Chapter Text
King Wilhelm decided he was experiencing the most acute public torture of his life, which was pretty impressive given his history. After all, the paparazzi had caught him brawling in clubs at fifteen. The news cameras filmed his misery at his brother’s funeral at sixteen. August’s clandestine footage of his first sexual experience was played on every news channel in Sweden. His coming out was streamed via student’s phones to every news channel on earth. He was dumped by the love of his life at seventeen and faced nosy questions from journalists and paparazzi for months afterwards.
He was crowned King at twenty-four.
Wilhelm’s face, pale and serious beneath a heavy golden crown, was once again plastered across every media outlet everywhere, a click away for anyone with wifi and curiosity. The youngest European king in living memory. The first openly queer king in modern times. A king who took his throne all alone, without a family by his side.
Sweden was nervous to have such a young man on the throne but so far Wilhelm had carefully followed the path laid out for him. A year had gone by and the crown didn’t feel as daunting as it had. The people were cautiously optimistic about him. It felt like they were making it work.
The initial news that he was to be king inevitably led to Simon’s name being dragged through the mud again, but by then the other man was far away from Sweden. Wilhelm knew from Felice that he had been living in Amsterdam and then London, learning and working. The then-Kronprins was among the first to smash the follow button on Spotify when Simon got a record deal and released his first song. He had used his burner accounts on every platform to follow Simon’s socials, watching from afar as the singer made his way performing in clubs and festivals, and eventually started playing venues up and down the US and Europe.
Simon’s most recent album had been a smash hit everywhere, and his international fanbase was passionate, protective and devoted. The gossip rags of Sweden that still wanted to glory in their teen troubles and eventual relationship breakdown had to bow to Gen Z’s obsession with Simon Eriksson. His eyes, his hair, his waist, his ass had whole accounts devoted to them. The lyrics of his back catalogue were dissected feverishly by fans creating a map of Simon’s life through his words. There had been other loves, Wilhelm knew. A boy who cheated on him. An older man who used him as a trophy. A fellow musician whose jealousy got the better of him. It was all there in his lyrics. Wilhelm would vehemently deny combing Simon’s songs for any mention of himself, but there was only Felice who would dare ask such a question of a king anyway. The oldest, die-hard fans knew about Wille’s Song, if only via the discarded chorus that someone had copied before Simon took it down. No one knew that the full, final version of the song still lived in Wilhelm’s phone, backed up a dozen times and protected more carefully than Sweden’s military codes.
Through it all, Simon had avoided returning to Sweden. He always deflected when asked but it was pretty clear he was avoiding returning to the place that had had no pity for his traumatised teenaged self. His fans started all kinds of crazy campaigns to lure him back, finally coming together for a full-out assault on Simon’s management across every platform. So it was that Simon was the headlining act at the Midsommar Festival of Wilhelm’s twenty-fifth year. And as was usual, King Wilhelm himself was the guest of honour at the final gala concert, seated in the royal box with Felice and his father.
He twitched nervously in his light linen suit, wishing he could dress more casually. The crowds roiled below and Wilhelm peered at them cautiously. The heat was incredible and he would probably have had a panic attack from the press of bodies, but he longed to be an ordinary fanboy. He would wear a purple SMN Beauty tshirt and jean shorts, he thought dreamily. He would have a purple heart cut out of cardboard to hold up during Simon’s Song, the first song that Simon ever released on Spotify which remained his fan’s favourite and always closed his set. He would have a hot dog, and maybe a beer, and Felice would bitch about her feet hurting, and they would take endless selfies and concert footage. He would get sunburn and his friend would laugh at him, but it would be so worth it.
The first notes of Simon’s set played, and the man himself leapt onto stage with his trademark energy. The crowd went crazy.
Not even halfway through the song, Wilhelm wondered how he would survive this day. He could see multiple cameras pointed his way despite the fantastic show taking place on stage, so he kept a tight reign on his expression, digging his fingers into Felice’s soothing hand to stave off his feelings. He breathed deeply.
To hear Simon singing live again after all these years was a miracle. He was wonderful. His voice was a little deeper, his moves a lot more risqué and flashy now than when he was a teen. He had not grown taller like Wilhelm had, but his shoulders and arms were more toned, his body more firm than Wilhelm remembered from their youth. Deliciously tanned abs flashed in and out of the king’s eager view between a tight, cropped tshirt and sparkly jeans that clung to his ass. The jeans were in constant danger of succumbing to the weight of the battery pack hanging from them, but Wilhelm stoically forced himself to take in the rest of the show. Simon danced as smoothly as any professional, effortlessly cool, flirting with his dancers and the audience. He famously sang in three languages and the crowd kept up with him, screaming along to every lyric. Wilhelm knew many of them had learned extra languages for this express purpose, and had flown across countries and waited hours to get close to their idol.
Foolishly, Wilhelm felt tears rise to his eyes. He had no right, but he was so proud. The Simon before him was entirely, authentically himself. He had taken the terrible things that had been done to him and worked hard and found ways to make his own dreams come true.
Wilhelm’s little star belonged to the world now, and he was beautiful.
The sweet hour flew by quickly, Simon working the crowd expertly with dance breaks and dizzying vocal prowess. No fan was left unsatisfied, no camera left unloved. He crouched close and tender for a slow number, letting the teens in the front rows reach for him with eager hands. He bounced around for an upbeat track, doing a cute dance routine from TikTok and giggling when the crowd screamed in delight. A few minutes later the mood changed again. The lighting turned golden and Wilhelm thought he had died and gone to a very specific heaven as Simon gyrated suggestively amongst his heaving dancers. His hips thrust sinfully despite his precarious position leaned backwards on one arm; his expression was intense and focused, and Wilhelm sternly reminded himself that he had no business remembering what Simon looked like in bed.
He briefly debated the merits of asking for a bucket glass of iced water but discarded the idea immediately.
A few minutes later Wilhelm bit down inside his cheek, tasting blood with a stoic expression as Simon stood at the front of the stage, curving his back to arch wickedly. His beautiful throat was exposed as he hit a high note, and in front of him, one of his dancers dropped to their knees suggestively. The handsome man’s face was dangerously close to the front of Simon’s trousers, and Wille felt jealousy curdle in his stomach. The dancer grinned to the hysterical screams from the crowd and ran a daring hand up Simon’s leg, even opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue a little. Simon looked down with a mischievous, flirty grin. Despite the frenetic beat of the song, his hand was gentle as it ruffled the dancer’s sweaty hair. The man leaned back into the intimate caress with theatrical delight, swooning as the crowd roared. Simon gave a couple of sensual thrusts of his hips, perfectly on beat with the music even now. Wilhelm knew that despite the improvised, carelessly sexy move Simon was being very careful not to hurt the man. Always so considerate, always so sweet no matter the position.
He tried not to think about why he knew that.
Felice shifted restlessly, a surprising crack in her usual sleek public presence. She was still smiling though, and the cameras wouldn’t have picked up the way she gasped under her breath. “He really is fucking gorgeous, Wille,” she murmured softly, a hand brought up to hide her mouth from the paparazzi. “No wonder you’ve been so obsessed all these years.”
Wilhelm prayed the blush he could feel clawing at his throat wouldn’t climb over his whole face. Unable to hide anything from his best friend, Wilhelm had to admit that yes, he was still obsessed with Simon Eriksson. He had always been vaguely embarrassed about his own feelings, though he understood now that most of that had come from internalised homophobia and a futile desire to be accepted by his parents. But for the first time, Wilhelm was not alone in being crazy about Simon. He was probably not even the biggest of Simon’s fans in the building, though he allowed himself a moment of mean-spirited satisfaction that he was Simon’s first. His first fan, his first kiss, his first lover, his first heartbreak. He was the first one to make Simon make that face. Simon didn’t even know Simon could make that face, before Wilhelm. Others had worshipped him since, in public and in private, but Wilhelm had been the first.
As Simon came towards the end of the set, Wilhelm realised the other man had not acknowledged the royal box even once. The other acts always bowed and even sang to the royal box at some point, but Simon sang only for the people. He made love to the official television camera from time to time, knowing they were streaming to the rest of Sweden. He spoke entirely in Swedish between sets, praising the fans for their support, loyalty and kindness. The performance was both a fuck-you to the Sweden that had treated him cruelly in his youth and a love letter to a younger generation that knew and believed in him.
Wilhelm looked at the heaving, screaming crowds below him. Their faces were transported, totally immersed in the joy of music and their shared experience. He remembered perching on the little piano bench at Hillerska, listening to Simon’s faltering piano practice as he took the first steps towards all this.
Wilhelm had told Felice once that he had lost the love of his life, but even then he had been underestimating Simon. The man was a powerhouse of talent and charm, whereas Wilhelm was just some guy in a gold hat. He was embarrassed to remember how highly he had thought of himself; so much so that he had tried to clip Simon’s wings to make him more palatable to the Crown. He had tried to take this away from Simon, and take Simon away from the world.
For years he had felt slighted, miserable because Simon didn’t want to be with him. Now he realised that all this had been inside that sixteen-year-old boy dressed in shabby thrifted clothes. Simon had been born for stardom, and he had done the right thing. He had made the hardest decision of both their lives because Wilhelm was too stupid to know what he held in his clumsy teenaged hands, and too weak to stand up for Simon the way he should have.
Wilhelm choked back his emotions and smiled softly as the stage hushed and Simon braced himself for the finale. Simon’s Song. Wilhelm ached to pull out a purple heart of his own, but contented himself with rubbing his own chest lightly as the first notes rang through the stadium.
When Wilhelm had first heard this song, he had sat on the bathroom floor and sobbed for hours. Now he smiled wanly beneath his sunglasses, trying to hide the tears in his eyes from the prying cameras. The crowd waved their paper hearts in the air and Simon teared up as he often did. He allowed the band to play a few bars on repeat while he thanked his fans through his tears, giggling lightly despite his obvious emotion.
“I wrote this song for a boy I loved,” he told them in Swedish. “It was a long time ago, but I hope he’s happy now and has love in his life. He deserves so much love.” The crowd cheered and it felt like every eye in the place flickered to Wilhelm, but Simon took pity on him by starting the song again and encouraging the crowd to sing with him.
There were confetti cannons, and Wilhelm took the chance to wipe his eyes. The final notes fell as a camera panned across the crowds, playing the live footage on the massive screen behind Simon. The audience were crying and singing, waving their hearts in the air. Simon tipped his head back in relief and joy, soaking in the cries of adulation, the roar and raw emotion of his fans. The lighting warmed to pink and then red, signaling the end of Simon’s time on stage and making him appear like some surreal angel, distant from the people and yet part of them. He smiled almost secretively; a moment of gratitude and elation just for himself at the very heart of the maelstrom.
Simon had reconquered the country he had fled as a youth. Wilhelm was the ultimate symbol of that country, and he smiled graciously for the cameras as he stood to clap, the only time today he had done so. The rest of the royal box scrambled to stand with him, some of the older politicians audibly grumbling. He knew it would be noted in the media that King Wilhelm I was at his ex-lover’s performance and gave him a standing ovation. His mother would have notes when he returned to Drottningholm.
Fuck it, thought Wilhelm. Am I the fucking King or not?
He smiled and clapped harder, making the politicians have to join him or be seen as rude to the king. Simon walked off the stage arm in arm with his dancers, waving cheerfully at his fans. He didn’t look at the royal box at all.