," Wille finally declared, and Simon's heart went from a thousand kilometers per hour right to zero for one long, eternal second. "And I want to be with you if you'll have me."

Simon couldn't believe what he'd just heard. He'd hoped, sure; maybe even fantasized about it in his more emotional moments. But to hear those three words out of Wille's mouth? It felt like a dream.

It was Wille's apprehensive expression that reminded Simon this wasn't a dream. The Wille of his dreams wouldn't look so spooked— as if Simon would ever reject him, please— and it was kind of adorable. He couldn't help but smile.

"Wille," he said, feeling like he was flying. He lifted a hand to cradle the side of Wille's face. "Can I kiss you?"

The hesitation slowly melted off him as he realized what that question meant, giving way to a bright smile. The sheer joy in his eyes, shining almost golden under the stage lights, said more than any one word ever could. So instead of speaking, he leaned in and captured Simon's lips with his.

If Simon had been paying any level of attention to the world around them, he might have ended up with ear damage, for the audience's cheers had ratcheted up to a veritable frenzy. As it was, Simon could barely remember there was an entire crowd of people watching them; all he could feel was the warmth of Wille's lips against his, the steadiness of his grasp where it pulled him close, the love in every brush of their skin. As far as he was concerned, it was just the two of them in this event hall, regardless of the hundreds of eyes looking in on them.

He'd somehow convinced himself for months that he couldn't have this. He had never been more ecstatic to be wrong.

They pulled back for air, just the bare minimum distance for Wille to rest his forehead against his. Simon was about to kiss him again before the noise around them started filtering back, but that's when Felice intervened.
"Boys?" she said from where she stood, just a couple of feet behind Wille. She sounded like it wasn't the first time she'd called out to them in the past minute or so.

They both turned (a little dazed, Simon was sure) to look at her. She had a playful glint in her eyes. "This is wonderful, and I am so thrilled for you, but they do still have one more award to give out."

Flustered as it dawned on them that they'd just shared their first kiss in front of an audience of hundreds, plus a dozen cameras and potentially the entire country, they hurried offstage at Felice's heel, applause and whistles from the rowdy crowd following them as they exited— Wille even waved at the audience as they left because he was that big of a dork. As they disappeared backstage, Simon heard host Sanna Nielsen jokingly comment: "Well, I'm glad I'm not the one who has to follow that!" to the crowd's thorough amusement.

Once they were out of sight of the cameras and back under the watchful eye of Wille's bodyguard, Malin (who Simon had grown quite fond of over the past few months, funnily enough), they had a chance to take a breather and let the rush of adrenaline fizzle out.

Wille had come out, and it had gone better than anyone would've expected. And then he'd confessed his love for Simon, which Simon hadn't expected at all, and they'd kissed for everyone to see, not only on the Cirkus stage but also on the world stage. That was fine. Well, the kiss itself was great— Simon was done lying to himself by this point: kissing Wille had been pretty damn great, and he would very much like to do it again as soon as possible— but the attention from the public was pretty overwhelming. Would probably always be pretty overwhelming.

He glanced at Wille, and Wille met his gaze. He gave Simon an earnest smile, and Simon knew they were going to be okay. They'd figure it out together.

Felice, still entirely too entertained by the not-quite-sneakiness of the small gestures they exchanged, decided she'd rather not third-wheel. "Alright, then. I'm going to go take my victory lap. I'll see you both later," she said, using her Hetero of the Year statuette to signal in the direction of the press area where the winners went to get interviewed by the media.

She hugged each of them in turn. "Oh, and congratulations, lovebirds." She winked at them and then disappeared into the flow of people coming and going past them in the backstage area. The place was bustling; there was an awards show still happening, after all.

Finally alone with Wille (or at least as alone as the people walking past allowed them because they were all afraid of getting tackled by Malin if they dared stray too close to the prince), Simon extended a hand to his— boyfriend? Would-be boyfriend? He didn't know what they were or where exactly they stood, but surely they could figure that out later. Right now, he just wanted to wrap himself in Wille's arms and stay there until they absolutely had to be somewhere else.

Wille took his hand and pulled him closer, apparently intending to do exactly that, but he was interrupted by his phone, which rang with a call. With an annoyed huff (which made Simon chuckle), he pulled his phone out of his pocket. Simon could see Erik's name on the screen.

It wasn't unexpected for Erik to be calling right around now. The gala wasn't airing live on TV, but because Wille's speech was planned with the Crown's media team, the Queen and her team got to watch an only-slightly delayed version of the recording so that they could indicate to the TV producers which, if any, parts of it should be edited out of the official broadcast. Erik was surely there, too— hence the phone call.

Wille couldn't very well ignore the call on the off chance it was coming straight from the Queen, so he gestured for Simon to wait for a second and accepted the video exchange, turning the screen so they both would appear on the camera. "Hey, Erik."

"Little brother!" Erik said with a shit-eating grin, stretching out the syllables in a ribbing manner. "You know, when I told you to tell Simon how you feel, I didn't mean to plant one on him in front of all of Sweden!"

Simon's eyebrows lifted nearly up to his hairline, and he turned his head to look at Wille, curious and amused at the same time. Wille just winced, his ears going red. "Can't the teasing wait until the next time we see each other face to face?"

"Nope. This is my duty as your older brother," Erik retorted, grin still in place. "But either way, I also wanted to let you know that your little improvisation tonight has ruffled Mamma's feathers, to say the least." He shook his head. "I think I heard her ranting about 'improper behavior for a prince of Sweden' as she walked out of the room."

"Is she going to pull the whole thing?" Wille asked, and the worry in his voice made Simon worry.

"No, TV4 will put out your speech as a 'highlight' of the gala," Erik said, a bit more sober now. He looked at his wristwatch. "Probably in a few minutes, actually. I think what she's trying to do is get them to leave the kiss out of the official broadcast." Honestly, Simon had expected no less from the Queen: she might've been okay with her son coming out (which, granted, was good) as long as he did it in a way she deemed appropriate (which was... not so good).

"I'm sure her aides will convince her that wouldn't make a difference, though," Erik continued. "There must have been hundreds of people in that hall recording it all on their phones. I'd be shocked if it hasn't hit the web yet; might as well put out an official, Crown-sanctioned version by this point. I just wanted to let you know so you're ready for a lecture the next time you see her."

Wille's shoulders relaxed now that he realized all the work they'd put in to make his coming out as visible as possible hadn't gone to waste. He put his hand around Simon's waist and drew him closer to his side, Simon automatically resting his head on his shoulder. "Frankly, Erik, right now I simply don't care."

Erik smiled again, affection in his gaze. "Must be nice up there on cloud nine, huh?" The teasing glint was back within a second, though. "Simon, did you know that kissing in front of the public is basically the royalty equivalent of a marriage proposal?"

"Oh my God," Simon mumbled under his breath, straightening up and lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He knew Erik was just teasing, of course. Not that spending the rest of his life with Wille didn't sound lovely, but that would be a bit too fast for everyone. Better give it a few years, and then they could maybe cross that bridge.

"Don't do that," Wille said to his brother with a groan. "I just came out to the world and told Simon that I love him. Please, I can only take so many life-altering events happening at once."

"I'm just saying..." Erik insisted. He certainly did take his role as the big brother seriously.

"Nope." Wille shook his head emphatically. "Not having this conversation. I will talk to you tomorrow."

"Fine, fine," Erik finally conceded. "You two have fun. But not too much fun, you hear me? Or at least not where there are cameras. You'll make Mamma's head explode, and then I'll have to ascend the throne early. I'd rather not."

Wille rolled his eyes at him. "You're so annoying. Bye, Erik." And with that, he ended the video call.

Simon giggled at his exasperated expression. "So," he said, wrapping his arms back around Wille's waist, "Erik told you to confess your feelings for me, did he?"

"He... implied that I should," Wille said, pulling Simon closer. The vagueness of it made him think there must be more to the story. Maybe he'd ask Erik directly the next time they met.

"I wanted to tell you either way," Wille revealed when he spoke again. He nuzzled the tip of his nose against Simon's. "It just wouldn't have felt right to do it before I came out to everyone. I didn't want us to be in a relationship if it had to be kept secret from the public. That wouldn't be fair to you."

"Thank you," Simon whispered because he knew he would've felt exactly that way had he known Wille reciprocated his feelings before tonight. Better to start their relationship on the same page, without any subterfuge. Well, maybe a little, he thought, remembering they had blindsided the Queen with their impromptu PDA.

"I love you," he said, finally, because he didn't get the chance earlier. And after holding that feeling in for so long, he wanted to tell him again and again. So many times. Infinite times. As many times as he could, with every breath he had in him, as long as Wille was in his life.

Wille smiled. "I love you, too." And he leaned down to kiss him.

A picture of the two of them kissing backstage made its way to the front page of Expressen the next morning. A year later, QX would use that photo in the nominees montage for their LGBTQ of the Year category. And that statuette Wille would definitely take home with pride.