En Garde. PG-13, Wille/Simon, canon divergence, romance/drama/some angst/is sexual tension a genre?
"Just give me one point," Wille insisted, not backing down for one second. Simon wasn't about to admit it, but boldness looked good on him. (Or: the dodgeball scene, but make it fencing.)

Note 1: I'm a few weeks late to Foxy's birthday, but I hope this is worth the wait. Happy belated birthday, my dearest! Or should I say joyeux anniversaire? I gotta stay on brand, I guess. xD

Note 2: Uh, I live? I swear I haven't given up on LBLD, I just haven't had much time to write anything that isn't my thesis lately. So I tried to get this one out as soon as possible for Foxy and now that it's done, as soon as I get some time, I'll be back to working on that one. I promise. It might just take a while.

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"En garde! Prêts? Allez!"

When he started at Hillerska, Simon hadn't thought he'd enjoy fencing. It just seemed, even more than rowing, like the epitome of a rich-people sport. They even had the fancy electric jackets and everything— he would come to learn they were actually called a lamé. It was French. Everything in fencing was so... French. Not that there was anything wrong with French, but Simon didn't know any French and it only heightened the feeling of being an outsider in a boarding school for wealthy people who vacationed at the French Riviera any chance they got. And no matter how much their PE teacher insisted that the rules of this sport were really quite simple, it was all very esoteric to Simon.

Now that he'd tried it, though, he'd changed his tune a bit. It was still super pretentious, but it also took strategy and quick thinking, and he realized he was actually pretty good at it. Plus, he had to admit that slashing at someone with a (blunted) sword was a very good way of releasing some of his pent-up anger.

Especially now that Wille had all but admitted to making out with Felice.

"Halt! Point Simon."

As he walked backward to his en-garde line, he glanced at Wille at the other end of the piste. Or at his mask, really. It had been a little annoying when he and Wille got called to the piste together— Simon had been doing his damned best to avoid him as much as possible but their PE teacher wouldn't hear anything about switching partners. It didn't help that they had the eyes of every single one of their classmates stuck to them as they faced off; Walter had gone "Oooo!" when their names got called like the immature brat that he was, but Henry had smacked him in the back of the head to shut him up. Well deserved, in Simon's opinion. Everybody else had the good sense to stay quiet, even if they were all still watching raptly.

It had been annoying initially, but Simon quickly shook it off. They were doing untimed 5-point bouts and Simon had already won four; he was going to win the match and there wasn't much doubt about that. They'd been doing fencing once a week since the first semester so he had a lock on Wille's style by now. After all, he'd been paying close attention to the other boy even before that fateful horror movie night in October.

Wille was surprisingly coordinated for someone who was regularly so clumsy— probably had to do with rowing, actually— but he wasn't great at anticipating his opponent's next move, and especially not against Simon. He wasn't as quick to riposte. He also kept forgetting, even this far into their second semester, that he wasn't supposed to cross one foot in front of the other; that was a good thing because it forced them to halt and he'd lose momentum.

All that said, Wille was very good at dodging and parrying. It wouldn't win him many bouts unless his opponent made a mistake, but it did make each touch take a longer time than usual. This was just for school credit so their teacher let them keep going; a pro match would've already ended.

Simon didn't care; right now, he just wanted to win. Wanted to finally get one over Wille in spite of his money and his PR team and his— damned— princeliness or whatever. Simon wanted to be the one having the upper hand instead of being the one left in the dust for once.

"En garde!" their teacher called out.

They both got into fencing position.

"Prêts?" He asked. No one said anything. Simon took a deep breath behind his mask, his gaze focused on Wille's form in front of him. It felt like the entire gym was holding their breath, too.

"...Allez!"

Simon went on the attack, as usual. He thrust at Wille's shoulder, his side, then tried to slash the opposite way. Wille dodged the first two stepping backward each time, then parried the third. He then tried for a riposte but Simon was able to parry that with a thrust that Wille only barely managed to sidestep.

He tried to slash at Simon, but Simon parried and riposted, forcing Wille to step further back to dodge the counter-thrust. He was already over the warning line and quickly running out of strip. He didn't have much space to keep dodging; crossing the end line with both feet would give Simon the win, and he was well aware of it.

Wille thrust forward. Simon parried and riposted. Wille parried the riposte. Simon saw his opportunity when he moved into a riposte of his own— before Wille could thrust at him, his attention focused on Simon's torso where he was aiming, Simon dodged to the side and swung his saber in a wide arc at Wille's head, which was unguarded.

Wille's left foot was only a centimeter or two from the end line when the tip of Simon's saber touched the base of his neck.

"Halt! Simon takes the match," their teacher called out. Then, very obviously directed at Simon, he added: "Though we could've done without the theatrics."

Simon said nothing, breathing hard as he was from the exertion. Why bother playing with swords if they couldn't pretend to be swashbucklers every once in a while? Just look at the history of fencing: the whole point was the drama.

Some of the other students cheered, but it dissipated into the rumble of many conversations as their teacher dismissed the class. Simon only allowed himself to glance at Wille's face behind the mask for a second before finally pulling back. People filed out around them and behind them, the boys headed toward their changing room, the girls in the opposite direction.

Wille moved toward the corner to start putting all the equipment back. Simon took off his mask just as Sara called out to him, letting him know she'd be staying late at the stables. Simon assured her that he would let their mother know.

By the time he made it to the corner bench, Wille had taken off his mask and all the electronics. "You didn't even let me get a point in," he commented casually.

The last few people were now leaving the gym. The teacher left as well, with a parting indication that they should leave everything in its rightful place or they'd be in trouble. Simon knew the comment was more directed at him: if anything went missing on their watch, he'd get in trouble.

He shrugged, starting to unplug his own wires. "Tough luck," he said dismissively. He wasn't feeling particularly charitable toward Wille these days. "I don't have to take it easy on anyone. Even the Crown Prince."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wille's jaw clench. "What's your problem now?"

"Nothing," Simon said with a shrug as he concerned himself with the electronics of his fencing wear rather than the other boy in the room.

In the back of his mind, though, he realized he sounded maybe a bit too casual to really convey indifference. And once that thought crossed his mind, the real reason for his irritation just poured out of his mouth unbidden.

"Would've been nice to have a heads up... about Felice," he blurted out before he could stop himself. Now he just sounded resentful. "Nice to hear that at lunch."

Wille let out a frustrated little scoff as he easily put his own wiring in a cabinet above the storage shelving. The one Simon always had to get up on tiptoes to reach. "Simon, I understand that it sucks, but... you kinda have double standards."

He let the door of the cabinet slam closed, the sound echoing off the wooden paneling of the empty gym. "I'm not the one who's got a secret boyfriend." He put his mask up on the shelf with the others. "It's just, like— you say there's nothing serious between you. Then you kiss him right in front of me. How the hell do you think that feels?"

He was quiet for a beat, the only sound the slight clanging of his saber as he hung it a bit too harshly off the rack. Simon had, without realizing it, completely stopped divesting himself of his equipment.

He thought Wille was then going to take off his lamé, but instead, he spoke again. "Are you official now?" he asked very curtly like it was the last thing he wanted to have confirmed.

Simon didn't know what to say— the last thing in the world he wanted to do was talk about Marcus with Wille, but as the other boy stared expectantly, he knew he had to say something.

He shrugged, going for a disaffected vibe again. "At least he's open about liking me," was what he settled on. Maybe if he said it with enough confidence, he'd be able to convince himself he actually felt something for Marcus. "He wants me to meet all of his friends and likes it when I sing—"

"And you mean I don't?" Wille threw back, sounding almost offended.

The volume of his voice rose with that question, and Simon couldn't help but sneak a glance at the doorway that led to the boys' changing rooms. If anyone was still in there, they could probably hear them arguing.

But if Wille didn't care if they were overheard, then Simon didn't care either. It had never been his idea to keep their interactions secret. Which brought his train of thought back to Marcus.

"He accepts me for who I am," he threw out one more reason, just because.

"As if I don't accept you?!" Wille threw back even louder. He crossed the length of the bench that separated them in two long strides, until he was standing directly in front of Simon, frowning down at him. Simon almost took a step back on a reflex. He wished he hadn't done that; sometimes it was hard to think when Wille was so close like that. And the fact that he affected him so only made him angrier.

"You're the one who can't accept my position," Wille insisted, "who the fuck I am, my family!"

Simon squared his shoulders. "No... You're right," he snapped back, a few degrees colder than he probably meant to. But he couldn't let the nearness of Wille or his words throw him off-kilter. "Maybe I can't."

As the words settled in the pregnant silence between them, Wille's anger fizzled out. His expression fell, and for a brief heartbeat, he looked so hurt that the guilt immediately started eating away at Simon. This always happened to him, he thought. He'd get so angry, he'd end up saying things he didn't mean. Except this time he wasn't sure if he did or not. It was all so complicated between them.

But the injury didn't sting for long; Wille's expression steeled only a couple of seconds later. With a glare— and his lamé still on— he moved to leave. That's when Simon snapped out of it.

"Wait," he said, bringing up his saber, which he'd previously been holding at his side like a wet noodle, to stop Wille like a barricade. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

Wille looked down at the blade of the saber pressing against his stomach, then at Simon. He didn't say anything, but he seemed to be weighing whether to voice a thought. For a moment, Simon worried he would throw his apology back in his face. But he didn't.

"I want a rematch," he said suddenly. It was the last thing Simon was expecting.

His surprise gave way to a scoff. "Seriously?" Wille, determination burning in his brown eyes, didn't take it back. Simon shook his head. "You're a glutton for punishment."

"Just give me one point," Wille insisted, not backing down for one second. Simon wasn't about to admit it, but boldness looked good on him.

"...Fine," he finally conceded, figuring one point couldn't hurt. It's not like they were redoing the full five touches. Plus, a genuine back-and-forth looked much better on his record than just steamrolling a weak opponent.

They put back on the equipment they'd already put away, though they didn't bother with the electronics— they'd just have to make their one point a really obvious one, then. They walked back onto the piste they never got around to rolling up, and put on their masks as they stood at their respective starting lines.

"En garde!" Simon called out since he had the advantage from winning earlier. His pronunciation was atrocious, but this wasn't a formal bout, so he might as well speak in Swedish instead.

They both got into fencing position once more. "Ready?" he asked. Wille nodded.

Simon took a deep breath. "...Fence!"

Wille attacked first, for once. Switching it up, huh? Simon thought as he moved to parry. He riposted with a slash at Wille's side, which Wille dodged, but he overcompensated and nearly stepped off the side of the strip.

He caught himself just in time, however, falling back on his left foot to halt his momentum, then requiring an extra step to stabilize himself. This was one situation in which his long gait was not helpful, and Simon knew if he kept pressing he'd have him at the end of the piste in no time.

Thrust. Parry. Riposte. Dodge. Even when Wille managed to push back, he didn't gain much distance and a riposte from Simon could erase those gains and more. It didn't take much longer for Wille's feet to cross the end line: the bout should've ended there, but Simon was now too focused to stop.

The tip of his saber touched the middle of Wille's chest just as his back hit the wood-paneled wall. Saber arm still extended, Simon took off his mask, letting it fall on the strip, and smirked.

He was breathing hard. So was Wille. The tip of Simon's saber moved back and forth every time he inhaled, exhaled. Simon's smugness petered out as he became entranced by the movement.

He took a step closer, then another. The tip of his saber slid up centimeter by centimeter, following the path of Wille's sternum and caressing the polyester/metal weave of his lamé. The movement ceased when it bumped against the hem of his mask's collar. Simon's gaze drifted upward, too, from the blunt steel tip to the dark mask. His eyes met Wille's through the mesh.

He took one last step forward, the step that put him directly in Wille's orbit. He lifted his free hand to where the tip of his saber rested and pulled off Wille's mask, dropping it on the floor without a care.

Wille's hair was disheveled from the motion and wet with sweat, and it would be soft to the touch, Simon knew. His fingers itched to bury themselves in the dark-blond strands. Wille's eyes were wide, the pupils dilated and the honey-gold irises darkened and thin with want. Simon knew that, too.

He adjusted his saber so that it was the blade, instead, that was pressed against Wille's neck. He was so close, he could directly feel the movement of Wille's chest as he took air in and out, the brush of his breath against his face every time he exhaled. Against his lips.

He leaned closer. "I win," he whispered.

Wille swallowed heavily; his Adam's apple bumped against the blade. "Simon—" he whispered back, the name strained with emotion. So many meanings encrypted in two simple syllables; he could just as well have meant it a warning or a plea. Perhaps both.

Simon felt no need to find out. Instead, he lifted his hand to Wille's nape and pulled his head down until their lips met.

Wille's saber fell to the floor with a clang, his hand instead finding purchase at Simon's back, clenching around a fistful of the fabric of his lamé. Simon promptly discarded his own saber, his fingers disappearing into the luxurious silk of Wille's hair. He pressed closer to the other boy, pushing Wille's shoulders against the wall for better leverage.

He plundered Wille's mouth, lost in the brush of lips and the stroke of tongues and the feeling of kissing Wille after so many weeks of not having this. Fuck, he'd missed this. He'd missed him, even though he'd been right within reach all along. Why couldn't they just have this? Without the world interfering, they were good. They were perfect.

Wille pulled at Simon's lower lip with his teeth, and it felt so good that it drew a moan from the back of his throat. Wille dove in again, drinking him in like a man dying of thirst. Simon turned his head, shifting the angle. Wille's huff in response, like kissing him was a more urgent need than breathing, only heightened Simon's desire. He wanted deeper. Closer. More.

His hand trailed down to the zipper on Wille's lamé and—

"Hey, Wille, the guys and I were thinking of ordering pizza from Bjärstad instead of eating at the dining hall— oh."

Simon sprang away from Wille immediately, turning his back on the newcomer, Henry— of course it was Henry— to discreetly wipe his mouth.

He couldn't see what Wille was doing because his back was to him as well, but he must've been equally startled into silence because Henry was the one to say something, again. "Dude, you have to stop making out with people in places where I can just walk by."

Simon had the irrational urge to bark back at Henry that Wille had been making out with Felice in his dorm room which Henry had barged into, but then he realized with some non-negligible level of hysteria how ridiculous it would be to get hung up on that when he'd just gotten caught kissing Wille in the school gym.

After Wille's makeout session with Felice had become the talk of the school.

After he'd asked Marcus to be his date to the Valentine's Ball, where all of his classmates would know they're dating.

Fuck.

"Henry, fuck off!" Wille had finally found his voice. The growl was heavy with frustration; whether that frustration was over getting caught in a compromising position again or over this particular kiss being interrupted, Simon couldn't tell.

Henry had the gall to scoff. "Ugh, fine!" he said. "Just don't come begging for a slice later!" With that ultimatum, he stomped away— literally; his steps were so loud, Simon could hear them clearly— and he and Wille were left on their own again.

The silence stretched almost unbearably. Simon remained where he stood; he couldn't bring himself to look at Wille after what they'd just done. But he felt, more than heard, Wille move closer. "Simon—"

But Simon only shook his head emphatically, stopping Wille in his tracks. "I have to go," he mumbled and hastily spun in the direction of the main gym entrance, the one that didn't go through the changing rooms.

"Simon, just...!" he heard Wille call out just before he turned the corner. There was an edge of desperation in his voice that made Simon's heart clench inside his chest. But he couldn't stay.

He pushed the door open and walked out. He'd bring back his lamé later.

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Author's notes!—

I did warn you it was going to be somewhat angsty, didn't I? D= Sorry, I guess. But I was working within canon, and as such, they can't get back together at this point.

This whole thing started when Foxy and I were talking about Wednesday, I believe (if you aren't reading her excellent Wednesday AU, Nothing Here to Fear, you are missing out!). She mentioned she wanted the dodgeball scene to be Wille and Simon fencing. And then a few days later when I was rewatching S2, I noticed that at the top of episode 5 there's a couple of students walking around the Hillerska grounds in fencing wear, and... well, this little ditty was born. (Probably not my smartest idea, considering I literally know nothing about fencing and now I have to explain it all. DX Hey Google, play "Why am I like this?" by Orla Gartland.)

Regardless, I made a conscious decision to keep things mostly vague precisely because before this, the only competitive fencing bout I'd ever seen was the one on Wednesday, and I can't imagine that was particularly accurate. So please, any sabreurs out there, take it easy on me. I tried.

Saber is one of three disciplines of fencing, the other two being épée and foil. Saber is the fastest of the three, and that's saying a lot in a sport that is already fast to the point that it's often difficult for us uninitiated to even see what's happening in a typical bout (seriously, look it up on Youtube, it's amazing). They may seem slower here just because I didn't think saying "and Simon scored in 3.2 seconds" would be very interesting to read (#ForTheDrama). Anyway, I chose saber because it's the only one of the three where fencers are allowed to slash to score points, and I just think that's cool.

"En garde," "Prêts," and "Allez" (lit. "On guard," "Ready," and "Go") are three terms the referee uses to tell fencers at the beginning of each round to go back to their start lines, get in position, and start fencing. I used "En garde" for the title of the fic because... well, it fits Simon, doesn't it? He's so often got his guard up. The piste or strip is the long area where fencing bouts take place. The en-garde lines are lines two meters from the center line where the fencers get in position each round. The warning lines are three meters behind the en-garde lines and two meters ahead of the end of the piste. Crossing the end line or the side of the piste with both feet is a point for your opponent.

The mask is the steel mesh that protects the fencer's face. The collar is the piece of cloth that hangs from the mask down to the top of the chest. The lamé is an electrically conductive jacket that registers touches from the saber. The saber and lamé are plugged to a two-pronged wire known as the body wire at the back of the lamé; another wire connects the lamé to the mask (because head touches also count as points).

A bout is like a match in other sports— whoever ends up with the most points wins; in competition, bouts usually go up to 15 points, though I decided that was a bit too long for high school. Each round ends when a point is scored or with the referee stopping it, with or without points awarded. A point is scored when the fencer touches any part of his opponent from the waist up with the point or the blade of the saber.

A riposte is an attack someone makes after successfully parrying an opponent's attack. A parry is when an attack is blocked with the bottom part of the blade. In saber fencing, a forward cross-over (that is, when the back foot passes the front foot) is not allowed. The French Riviera is the Mediterranean coast on the southeast corner of France (and also including Monaco).

No room for the usual sign-off, so you know where to find me! Leave comments and kudos! I'll be back soon! Bye!