There's a song in my heart (I feel like I belong), Part 1: Intro. M, AU, Wille/Simon, romance/fluff/slight drama.
Concert pianist Wilhelm Berwald had no idea his entire life would change when he was paired up with pop star Simon Eriksson for a charity concert. Birthday fic for TheAmberFox.

Note: Title from the song "Better Place" by Rachel Platten. I've finagled a slowed-down/slightly pitch-shifted version of the song, in case you want to have a better idea of what the version they're writing/playing here sounds like. Just PM me to ask for the link! I also have the sheet music for the song? In case you want to try playing it yourself, or if you just want to look at it like me, because idek, I just think sheet music is pretty to look at. Yes, I'm weird. Moving on...

Note 2: There will be some sexual content in this fic, between consenting adults (as the characters are all aged up from their show selves). It won't be terribly explicit, though. About the level we'd see on the show, I'd say. Regardless, please heed the M rating. It's there for a reason.

Note 3: This is a birthday fic for my dearest TheAmberFox. It's not her birthday just yet but she's given me permission to start posting early, so here we are! I've dropped a few references to her and some of her fics here and there; hopefully she (and everyone who's read her stuff) will have fun picking those out— makes this fic kind of interactive, I guess? Anyway, happy birthday, Foxy! =)

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Wilhelm kept his gaze focused on the view outside the window as the town car made its way to the concert venue. Watching buildings go by was much more interesting than hearing his manager outline the plan for his upcoming charity concert for the 187th time.

"...And if they attempt to make any changes, remind them that our requirements have been made very clear in our contract and anything that deviates from that must be approved by us before being implemented," she rattled off as if she were reading from a list. But there was no list; that was just the way she always spoke.

Wilhelm's attention remained outside the vehicle. "Yes, Mamma," he said in a monotone. The car passed a park and he caught sight of several clusters of people hanging out together on the grass. He wondered what it would be like to just up and decide it's a nice day for a picnic with friends. Or a walk in the park. Or, really, what it would be like to be twenty-six years old and not have his life completely controlled by his manager. Mother. Same difference.

"And remember, if any studio recordings need to be made for promotional purposes, they should all be recorded at your cousin's studio, for privacy reasons," she added. "Miss Ehrencrona should already be aware of this, but it's worth a reminder," she added, in reference to his upcoming show's creative director.

"Yes, Mamma," Wilhelm repeated in the exact same bland tone. He couldn't see the park anymore, but he could still see a few colorful kites floating in the air above the treetops, presumably flown by park-goers. It felt like a metaphor for his life, almost— some semblance of freedom, of self-reliance, while still being tethered to their owner by a string.

"Don't just 'yes, Mamma' me, Wilhelm," his mother shot back sternly. "This concert is incredibly important to your career. I expect you to raise your voice if even the slightest detail is not going according to plan. This is not a game."

"Yes, Mamma," Wilhelm said yet again. He honestly didn't understand why his mother had agreed to this event if all she was going to do was harp on about everything that could go wrong with it. Okay, that was a lie: he understood why this would seem like a good idea, an opportunity to expand his fanbase beyond his typical clientele and into the world of pop music. But collaborating with another artist also meant involving individuals who operated on their own interests beyond Wilhelm's manager's control. And if there was one thing Kristina Berwald hated, it was not being 100% in control of any situation.

As such, before the ink was even dry on the contract, she'd been hyperfixating on every little thing that could possibly go wrong, and pre-emptively blaming his pop star collaborator, the man's management team, and Wilhelm himself for all of it. Wilhelm was used to it— his mother had never been shy about pointing out every little thing he did wrong, even when everything went right. But his fellow artist... they'd never even met him, and Kristina was already making it sound like the guy was a ticking time bomb about to go off on the Berwalds' reputation as famed concert pianists.

Wilhelm felt, more than saw, his mother glare at him, but whatever lecture she was about to launch into got interrupted when the town car finally arrived at the venue, stopping by the talent entrance just off the main road.

When Wilhelm turned to look at her, she was pursing her lips tightly. "Very well. Rehearsal should end by five thirty, and you might need a few more minutes to exchange notes with Miss Ehrencrona or that... pop singer." She said the words "pop singer" like they were a slur. "Malin will be here to pick you up at six." Wilhelm wasn't sure why she felt the need to explain his own schedule to him— this wasn't his first concert; he knew very well how these things went.

"Yes, Mamma," he said one last time as he opened the door and put one foot out of the vehicle. "I'll see you tonight," he added, almost by reflex. His mother only nodded, already preoccupied with her next task. Wilhelm stepped out of the car and made his way to the venue.

An event-organizing assistant led him to the hall where they would be holding rehearsal— not that he needed a guide. He'd performed several times in this concert hall; it was actually one of his favorite venues to perform in, especially for daytime performances. There were skylights on the ceiling, allowing for the sunlight to shine down on the stage (and whoever was performing on it) at specific times of the day. It was very unique, and thus memorable, unlike most of his performances that were usually perfunctory.

The first thing he noticed as he entered the backstage area was that someone onstage was playing the piano. For a second, he worried the event organizers had decided to replace him with someone else and just hadn't gotten around to telling him— oh, his manager would love that. As he approached stage left, however, he saw that it was the artist he was meant to collaborate with for this charity event, Simon Eriksson, who was playing some lighthearted melody Wilhelm had never heard before. The man's eyes were closed as he hummed along with the music, and...

...and that's as far as Wilhelm got before his thought process went completely blank. Because the sunlight he'd been thinking about just a minute earlier was shining down on Simon like a spotlight, making his golden skin shine and his dark curls gleam almost like a halo, enveloping the contours of his body, the sharpness of his features, in a soft, luminous haze. And Wilhelm could not look away.

It was just a person, Wilhelm thought. Just a person playing the piano. He'd been surrounded by those his whole life, was used to them. Even in this very venue, on this very stage. There was no reason why this man should be taking Wilhelm's breath away like this. Except he was. Piano or no piano, Wilhelm was sure this was the most beautiful person he had ever seen in his life.

And then Simon started singing.

"Clap, clap your little hands," he started, softly, almost to himself, accompanied by the piano. The acoustics of the stage were great, though (that was kind of the point), so Wilhelm could hear it regardless. "And shake and shake your little fists... fox in the brush..."

Wilhelm felt himself start to smile. The lyrics were silly, and he thought he recognized them from an old nursery rhyme he'd heard somewhere, but regardless, Simon's voice was beautiful. Wilhelm had a feeling he could be singing a shopping list and it would still sound heavenly.

"Back into the wood, back into the wood..." Simon continued, his fingers deftly carrying the simple melody on the piano. "Don't you take, don't you take... Mama's little baby, Mama's little..." He frowned, and abruptly stopped playing. "Is that too many syllables?" he asked, once again sounding more like he was talking to himself than to anyone who might be listening.

Wilhelm figured he should take advantage of the pause in the music to announce his presence, rather than just stand to the side watching Simon like a creep. So he cleared his throat. Simon raised his gaze from the piano keys, clocking in on Wilhelm's presence straight away.

"Uh, hey," Wilhelm said, somewhat awkwardly. He was never great at these first impressions. He approached the stage slowly, hands in his pockets; he very keenly felt Simon's eyes following his every step. "You're very good! For a moment there I was worried they'd found another pianist for the event," he admitted sheepishly, hoping that would break the ice.

His collaborator only stared back at him, lips pressed together like he was trying to hold back a laugh. Wilhelm didn't know whether to take that as a good or a bad sign, so he tried again. "So, you must be Simon." He pulled one hand out of his pocket and extended it toward the other man. "I don't think we've been introduced. I'm Wilhelm."

The corners of the singer's mouth quirked up, and yep, the guy was definitely laughing at Wilhelm. Dimly, he thought he should feel mortified about that, but turned out he was quite okay with making a fool of himself as long as it made this man smile. What was happening to him?

"I know," Simon said. He pulled up a notebook that had been sitting on his lap and dropped it on the piano lid, which Wilhelm only belatedly noticed had been kept closed as he played— something he would've normally noticed right away. "Piano royalty and all that," Simon offered by way of an explanation, finally extending his hand to shake Wilhelm's. "And don't worry, your job is safe. As a pianist, I'm merely adequate."

Wilhelm shook the man's hand, trying very hard not to think of how warm it was. "I'm sure you're just selling yourself short," he retorted with what he hoped was an easy— and not hopelessly awkward— smile. "And as so-called 'piano royalty,' I would know." His tone was clearly self-deprecating by the end there. He hated that moniker.

He didn't want the conversation to sour just as it started, nor did he want it to fizzle out after barely a minute— he wanted to keep talking to Simon, never mind that rehearsal would be starting soon— so he wracked his brain for something to say for a few seconds and then blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "So, um, was that one of your songs you were singing? About... foxes and babies?"

He mentally kicked himself, mortified as that was basically an admission that he'd never listened to his collaborator's music. Which he hadn't: he didn't really keep up with pop music on the regular. His manager probably had studied Simon's entire discography, though; Kristina would never let their name be associated with anyone who might even unintentionally muddy it, so Wilhelm was certain she'd thoroughly researched Simon before approving of this collab. But Wilhelm's life was all about his performance, all the time, so he hadn't bothered. Now he really wished he had.

Thankfully, his fellow musician didn't call him out on it; rather, his cheeks went delightfully red, in a way that made Wilhelm's heart do a funny jump inside his chest. "Well, it's kind of a weird story," Simon began a bit sheepishly, and Wilhelm found himself leaning against the frame of the piano in anticipation.

Simon chuckled. "When my sister and I were little, she was obsessed with this nursery rhyme, and she went through a phase when she would replace the lyrics of any song she heard with the lyrics about the fox that steals babies." He smiled, the gesture clearly tinged with affection for his sibling. Wilhelm couldn't help the thought that he had a beautiful smile. "And I don't know, I guess that stuck with me, because now I use those as placeholder lyrics whenever I'm writing."

Well, Wilhelm was most definitely not expecting that answer. "Oh, you're writing a song?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him. He didn't get to be part of any sort of writing process in his usual line of work: the pieces came to him already finished, and his job was just to perform them as accurately as possible without any modifications.

"Trying to write a song, more like," Simon replied with a sigh. He put his pen down on top of the notebook and pulled his feet up on the piano bench so he was sitting crosslegged. "I have to write a softer, more emotional song for my next album because I'm supposed to diversify or whatever." He rubbed at his eyes with one hand. "Soft and emotional isn't what I usually do. I'm generally more in the dance-pop lane, so... it's a process."

Wilhelm pushed away from the piano, standing up properly, and internally debated whether he should voice the thought that had just popped into his head. He didn't want to come off as some self-aggrandizing prick, but he also wanted to help. "Would you like, uh, a second opinion?" he offered hesitantly, but earnestly. "I know a thing or two about melodies, I figure, if I'm piano royalty and all."

Simon gave him a weird look— something between surprise and confusion, but also some guardedness. "You? Want to look over my song?" His tone alone let Wilhelm know he wasn't particularly enthused by the idea, and on top of that, he scoffed. "I thought you were just a glorified cover artist." It might've been teasing, Wilhelm couldn't be sure, but somehow it felt like he meant it.

Wilhelm grimaced, and Simon clearly noticed, because his lingering smirk fell. He shook his head as if to clear that last comment out of the air. "Sorry," he said with a pained expression of his own. "That was mean. It's just..." He sighed. "I get a lot of shit from 'music critics'"— he surrounded the words with finger quotes— "because I don't play any instruments on my own songs, or because I write my songs to be 'catchy' rather than meaningful." He didn't use air quotes that one time, but it was implied in his tone.

"So a lot of the time I get on the defensive before people can look down on me," he explained, and Wilhelm was starting to get it. He really couldn't blame Simon, but the other man apologized nonetheless. "But I shouldn't have called you that. If we're going to be working together for the next three weeks, I don't want us to start on the wrong foot. I'm sorry, again. And..." He hesitated. "Sure, you can have a look."

Wilhelm shook his head. He wasn't bothered; not really. Maybe initially, at himself, because he thought he'd offended his collaborator. But he could also see this as one of those moments he would probably look back on and laugh. It wasn't that big of a deal anyway. "No, no, that's... it's a fair description of my job, honestly," he said with a chuckle. "But I've played enough of other people's songs to have an idea of what works and what doesn't, maybe?" he offered and signaled toward Simon's notebook. The singer grabbed it, opening it on the page he'd been working on before handing it to Wilhelm.

Wilhelm looked over the notes scribbled on the music paper— it was a little messier than he was used to because Simon had input the melody by hand (Wilhelm usually got officially printed scores to perform). There were parts scratched out, sections erased as if he had started in pencil before switching to pen, and funny little notes on the margins as to the bits Simon thought worked and those that didn't. Just off the top of his head, Wilhelm was already getting an idea of what Simon was aiming for, but it would be better to actually listen to it to see where it might need some patching up.

"May I?" he asked, pointing at the piano bench where Simon was still sitting. His collaborator quickly pulled his legs off the bench, turning toward the piano and scooching to the side, leaving space to his right for Wilhelm to sit. Simon signaled to him to take the seat with a side-glance and a "come on, then" kind of nod of his head that made everything inside of Wilhelm clench.

He cleared his throat and dropped the notebook on the music desk perhaps a little too loudly before sitting on the bench beside Simon. He lifted his hands to the keys and started playing the melody, and normally this would be the part where he tuned everything out, focusing on the music and on playing it perfectly as was expected of him, but this time he could not stop hyperfocusing on the man sitting beside him, their shoulders nearly brushing, his hand on the bench beside Wilhelm's thigh, his even breathing as he listened to Wilhelm play. Close, so close. It was all playing havoc with Wilhelm's mind and it was only by virtue of his years of experience that his hands managed to play the song almost automatically and he didn't utterly embarrass himself.

The song was over too quickly— it was not a full song yet, just a verse and a chorus that weren't terribly distinct from each other except for the fact that Simon marked them as such on the music sheet— and as the echo of the sounds faded out into the empty concert hall, Wilhelm let the melody settle in his mind, trying to go through it with a fine comb inside his mind.

"Of course it sounds better when you play it," Simon mumbled into the silence with something of a grumpy pout on his face. He ostensibly muttered the words to himself, but Wilhelm was sitting right there, so of course he heard it, and he couldn't help but laugh. Simon's pout morphed into a reluctant smile at the sound.

"Well then, Wilhelm," he said mock-magnanimously. "In your expert opinion, what do you think I should do with what I have so far?"

"Wille," the pianist blurted out mortifyingly quickly. "You can call me Wille." It wasn't even a particularly special nickname of his, just one that was most often used by people his own age: cousins, classmates, family acquaintances. Just a lot of people he didn't hang out with very often because he was so focused on his work. And Erik. Erik was the only one in their household who called him that. So he hadn't heard it in a while, and he was just curious as to how the nickname would sound coming from Simon's lips.

Simon did not seem bothered by the abruptness of the request. Instead, he smiled warmly, meeting Wilhelm's jittery gaze steadily. "Okay. Wille," he said, and oh, Wille liked it. He liked the way his voice carefully pronounced the two syllables like they deserved his attention. Like Wille deserved his attention. He couldn't hold back a smile of his own.

They gazed at each other for a moment, the silence filling the space around them though neither seemed particularly in a hurry to end it. It was a novel experience for Wille; he spent his life surrounded by music, and when there was no music and it was just people, every interaction was carefully choreographed to maximize his job opportunities, to the point that every conversation was basically just more noise in his head. Always noise. He could never have fathomed silence being so comfortable— not with another person.

But it was, until Simon broke it. "So," his collaborator prompted, his smile slowly shifting from warm to mischievous. "The song?"

"Right," Wille said hurriedly, turning back toward the piano. He didn't dare peek at Simon's reaction, but he was sure his cheeks were burning as he pointed to a section of the song in Simon's notebook. "I was thinking that maybe in this part you could try going a bit lower, to distinguish the verse from the chorus a little bit more..."

They debated the changes that could be made to that section for a little bit, but the discussion was cut short when their creative director, Felice Ehrencrona, entered the hall, followed closely by her assistant, Alexander.

"Simon! Wille! You're both already here and you've met," she said. Wille stood up off the bench almost by reflex and tried very hard not to notice that his nickname didn't sound as good when she said it. "Good; maybe we can hit the ground running, then." She quickly dropped all her stuff on a few seats in the first row— where her assistant also sat down to take notes— and they got to work, starting with a bunch of general decisions that had to be made about their upcoming performance.

It was all very strictly professional, but as the hours went on, Wille still couldn't shake the feeling of Simon sitting next to him on the piano bench, his dark eyes carefully following the movement of Wille's fingers on the piano keys as they worked on his song. His dark hair haloed in gold in the sunlight. His smile. His lips.

Malin picked him up at six o'clock on the dot, and the ride back home was silent, contemplative. When he got home, his parents were in the kitchen, his father preparing dinner while his mother read a stack of documents at the dinner table— as per usual. "How was the rehearsal, son?" his father asked when he walked by the entrance to the kitchen.

Wilhelm paused awkwardly at the doorway. "Uh, it went fine," he said. "No major issues. Everybody's putting in the work. I think this show is going to be something pretty special."

"So you didn't have any differences with the pop singer, then?" his mother chimed in without even looking up from the papers she was reading. "You know how these people can get— they're all self-centered divas. You have to make sure he doesn't spin this performance into something that's all about him."

Wilhelm felt a cold stab of irritation in the pit of his stomach. His mother had never even met Simon. What right did she ever have to call him self-centered? Wilhelm had just spent the past nine hours with the man and enjoyed every bit of it. "He was perfectly professional, and seems like a good team player." If his tone was sharper than usual, neither of his parents commented on it. "I think we can bring out the best in each other."

"Very well," his mother replied in a noncommittal tone that made Wilhelm wonder if she'd even heard what he said. "I know you'll do our family proud, Wilhelm," she added, as she often did, but it wasn't a statement Wilhelm usually reveled in. If anything, it sounded almost like a warning, the or else at the end going unsaid.

"Yes, Mamma," Wilhelm muttered between clenched teeth, his grip tightening on the strap of his messenger bag. He vaguely nodded when his father told him he'd be called down when dinner was ready, but truth be told, Wilhelm didn't feel like eating at all. Instead, he went up to his room, threw his bag on his desk chair, changed into more comfortable clothes, and fell back on his bed, sighing as he stared up at the ceiling.

When he closed his eyes, all he could see were dark, deep irises and soft-looking curly hair. The voice of an angel reverberating in his ears, singing a story about foxes.

With a huff, he reached for his bedside table, took out his headphones and put them on, and opened his music streaming service of choice on his phone, fingers flying over the virtual keyboard as he typed the name into the search box.

If he listened to Simon's entire discography that night, no one had to know. And if he smiled the entire time while he did so, well, no one was around to see it.

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The next morning, Wille was already sitting at the piano when Simon walked into the concert hall. He perked up as soon as his collaborator came into view. "Hey! So I was thinking last night, and I think there's a section of your song you could do a little bit differently."

Simon stopped abruptly beside the piano and gave Wille a bemused look with his eyebrows arched high on his forehead. "Good morning to you, too," he said with a small smirk, his tone full of mirth. Then he leaned forward, glancing over the corner of the piano frame to peek at the music sheets Wille had propped on the music desk in front of him. His amusement morphed into surprise. "You wrote my melody down all on your own?"

Wille grew flustered. "Ah, yes— I've just got a good memory, I guess." He winced, embarrassed at how presumptuous he was being. "Sorry, this probably seems very weird to you. I just couldn't stop thinking about your song last night."

Simon's smirk widened into a smile. He crossed his arms and leaned casually against the piano frame. "Aww," he said, "I bet you say that to all the pop stars in your life."

Wille could feel his cheeks heating up. Was this flirting? He actually wasn't sure. All the girls he'd "dated" had been PR relationships his manager had set up for him, and while things had gotten physical with a few of them, neither he nor the girls had ever had to do the work to get to that point. It had all been very transactional.

Simon didn't comment on the feverish blush that had surely taken over Wille's entire face, however. He just pushed away from the piano again and poked at Wille's shoulder to get him to scooch over. "Okay, what is this change you're saying I should make to the song?" he asked as he sat down beside Wille on the bench. Their positions were reversed from the previous day, but Wille still felt his heart skip a beat just as it had then.

"It's not a change, really. More of suggestion," Wille said, pointing to a section of the bottom staff on the music sheet in front of him. "I was thinking that when the bassline goes down on the chorus, maybe you could have the vocals go up." He compared the notes on the bottom staff, the bassline, to those on the top staff, which the vocals would more closely follow.

Simon stared at the music sheet, contemplative. Then he frowned. "No, come on. That is way too high," he retorted with a scoff.

Wille scoffed right back. "What are you talking about? I have heard you hit that note before," he said with all the confidence of a person who had fallen asleep the previous night to the talented pop singer's bewitching tenor.

Except he wasn't supposed to admit to that, of course, and he knew he'd said too much when Simon's eyes widened. "You listened to my music?" he asked, pressing his lips together as if to hold back a beaming grin.

Wille's face flushed all over again, he knew that, but he also couldn't backtrack now. He cleared his throat. "Well, yeah," he confessed with a small shrug. "You know... for research," he added in a painfully awkward (in his opinion) mumble.

Simon's mouth drew into a coy smile, and he turned as much as he could to the side to look at Wille directly, propping his head up with his elbow against the front part of the piano lid. "So what did you think?" he asked curiously, though his tone was suggestive.

Wille, under the racing beat of his heart, couldn't help but think that, yes, this definitely felt like flirting. He took a deep breath as if to ground himself— or to keep himself from spinning out into the stratosphere at the realization, more like— and replied on the exhale. "It was nice," he said because his short-circuiting brain couldn't come up with a more apt descriptor. Otherworldly? A religious experience? The sexiest thing he'd ever heard in his life? "It's not the kind of music I normally listen to, but... it really feels like you put your heart into it, you know?" he added, because "nice" really did not do it justice.

"Though of course," Wille added teasingly because he couldn't help himself, "what do I know? I'm just a glorified cover artist, after all."

Simon seemed caught off-guard by that retort for maybe two seconds before he threw his head back and laughed, and oh, Wille had only known this man for one day but he would kill to hear that laugh every day of his life. It was magical.

"Okay, okay, I had that one coming," Simon conceded when his mirth started to die down. He turned back toward the piano and the music sheet. "I still think you're overestimating my vocal range, though," he reiterated.

Wille shook his head emphatically. "And I think you're selling yourself short," he declared. Simon glanced at him in surprise, like he'd never been accused of such a thing. "No, really," Wille insisted. "If you really want to stick it to the critics, you have to prove them wrong. And the way you do that is by challenging yourself and then meeting that challenge."

Simon just stared back at him, seemingly floored, and for a while there Wille feared he might have said the wrong thing, but then, slowly, Simon's mouth drew into a smile. Not coy, not teasing, not amused— just a soft, joyful gesture. A genuinely happy smile.

"Okay," he said, turning back to the music sheet. "Show me what you were thinking, then."

And Wille's heart sang.

That night when he got home, he had dinner with his parents, then retired to his room. As he was unbuttoning his shirt, he caught sight of the music sheets with Simon's song peeking out of a folder inside his bag, which he had dropped on his bed when he came in.

Drawn to it, he sat down on the bed and pulled it out, his gaze lingering on the two different handwritings that now peppered the pages. They hadn't had long on it before Felice arrived for rehearsal, but they did get to make a few changes to the song in what little time they got.

Wille ran the tip of his finger over the notes, the arrows drawn in certain spots, the little notes in the margins. His own writing was careful, clean, methodical like he'd been perfecting it all his life... which he had. Simon's was cramped, uneven, all sharp edges like he'd been writing everything in a hurry. Such completely different styles— such completely different people— yet somehow working in harmony to create something beautiful.

As if on cue, his phone vibrated beside him on the bed. He picked it up, opening his latest notification, which said: Simon Eriksson has granted you access to a file: Untitled w . Surprised, Wille opened the file to find a digitized version of the music sheets Wille had just been looking at. Everything was input electronically, so it was much cleaner. There were no arrows, but rather different sections were color-coded to show their connections. Even their notes were hidden until you clicked on each respective icon, so the page didn't look cluttered.

As he was browsing the file, another notification popped up. A text message. From Simon.

If we're going to be working together on this, it read, it would help if we both make changes on the same document, followed by a winky emoji. Wille grinned to himself. A true collaboration, huh? Not just a suggestion here and there, no— he was going to write a song. A proper song, melody and lyrics, from the ground up... with Simon.

Sounds like a plan, he texted back.

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Their little stolen composing sessions before rehearsals were as frustrating (in more ways than one) as they were fun. It had never occurred to Wille that he might like writing songs— never expected he'd ever be given the opportunity— he was just a performer, not a prodigy. That had always been Erik, not him. Wilhelm was just the spare. But sitting at the piano with Simon every morning, laughing and trading ideas and teasing each other back and forth... he had never felt more alive.

"...Like that, see? I think that works better than what you had before."

"Okay, but can I just say: please don't quit your day job. Just leave the singing to me."

"Hey, I'm trying to help you here!"

"Yes, 'trying' being the keyword. And, look, I'm not saying I'm not appreciative..."

"You're an asshole. Fuck off!"

But it was more than just the songwriting, he knew. If he had been doing this with anyone other than Simon, it wouldn't be half as great. The music was good, and Wille was proud of what they were making, but there was an undercurrent of electricity to every note, every word, every look, that kept him tethered to this project like nothing he'd ever participated in before. And that was them, the two of them together, not the music.

"No no no, why did you change that section? That's not how we left it yesterday."

"I'm trying to add some variation. It can't all sound the same!"

"Ugh, you're destroying my song, Your Majesty."

"I thought by now it was our song."

And Wille didn't think that was just him. He wasn't imagining it. Sure, sometimes it was hard to tell what was flirting and what wasn't, but Wille liked to think that the laughter, the teasing, the occasional stolen glances and quick touches... all those little things meant something. They meant that... maybe Simon was feeling what Wille was feeling. And that was... exhilarating.

"What was that bit you played just a little bit ago? Like this?"

"Yeah, that's... no, wait, you started on the wrong note. Maybe try... okay, wait, give me your hand... you start here, and then... yeah, like that. Does that work?"

"Uh..."

"Oh, sorry, did I go too fast? Do you want me to show you again?"

"No, that was, um... it was perfect."

It was also a little scary. Not that Wille hadn't known he could be attracted to men— he'd been aware for a while, even if he had never acted on it, never told anyone about it. He'd never had a problem being with women before, so he didn't think it mattered all that much that he thought a man was good-looking here or there. But this pull he felt toward Simon, it was on a whole other level. They'd only known each other for a few days, but Wille was already drawn to him so strongly. He couldn't just ignore it. And he didn't know what to do about it. Didn't know if he could do anything about it.

He just knew he didn't want it to end.

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By the time the end of Friday's rehearsal rolled around, they were pretty much done with the melody. It was a beautiful song, almost lullaby-esque, but it was very simple. Simon wanted to keep the focus on the emotions, make it cozy and intimate, and Wille agreed. So then they were onto lyrics.

It wasn't something Wille had ever imagined he would want to do— if he had ever pictured himself writing a song, it usually would be an instrumental piece. He had never been particularly into poetry, and he wouldn't consider himself eloquent by any stretch of the imagination; usually, his manager did the speaking for him. But he wanted to be a part of this collaboration until the very end. He didn't want to miss anything.

They had no rehearsals scheduled for the weekend, and Wille didn't quite know what to do with himself. Save for meals and the occasional trip to the bathroom, he'd spent the entire time in his bedroom, listening to a recording of the melody over and over and over. He'd run through every conceivable comfortable position in which to sit with his laptop, and moved onto all the uncomfortable ones. Dozens, maybe hundreds of possible lines for the song typed and then deleted and then retyped and then deleted again in between nail biting and knee bouncing.

He didn't realize how much he'd been missing Simon's constant presence until the singer video called him on Sunday, to share some of the verses he'd come up with. (Of course it was easier for Simon; he'd done this kind of thing before. Wille hadn't attempted a simple rhyme since back in grade school.) He sang some lines— he sang of music, and love, and understanding, and "It's like I've known you all my life; we just feel so right." Wille was absolutely transported.

"I want this song to be about... the connection between two people," Simon said, not quite looking at his phone's screen— at Wille— but rather slightly to the side. "How it can be unexpected, but also... wonderful."

The words resonated in Wille's mind for the rest of the day. He wasn't arrogant enough to think that Simon was talking about them— he could be talking about anyone, really— but the mere possibility that Simon might be thinking of them, of him, as he wrote lyrics to a song he'd described as personal and emotional was enough to make Wille's breath catch.

Slumped back on his bed with his headphones on, playing their melody on loop, he closed his eyes and all he saw was Simon. When he opened his eyes, his gaze fell on the small trinket he was holding in his hands: the frog prince snow globe his brother, Erik, had gifted him after Wille's first public performance— the day he first stepped into place among his "piano royalty" family legacy. He shook it and watched his bedroom lights glint off the floating pieces of tinsel glitter. It reminded him of the first time he saw Simon, with the sunlight making him shine.

The thing about the little frog prince, Wille thought, was that even surrounded by all that pretty glitter, the shimmer around him was just a reflection, a poor replacement for the warmth and radiance of the source of light bouncing off the falling pieces of plastic. It wasn't real. He could see the real thing, but he couldn't reach it. He was still trapped inside his glass dome.

Wille didn't want to be like that. He wanted the real thing. Wanted to feel that warmth on his skin, to breathe in the freedom of being able to reach for the sun. He'd been stuck inside his crystal prison for such a long time, but the last week with Simon had reminded him there was open space waiting for him on the other side. Indescribable beauty, peace, purpose. A better place to be. To live. And how he longed for it. Oh, he longed.

He pushed himself up to a sitting position and carefully laid the snow globe down on his bedside table. Then he crossed his legs and pulled his laptop in front of him, opening the lyrics file he'd already closed about a million times that night. He positioned his hands over his keyboard, and he wrote.

.

.

.

Wille sat on the piano bench and bit his thumbnail as Simon stood in front of him and read the lyrics Wille had sent him off his phone. "Is it terrible? It's terrible, isn't it?" Wille asked hesitantly once Simon's silence stretched a little too long for his anxiety to deal with.

"No, no, it's..." Simon started, pensive, his gaze fixed on the words on his phone screen. "...it's actually very sweet. I'm just wondering if it may be... a bit too sweet?" he wondered aloud, his brow furrowing a little as he thought about his words.

"What do you mean?" Wille asked, and Simon looked up at him for the first time since he'd received the file. Wille wasn't sure why being "too sweet" was a bad thing. It was supposed to be an emotional song, wasn't it? That's what Simon had said. A song about connection. Wille hoped Simon hadn't changed his mind now that he had put all his feelings down on paper. Pixels? Whatever. Was he completely embarrassing himself with this? He'd just attempted to do the chorus, how bad could it be?

Simon shook his head and walked closer to Wille, extending the phone to him so Wille could see the text. "It's just... this part here? It's a better place since you came along— it's a lovely sentiment, but maybe when it's paired with this other line, And the colors are golden and bright again, it almost sounds like they think this person made all the bad in the world go away, like they're being put on a pedestal—"

"No, that's not what it is!" Wille rebutted quickly, his eyes widening in surprise when it dawned on him where Simon's mind had gone while reading his lyrics. "It's not— it's a snapshot in time, okay? A picture of the moment when they realized this person was... special. A connection, as you said," he added, hoping Simon would understand. He wasn't the best at communicating his thoughts, as evidenced by this discussion.

"The part about the golden— that's just setting the scene," he hurriedly explained, not wanting to let the misunderstanding stand for too long. "And when it says 'better,' it's not that all their problems suddenly disappear when they meet this person; it's just better than it was before. Happier. Less lonely."

"Okay..." Simon said, giving Wille a strange, careful look like he understood Wille was talking about himself but didn't dare say it out loud. Wille felt very anxious at the idea that he'd put his innermost feelings out in the open for other people to see, but then he remembered that was the point. The song was meant to be personal. Emotional. But the feeling of deep vulnerability was hard to shake.

"That's okay, but I'm thinking, if the line about the colors is just 'set dressing,' so to speak, maybe we can switch it up some, make it clearer that—"

"No, that line has to stay in the song," Wille blurted out desperately before even realizing it. He understood what Simon was trying to say, and he wasn't unreceptive— he didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea— but that was... that was the line that started everything, the moment that started everything.

"Why is it so important, though?" Simon asked. He wasn't necessarily insistent, but mostly curious. "If it's just setting the scene, as you just said—"

"Because it's about you!" The words poured out of his mouth before he could rein them in, and as they rang in the otherwise empty concert hall, Wille felt the panic start rising in his chest, threatening to choke him. Breathing heavily, he covered his face with his hands.

"...What?" he heard Simon ask, and the urge to run, to just take off and flee, was great, but he knew he would never forgive himself if he left like this— if he left Simon like this— confused and probably angry and without an explanation. There would be no coming back from that, and Wille knew, he just knew, he would regret it for the rest of his life if he ruined this. He needed to get a grip.

He took a few slow, deep breaths, trying to regulate his heart rate, and heard Simon take a couple of steps closer to the piano bench— to him— hesitantly as if he wasn't sure what was happening and didn't want to do something wrong. "Wille, are you ok—"

"I'm fine," Wille said straight away, his voice muffled by his hands. He rubbed his palms over his face a couple of times, digging the heels into his eyes in an attempt to stave off the inevitable headache, before pulling his hands away and meeting Simon's concerned gaze. The singer looked like he wanted to say something.

"I'm sorry," Wille threw out before Simon could speak. He tried to pull his thoughts together. It was harder than expected. "It's just— the first time I saw you, you were sitting here, and— the skylight—" He signaled to the transparent section of the roof as if that explained everything, then shook his head when he realized he was making little sense.

He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, inhaling deeply one last time. When he opened them, he focused on Simon, his worried— worried, not angry— expression prompting him to take it slow, if needed. "It's just..." he started. "Since my brother died, I've been..." He cleared his throat. "I've had to be so focused on work because I need to further his legacy, my family's legacy, in the industry."

He swallowed on a dry throat, and his gaze dropped to the polished wood of the stage, the space between his feet and Simon's. "And I don't hate it— I like playing the piano— and I want to do it because I think that's what Erik would want, but since he's gone it's been so..." He shook his head, not knowing how to put it into words. "I just— I work all the time. It's always work to home, home to work, the same routine all the time and it's like... I feel... I feel trapped. It's like every bit of joy I used to get from this has... fizzled out. And now it's just... a thing I have to do. This thing that makes me feel... numb, almost. Fake."

Simon was listening attentively, carefully, looking almost distressed? Wille didn't mean to make him sad, drag him into his problems, but he felt the man deserved an explanation. So he kept talking, even as his hand frantically rubbed his chest where his agitated heart resided. "But this past week, what we've been doing— writing our song— it's the most alive I've felt in... years, really," he admitted, his voice breaking. "It's the only thing that feels real. The only thing that's made me feel good, that has made this"— he signaled around them to the piano, the concert hall— "feel good."

He looked up at the ceiling, at the skylight, as he added, "And it's all because of you. And of course it doesn't make all of my problems go away— my brother's still dead, and my mother can't fucking chill for one second, and I still have to perform for people who don't care about anything but money and status, but I—"

His jaw clenched briefly before he continued. "Since the first time I saw you with the sunshine beaming down on you while you sang the words to a silly lullaby, I..." He let his breath out in a huff. "I wanted to have that be in the song because when you said it should be about an unexpected connection between two people, it was all I could think about—"

"Wille..." Simon finally spoke, softly.

But Wille was on a roll, and he couldn't stop himself, couldn't pause to listen to what Simon had to say until he got all his feelings out because otherwise he never would. And he needed to. He had to clear the air. "—and I understand if you're weirded out by it. I mean, this is your song, after all; it's going on your album and everything, so I don't want to, like, hijack it or whatever, but I just thought—"

"Wille," Simon said, more forcefully this time, and it successfully got Wille to shut up. Simon truly didn't seem angry— that was a relief— or even confused, but mostly just... relieved, and maybe a little bit amused? Wille couldn't predict what Simon's reaction was going to be, but all he could do was wait for it. Whatever it was.

Simon's gaze was so direct, so unwavering, that Wille fought the urge to close his eyes.

"Hey," Simon said as if trying to get Wille's attention. Which was completely unnecessary because Wille couldn't have looked away if he tried, but still. Simon covered the couple of steps or so that still separated them, coming to stand directly in front of Wille, to the point Wille had to tilt his head slightly up to meet Simon's gaze. So close that Wille need only slightly lift his hand to touch him.

Wille held his breath, waiting for Simon to say something.

Simon, instead, lifted his hands to cup Wille's face, looked deep into Wille's eyes, and leaned down to press their lips together.

.


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Author's notes!—

So if I gave you an actual kiss by the end of the first chapter, does that make me cooler than Lisa & co.? No, no it doesn't. xD But never let it be said that I'm not nice to y'all. These two wouldn't be themselves if they didn't go through the stages at light speed.

Wilhelm's last name is Berwald because friends don't let friends use "Bernadotte." ;) Berwald is a German last name (it does occur in Sweden, but it's rare) that means "bear ruler," which is essentially what "Bernadotte" means in French (well, "strong bear," to be precise). The nursery rhyme Simon sings in his first scene is supposed to be a real Swedish nursery rhyme, but I don't know how well-known/accurate it is, given that I only found it on one website, from what seems like a secondhand account. But hey, works well enough, I think!

The music desk is the little stand on the front of the piano where you prop up your music sheets. A staff is a set of five horizontal lines, as well as the spaces between them, on which music is written. Some instruments, such as the piano, use ensemble staves ("staves" is the plural of "staff") meaning that the music on the two staves (top and bottom) is meant to be played simultaneously; in piano, they call it the grand staff, and this usually means the top staff is played with the right hand and the bottom staff with the left hand. The extension .mxl is used for compressed music scores created in MuseScore or similar songwriting software, and it's pretty much the standard in the industry.

Shout-out to my musician brother who was nice enough to humor my incessant music questions (he's not a pianist, so he tried his best)! I know very, very little about music (I can only play the guitar a little and the last time I did that was ages ago), so if you spot any errors, that's on me, not on my poor brother who will thankfully never know this fanfic is a thing that exists.

Believe it or not, this was meant to be a one-shot. ^^;;; But as it always happens with these things, I can never keep them short. The full story is already written, though; I've only got to proofread each chapter, so you'll be getting updates once a week. In the meantime, I'm on Twitter (girls_are_weird) or Tumblr (girls-are-weird) if you wanna yell at me for leaving you hanging.