Like Because, Love Despite, Chapter 10. PG-13, Set It Up AU, Wille/Simon, romance/fluff/slight drama.
Wilhelm and Simon are a pair of overworked, underpaid assistants who team up to gain their supervisors' favor by bringing them together for a joint venture. It might be the best worst idea they've ever had.
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That Saturday, Simon walked into the fancy tailor shop with some trepidation. Not just because of what he was there to do, but also because the place itself reeked of opulence. He felt a little awkward and out of place as he asked the clerk in the vestibule— that's what they called it— to direct him to Englund.
"Ah, Eriksson," Englund said in his usual effusive (/sarcasm) way. "Took you long enough." He stood on a step riser as a tailor pinned the hems of what would be a pair of new bespoke suit pants. He was also smoking a thick cigar. Simon wasn't entirely sure it was legal to smoke inside a building like this.
He didn't voice that thought out loud, though. "Right. Sorry to just show up like this," he said instead. He pulled out a few papers from his bag, ostensibly his excuse to go talk to his boss. "Here are all the flight and hotel details for your trip to Amsterdam."
There was a pang somewhere inside his chest that had manifested on and off since he printed out the papers. It was hard, when holding the evidence in his hands, to forget that he and Wille had arranged all of it together.
"Hmm." Englund took the papers with the hand that wasn't holding the cigar, looking over it without even reading a word. "I'll look it over when I'm done here. Put them over there with the rest of my stuff." He handed the papers right back. "And have some whiskey, why don't you? It's free." He pointed to a small drink cart which was set up nearby with an assortment of glass drinkware, bottles of alcoholic beverages, and a silver ice bucket.
Simon stood there awkwardly. He didn't want to tell Englund that he didn't drink and invite personal questions he didn't feel comfortable answering with his boss. At the same time, he couldn't exactly say "Sorry, I'm on the clock" because he wasn't, technically— the one Saturday Simon wasn't expected to work and he'd still forced himself to come talk to Englund because he had to live by his principles or whatever. The whole thing was a mess.
"Um... no, thank you," he replied, choosing to keep it simple. The tailor quietly excused himself and headed toward the backroom to look for more pins, warning Englund not to move too much.
Englund chuckled a little to himself— Simon wracked his mind for a moment for any memory of any gesture of happiness or joy from his boss since he'd started working at HSF and came up empty— and then shook his head. "Can you believe this? You get referred to this fine establishment as a Krona business partner and they roll out the red carpet for you. Amazing."
He saw an in to bring up the topic he actually meant to bring in when he decided to come here. He was going to give himself a second to think of how to breach the subject in a casual, careful manner, but instead, he found himself blurting out, "You shouldn't be."
Englund stared at him like he was speaking in a different language.
Simon shook his head as if jumpstarting his brain so he'd begin making sense instead of just blathering without input from his brain. "You shouldn't be partners with Krona, I mean. You can't trust them. You can't trust August."
"Eriksson, what the hell are you on about?" Englund threw back, frowning. "This is an incredible deal he's brokered for us, not to mention potentially a continuing association. Mr. Horn and I have developed a great working relationship."
"No, you haven't," Simon shot back, his shoulders squaring more and more as his confidence grew with every word. "Not a real one, anyway."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Englund demanded. The repeated curses were a sign, in Simon's experience, that the man was getting incensed. "He came to us with this arrangement—"
"He didn't!" Simon retorted emphatically. "Or he wouldn't have done it on his own, at least." He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the confession. "Wilhelm— you know, August's assistant? He and I, we set you up."
Englund scoffed. "Don't come here with such silliness." He glared at Simon. "This is a business deal, Eriksson, not a blind date—"
"We stopped the elevator so you two would meet," Simon cut him off again, knowing that if he let Englund go off on a rant, he'd never get a word in edgewise. "At the football game, we arranged everything so you'd end up sitting together; your bookie was our plant. And after the tree nut–allergy incident... we told him what to say."
He shook his head. "Öland, the wardrobe tailoring you supposedly won— it was all us. We made you think it was safe for you to enter into this agreement. But you don't know this guy. You can't trust him. Your 'great working relationship' isn't real."
"And what would you know about any of this, anyway?" Englund snapped back. "You're just an assistant. You have no idea how business works, what it takes to sustain a successful partnership. I don't care how it started; it's working now."
"He's going to appropriate our shelter to turn it into a hotel!" Simon finally revealed. He'd been hoping to ease Englund into the idea that August was not trustworthy before divulging the true extent of it, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
The disclosure seemed to catch Englund off-guard, at least enough to keep him immediately countering. He stared at Simon with a pensive expression, and Simon thought maybe he was finally getting through to him.
But he thought wrong.
"I know."
At first, Simon thought he'd misheard him. "I'm sorry, what?"
"I know about the hotel," Englund doubled down. He carefully stepped down from the riser and regarded his assistant with an almost casual detachment. "He's going to make me the manager."
"But..." It started to dawn on Simon: Englund was in on the con. He was going to sell out HSF for a piece of the pie. He was snatching the shelter away from the people who needed it. Simon had known Englund was a miserable person, but he hadn't expected he'd be this awful. It was a lot to take in.
"And you're fired," Englund added easily.
"What?" Simon couldn't believe the fucking gall of this man. "You can't just fire me like you didn't just admit to plotting to steal the shelter from HSF!" He shook his head as if to clear it, again. "I— I have to tell Director Lilja—"
"Go right ahead," Englund said, unconcerned. "I wonder who she'll believe: a disgruntled, recently terminated assistant who was never good enough to even receive a single promotion or a team leader who has been working at HSF for nearly three decades and whose projects have brought millions of kronor to the foundation?"
Simon gaped at him, feeling like he was losing his mind. He just had no words.
Englund took advantage of the silence to get the last word in. "Now get out. I don't want to see you again. You can arrange to pick up your things from your cubicle with someone else who isn't me."
Stunned and hurt and enraged, Simon turned to leave, on the way out dropping the papers detailing Englund's upcoming travel on top of the man's briefcase. It was a conditioned reflex. One he would use for the last time.
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Wille had spent the nearly 48 hours since his and Simon's fight at the watch shop wrapped in a blanket burrito on his couch in sweatpants and an oversized sweater.
August had gone sailing with... someone— Wille was technically still his assistant so he should probably know where he was and who he was with, but frankly, at the moment Wille didn't give two shits if his cousin up and drowned out there. That sounded harsh, but Wille couldn't muster enough strength to be ashamed. Everything that was happening was August's fucking fault.
Maddie had texted to ask if he wanted to go to the theater with her; he'd begged off with the excuse that he wasn't feeling well. Felice stopped by to check on him on her way back from brunch with her mother but had to leave after getting only mumbles and single-word responses to her concern.
It was only when Erik called, and Wille knew he couldn't just ignore him because his brother was literally calling from another country, that he allowed himself to communicate with another human being in full sentences. He was determined to keep the call as brief as possible and to keep the entire story to himself. True to form, Erik managed to pull the whole damned thing out of him within a few minutes.
"Wille..." Erik said when the younger man finished explaining everything that happened between him and Simon, all the way back to their decision to set Englund and August up. Wille flinched at how disillusioned he sounded. He was used to letting everyone down all the time, but he didn't think he could take it from Erik. Not today.
"Don't." He shook his head. The blanket he had wrapped around his head like a hood made a noise against the couch cushion with the movement. When he first accepted the video call, Erik had asked why he looked like the Unabomber in place of a greeting. "I already know I fucked everything up, alright? I don't need your disappointment on top of everything."
"Listen, I'm not going to pretend you didn't make mistakes," Erik said, already used to dealing with Wille's glares, "but right now I'm not disappointed, I'm just... I'm worried about you, little brother."
Wille frowned. "What does that mean?"
Erik shrugged. "Well, this is what you said you wanted, right? To prove yourself. To rise in the ranks. And yet, you're not happy. How come?" He looked at Wille like he knew exactly what the answer to his question would be. Wille had always both hated and loved that about his brother.
He worried the inside of his lip. He hardly needed to think about it; he knew what he was going to say from the clamp currently tightening around his heart. "I want Simon," he finally said.
Erik nodded. "Right. But is it Simon, or is it just the way you got this promotion?"
"Can't it be both?" Wille said with a scoff.
"Of course," Erik said with a chuckle at his brother's pout. The mirth didn't stay for long, though. "But you can't have both. And I know you, Wille. I don't think you really want this new position. Not like this, at least."
He was right. Wille knew he was right; he just wished he wasn't. He threw his head back against the pillow with a groan and rubbed his face with one hand. He wanted to grab the pillow, bring it up to his face and scream into it, but he couldn't do that without putting the phone down.
"I thought..." he started, hesitant, and then he stopped. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and gave himself a beat to collect his thoughts. "I thought this way, everybody got what they wanted. The shelter for at-risk queer folk. Simon's dream of helping people. My promotion. I really thought I was doing what was best for everyone, Erik."
"I know you were," Erik replied without even a second of hesitation. Wille almost smiled, heartened by his brother's trust. "It's just that... sometimes, even if it seems like everyone wins, that still doesn't mean it's right." He shook his head. "Not if it's based on a lie."
Wille let that settle in him. He'd never really thought of it that way. "Was this how you felt?" he asked. He didn't need to say when; they both knew he meant the situation that led to Erik quitting the firm and moving to London.
Erik nodded sagely. "Yeah, pretty much." He gave Wille an encouraging smile. "So what are you going to do?"
Wille knew what Erik wanted him to do, but he didn't know if he could do it. He'd known since he was a child that he would grow up to work at Krona. It was the only future he had ever known. Not having that assurance was... scary.
Wille didn't want to admit that, though— not even to Erik— so instead he let out a huff. "Seriously? You're not even going to offer any suggestions?" he asked teasingly. "That's it: I'm revoking your big-brother card. I don't even know why I bother calling you."
"Actually, I called you," Erik reminded him with a wink that made Wille groan. Did he have to be this extra?
"That's right," he said, unable to keep the affection out of his voice. "I'm sorry I hijacked the conversation with my mess. What did you want to talk about?"
Erik grinned like the cat that ate the canary. "You're not going to believe this, but I was actually calling to offer you a side gig."
Wille frowned, confused. Was this Erik putting pressure on him to quit his job at Krona? That didn't sound like him. And he lived in freaking London anyway; what kind of a side gig could he do from all the way in Scandinavia? "Erik, I already have enough on my plate with one job. Now you want me to work another one?"
"I don't know," Erik said vaguely, "I think you'd like this one... best man."
Wille was about to ask what the fuck he was talking about— in those exact terms, too— when the last two words finally sunk in. "Erik," he said, abruptly sitting up. "Erik, are you finally going to propose?"
"Already did, I'm afraid," Erik replied. "I would've told you beforehand, I swear, but it was kind of unplanned." He winced. "I kinda just blurted it out while we were having lunch."
"No!" Wille said overdramatically. "Erik! Were you at least at a nice restaurant?"
The wince deepened. "We were at home." Wille facepalmed, mock disappointed. Erik seemed to agree with the gesture. "I know! I suck. But she said it was romantic? I mean, she said yes. We went to buy her ring the next day."
"I swear, out of all the things for you to uncharacteristically fail at, it had to be this." Wille shook his head. "It's a good thing that she loves you."
"I know. I'm incredibly lucky." Erik's gaze was lost somewhere above his phone's camera, and he had the sappiest smile on his face. Ugh. The smug bastard. Wille was so happy for him.
"Anyway," his brother said, snapping out of his trance, "what that means is that you definitely have to make up with Simon as soon as possible, because you're going to need a plus one, hopefully in the near future, and getting a passport takes a few weeks." He pointed a finger at Wille— or the camera, rather. "I won't have you moping at my wedding, you hear me?"
The brief burst of joy fizzled out of Wille like the air out of a deflating balloon at the reminder of his fight with Simon. "I don't know, Erik," he said, reflexively biting his thumbnail. "I doubt he even wants to look at me right now."
"But you love him," Erik pointed out easily, "so you have to try." Wille was about to tell him to stop speaking nonsense, that he wasn't in love with Simon— it was too early; they weren't even really dating— but his lips wouldn't form the words. Maybe he did love Simon. It wouldn't hurt this bad otherwise, right?
"I'll try," he promised, though he hadn't the faintest clue as to how to go about it. Problem for another day, he figured. "Congratulations, big brother."
Erik responded in kind, and they chatted for a few more minutes about other less important things. When they hung up, Wille put his phone down on the coffee table and laid back down on the couch, staring at his ceiling.
Erik was lucky. He had found someone who loved him and stood by him through everything and would be at his side for the rest of his life. Wille wanted that. He wanted to be happy. If Simon would just talk to him...
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On Monday, Wille got to the office early, sat at his desk, and bounced his knee up and down until office hours actually began. He gave himself ten extra minutes before lunging for his VoIP phone to call Simon's cubicle, hoping that way he'd be less inclined to ignore the call.
"Hillerska LGBTQ+ Support Foundation, Englund Team—"
"Hey, I know you're still mad at me, but if you'd just let me explain—" he rushed to get in before he got interrupted. It was almost automatic; he'd been hyping himself up to do this so hard through last night and that morning. It was such a reflex that he didn't even notice the voice on the other end of the line wasn't Simon's.
"I'm sorry, who is this?" the man asked, clearly confused by the seemingly personal greeting (or lack thereof, really).
"Oh," Wille said dumbly, caught off-guard. "Sorry about that. Um, is Simon around?"
"I don't know who that is, sorry." At this point, Wille thought they might beat the record for apologizing the most in a conversation shorter than one minute long, and they didn't even know each other. "I'm just covering the Englund Team's desk until they find a new assistant. Can I help you with anything else?"
Wille's heart sank to the bottom of his stomach. Had Simon quit? Had he been fired? Had something else happened? He couldn't tell and, to be honest, he probably forfeited the right to ask after Friday.
"No," he finally said, despondent. "That's okay. Thank you." He hung up the phone and stared at it. He stared at it for so long that he was startled when someone called out his name.
"Wille! My man!" It was Nils, approaching Wille's desk with a bright grin. Wille kinda wanted to look around him to see if it was some other Wille he was talking to, because Nils had certainly never treated him so chummily— and Wille had never held his breath for it.
It was definitely him he was addressing this time, though, as he made his way around Wille's desk to clap him on the shoulder. It gave off a very "no homo, bro" vibe, except Wille knew for a fact that Nils was gay. It was a fact the firm had trotted out often in their attempt to beat back their lack-of-diversity allegations— A brown, homosexual junior associate? You don't say?
"Congrats on your promotion," he said. Wille gave him a confused glance Nils was only too happy to ignore. "Listen, a representative of East Ventures is in Stockholm this week, and the Queen wants us to raise the possibility of a partnership with Krona in Asia. Vincent and I are going to wine and dine him tomorrow. You should come."
Wille just continued to look at him like he'd grown a second head. Was this how friendships were built in VC? You got promoted and all of a sudden your existence at the firm was valid? "...Why?"
"So you can learn from our experience, of course," Nils said like it was obvious. "August said we should take you under our wing. This is a good opportunity for you to see how things work in the big leagues."
"Right," Wille muttered, unenthusiastic. He barely remembered that. "Sure. I'll be there. Just send me the invite."
"Good man," Nils said, patting his shoulder again. Wille really wished he would stop doing that. And for the moment, he got his wish, as Nils went back to his own desk, having said his piece.
Wille's hand was still on his desk phone. Had been this entire time. Heavyhearted, he pulled his hand back and slumped back in his chair.
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Simon forgot to turn off his alarm, so he was startled awake at six in the damn morning by the comforting, dulcet tones of Bad Bunny playing as loud as his phone speakers would allow and causing him to jump about half a meter in the air. Grumpy from the abrupt scare, he turned off the stupid thing and went back to sleep, face smushed against his pillow.
When he woke up for good at a much less offensive hour of the morning, he put on his depression hoodie, poured himself some muesli, and sat down to Zoom with Rosh and Ayub, who were in Göteborg and Bjärstad, respectively.
"Such a goddamn snake," Ayub commented once Simon explained everything that happened with Wille and Englund over the weekend.
Simon let out a huff. "Yeah, I know. Englund's always been awful, but I never expected him to be actually evil."
"Yeah," Ayub agreed, "but I was talking about Wille."
Before Simon's brain had enough time to decide if it wanted him to launch into a rant about how much of an asshole Wille was or into an impassioned defense of Wille as being only a victim of his unfortunate family circumstances, Rosh intervened.
"But you're going to tell the director at HSF, right? They should go to jail for this," she insisted. "And you shouldn't have lost your job because of their greed."
Simon sighed heavily. "Do you remember how last year that one high-level stock broker guy got charged for running the most obvious insider trading scheme of all time?" Rosh nodded. "Remember how he only got, like, probation and a fine that was basically just pocket money for him?" Rosh grimaced, and Simon knew she was starting to see his point. She made a snide comment about capitalism that no one disputed.
"That was it." He shook his head, disappointed. "Wille's right. People like them never get convicted. They always get away with it."
"Okay," Rosh conceded but didn't linger there. "But you were right, too, Simme. HSF deserves better than to have the rug pulled out from under them with no warning. You have to tell them. And maybe you could even get your old job back."
Simon groaned and threw his head back. "I don't want my old job back," he groused. "I don't want to be running people's errands until the day I die. I want to help people. I want to be a team member. And they'll never let me have that if I've got nothing to show for myself."
"So write that proposal, then." Rosh shrugged like it was so easy. "That concert idea of yours. Write it up. Make it awesome. Who cares about what degree you got at uni if you can bring in amazing, wholesome, lucrative ideas."
Simon wasn't so sure it would be the slam dunk his friend thought it was. "I guess..."
"Well, there you go," Rosh insisted, plowing past Simon's obvious hesitation. "It's not like you can get any more fired, right? Worst they can do is turn you down. And if they do, listen: you have us. We've got your back." She smiled encouragingly. "Write it."
"You got this, Simme," Ayub intervened with a grin and two thumbs-up. "We're rooting for you."
"Thanks, guys," Simon mumbled. He really did love his friends, as annoying as they could be sometimes. "I guess I'll try."
They talked a little more about how life was for the two of them, letting Rosh vent about the last two friendlies she lost and tied, respectively, with the national team, and demanding all the latest news from Ayub's very large extended family.
Once the call ended, Simon quickly finished his breakfast and opened his word-processing software. He cracked his knuckles and got ready to type.
Proposal:
Well, crap. He'd been putting together this concert project in his head for so long, and he hadn't even thought of a title. Now he had to come up with one in a hurry. He leaned back in his chair and pondered the issue, giving himself a bit of time to formulate a few different options. Punchy ones that would be a hit with the board. He could choose the best one later.
Except he was totally blanking. He was blanking hard.
Okay. Fine. He could come back to the title later. Sometimes it was easier to come up with a title once you'd written out the full thing. He was sure he'd heard someone say that at some point, that it was better to just move on to the contents rather than getting stuck on the title. Sounded like good advice.
Abstract:
Alright, maybe he could skip the abstract as well. It was like a summary, after all, so it would be better to have the full thing written out, and then he could take out the main points and string them together for the abstract. Same with the contents, really. He needed section numbers for the contents, so he couldn't write the table of contents from the beginning. That would be silly. He should skip that, too, and get to the real meat of the proposal.
Background:
He stared at the blinking cursor.
And stared some more.
And stared until his eyes crossed.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Simon muttered under his breath, flipping the lid of his laptop closed. He pushed away from the table, his chair screeching with the movement— thankfully Sara wasn't home, or she would've scolded him— but he was so frustrated, he couldn't be bothered. Shaking his head, he went back to his room. Maybe he'd try again after lunch.
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Wille actually managed to function on Tuesday... until he got the email from the advertising firm. They had completed the first version of their diversity and inclusion ad and were submitting it to August for approval. The ad for which Simon had recorded a song.
He all but lunged for his bag, spilling all of its contents on his desk in search of his earphones. He put them on and grabbed his phone in a death grip.
He pressed play.
There were only a couple of seconds of keyboard melody before Simon's voice came in. That lovely, powerful voice he hadn't heard in four days and missed like a lost limb.
"Have you ever felt like being somebody else? Feeling like the mirror isn't good for your health?"
The melody was soft but Simon's voice was raw, emotional, and it fit perfectly with the images of people of all stripes in different stages of seriousness and sorrow. A woman crying on the floor of her kitchen. A black man at what looked like a funeral. A Muslim family huddled together at a refugee shelter. A couple of women at what looked like a hospital, their wedding rings notable in their tightly held hands.
"But lately, it's not hurting like it did before. Maybe I am learning how to love me more."
The tone soon began to change; the video transitioned to images of joy, happiness. A South Asian woman dancing with her son in a garden. An East Asian young man graduating from university. A little girl wearing a Sámi gákti singing into a microphone. Two men kissing with a pride flag flying prominently behind them.
"Just a little bit..."
As Simon sang the last line and the keyboard melody came to a close, the last image faded to black, the words "We are here for you" in a simple sans-serif font followed by the Krona Ventures logo.
It was perfect. The song was perfect.
Simon was perfect. He'd done this for Wille, not to get anything from him but simply because he cared, and in response, Wille had betrayed him. Gotten him fired, most likely. Fuck, he'd probably ruined Simon's life.
He hastily wiped a tear from his eye and pressed play again. And again. And again. It was the thirty-second version that would play on TV, so it went fast— the advertising firm would produce a minute-long version if this one was approved. But at this point, Wille wasn't even seeing the video anymore. He just wanted to listen to Simon's voice. Wanted to feel some version of Simon near him, even if just a poor electronic reproduction.
He must've replayed it like thirty times by the time an external stimulus managed to pierce the bubble of emotion he was in. "...the car?"
He started, pulling an earphone out and turning to look at August. "What?"
His cousin looked at him expectantly. "I asked if you reserved the car to take me to the airport tonight." He frowned. "What the hell are you watching?" he asked, pointing at Wille's phone.
"Oh, um, it's nothing." Wille quickly turned off his screen. "Uh, I... I haven't. Yet. But I can— I can do that now." Truth be told, it hadn't even occurred to him that August would need transportation to the airport. It should have, but it hadn't.
"Yeah, well, do that," August threw back with a disapproving shake of his head. "You could at least pretend to do your job until I leave, you know." He kept grumbling until the door to his office closed behind him.
Wille sighed, unlocking his phone, and clicked out of the video and into his contacts. He scrolled down to the name of August's preferred luxury car service. It was two entries above Simon's contact.
Wille's thumb hovered over his name, hesitant.
But in the end, he couldn't do it. He couldn't call Simon. Not until he fixed things.
He locked his phone and dropped it on his desk. He had a lot to think about, a lot to plan for the week his cousin would be out of office. And August wouldn't go home to pack until three, anyway. He'd just order the car later.
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Simon was lying on the floor of the living room, surrounded by dirty dishes, pizza boxes, and instant ramen cups, when Sara entered the apartment.
"Yes, Mamma, it was lovely," she was saying on the phone to their mother as she walked in, rolling her suitcase behind her. She and Alexander had spent the weekend at a castle in Knivsta to scope it out as a possible wedding venue. The wedding wouldn't take place until next summer, but Alexander's family was already sparing no expense.
"I took some video," she assured their mother. "I'll send it to you once I unpack, I promise—" That was when she caught sight of her brother's sorry state. "I'm going to have to call you back. Bye."
She left her luggage at the door and rounded the coffee table to get to him. "Simon? Are you okay?" She crouched by his side. "Why aren't you at work?"
Simon pulled his forearm away from his face. "Because... I got fired," he admitted in a frustrated huff.
"You did?" Sara said neutrally. For a moment Simon thought she was about to tell him she was sorry, but he thought wrong because instead, she grinned and said, "Congratulations!"
"Sara..." he groaned, sitting up and shifting so that his back was resting against the seat of the couch.
"What?" she retorted defensively. "I've been telling you to quit for years now. So no, I'm not sorry you're not working there anymore. That place was going to drive you to your death."
Simon shook his head. "HSF wasn't going to drive me to my death; Englund was. I love HSF. I wanted to be a team member. But I was so busy being Englund's assistant that I never even had time to write a single proposal. And now I'm supposed to write one to see if they'll take me back, and it's like whoosh"— He made a gesture like thoughts flying out of his head— "It's like my brain forgot how to write."
Sara tsk-ed sadly and leaned toward Simon. He thought she was going to hug him, so he opened his arms to hug her back. Instead, she grabbed one of the throw pillows from the couch behind him and bonked him over the head with it.
"Ow!" he complained, even though it didn't really hurt. It was a pillow, after all. "What was that for?"
"Stop feeling sorry for yourself!" Sara threw back, brandishing the pillow as a weapon again, and prompting Simon to raise his hands to defend himself. "You are the smartest person I know— apart from myself, of course." Simon narrowed his eyes at her. "You know how to write, and you know how to write a proposal. You've read every single project proposal that team has put out in the last three years— that's more than individual team members have!"
She had a point. As the team's assistant, he was the last point in the chain before proposals and proposal presentations were submitted to the board. He checked each one for formatting, spelling, and typos, and made sure everything looked okay for submission. He had read every word of each one. He knew the format like the back of his hand by now.
"And yes, Englund was mean," Sara added, dogged, "and he took up all your time with useless shit, but guess what? Now you have the time!" She smiled, encouraging. "You've been evaluating every aspect of this concert in your mind for years; you can write this proposal in your sleep. All you need to do is focus and get it done."
"You're right," Simon said, his confidence buoyed by her unwavering support. Slowly but surely a smile began brightening his expression. "You're totally right. I'm going to get it done."
"That's what I like to hear," Sara said, standing up and throwing a hand down to Simon to pull him up to his feet as well. "Just— go get it done somewhere that isn't here, 'cause now I have to clean the mess you've left all over the living room, and it's going to take a while."
"Sorry, sorry," Simon said as he kissed her cheek loudly. "You can leave it like this if you want, and I'll do it myself when I get back." He headed to his room to put on actual pants.
He heard Sara scoff. "Not a chance."
He laughed. "I love you!" he called back to her as he changed.
"I love you, too, you slob!" she shouted back, which only made Simon laugh even more.
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He walked into the Indian restaurant in his oversized grey hoodie and ripped jeans, his curls surely wild and the circles under his eyes surely dark. He must've looked like some kind of 90s-grunge-frontman wannabe without any of the cool points if the look the server— the same one from the time he stopped by with Wille— gave him like she was about to suggest that he be drug-tested was any indication.
Ignoring the woman's glare, Simon turned instead to the person standing behind the bar. "Hi. Is it okay if I sit here to work on something?" he asked as he set his laptop down on the bar. "I'm trying to finish a document, so I may be a while."
The bartender opened their mouth to speak but it was the server instead who intervened. "I got this, Dany," she said, to which the bartender nodded and went back to their work of organizing the bar. It was the dead hour between the lunch and dinner rushes so there weren't very many people in the restaurant.
She turned to Simon, giving him a pointed stare. "You can stay at the bar as long as you need, provided you order something. Like with money."
Simon narrowed his eyes at her. "Listen. I know I look like I've been living in a van for the last three months, and I did just get fired from my job, but I'm not broke yet, okay?" He sat on a stool and opened the lid of his laptop. "I will order a meal come dinnertime, but for now I will have a Coke Zero, and I would appreciate it if you could bring me some of that free naan and Raita. That would be lovely, thank you."
He focused on his computer as it booted up, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw the server shake her head, a smirk on her lips. Simon paid her no heed, readying himself to pour all of himself into this proposal. He was going to get this done, and he was going to get it done tonight. Period.
He opened the document and wrote.
.
.
.
Later that evening, Wille sat at a secluded corner table at Frantzén with Nils as they waited for Vincent to arrive with their international guest. They were probably caught in traffic, because the two had been waiting for a while. Wille wasn't sure how to sit anymore— the seats weren't very comfortable. Wille had eaten at Frantzén before, but for some reason hadn't encountered that issue until now.
Nils had been talking for what seemed like an eternity about his escapades at Verbier over the Easter holiday. Wille had tuned him out maybe a few minutes into his narration; frankly, Wille didn't want to know what Nils got up to when he let loose in a private setting. Nils didn't seem to mind that Wille wasn't paying attention. Wille figured he just loved the sound of his own voice.
He distracted himself instead by browsing through his photo albums on his phone. Erik would say that he was torturing himself by looking at all the photos he had of Simon and with Simon, and he was, but there were also other images in there he needed to keep organized and clearly labeled. He busied himself with that until Vincent finally arrived, led to their table by the maître d' with their guest in tow.
"Apologies for the delay," Vincent said, then switching to English to introduce them to the Japanese man, a seemingly pleasant fellow, maybe in his early fifties, wearing gold thin-rimmed glasses. He greeted them both with a smile, a firm handshake, and an affable "Hajimemashite."
They ordered shortly, and Vincent and Nils immediately launched into their pitch. They were so intense about it, the poor man could only nod in response. Wille was supposed to be listening, was supposed to be learning from them, but he couldn't bring himself to. He kept glancing under the table every minute or so, where he held his phone in his hand. His fingers itched to text Simon to commiserate with him about how vapid this world of finance was. How fake everyone in it was. He wished he could be with Simon, wherever Simon was, rather than here.
"Hmm?" Wille said, looking up abruptly when he heard someone address him. All three of his dinner companions were looking at him expectantly. Wille had no idea who had spoken, let alone what they were speaking about.
"Uh, yes. Absolutely," he finally said. He had no clue what he'd just agreed to, but honestly, he didn't care. It seemed good enough to satisfy his coworkers, and their guest nodded at him with a smile. It didn't matter, anyway. None of this mattered.
Their food arrived soon enough, and the business talk ceased so they could all tuck in. Wille fidgeted in his seat, still uncomfortable. He wasn't very hungry, but this steak was small and probably expensive so he wasn't about to let it go to waste. He picked up his silverware and began to eat.
At his side, Nils moaned in pleasure around a bite of his own dish. "This is why this place is so exclusive," he said after swallowing. "This is the best meal I've ever had."
The words triggered a memory of Simon in his mind— sitting on the floor of Wille's bedroom, smiling, beautiful— and the food all but became ash in Wille's mouth. He gulped it down with difficulty. "The best meal I've ever had was a bowl of reheated plain spaghetti drenched in ketchup," he mumbled, more to himself than to anyone else.
"What's that?" Nils asked, clearly thinking Wille was talking to him.
Wille simply shook his head in response. When Nils shrugged and went back to his meal, Wille set his knife and fork down and pushed the plate away from him, his steak only a quarter of the way eaten.
The movement caught Vincent's eye. "What the hell's wrong with you, anyway? You've been moping or something this entire time." He shook his head in an admonishing manner as he picked up some of his own food. "Get your head on straight. You're going to blow this for us."
Wille would've responded noncommittally as he did with Nils, but he really wasn't in the mood to be told to "play the game"— not when "the game" had cost him Simon. So no, he wasn't about to just stay quiet.
"I really hate this," he said, maybe a bit louder than he should have because his companions all turned to look at him— even their guest, even though Wille had spoken in Swedish. Too late to back out now, though.
"All of this sucks," he continued, determined to say his piece. "This place is way too quiet for a restaurant— seriously, can you hear anything other than the sound of our own voices? It's unnatural." He jiggled in his seat. "These chairs are harder than a cheap barstool. And the food is delicious, but even so, it's not worth the no doubt exorbitant price Krona is paying for this dinner."
He shook his head. "We're all just pretending that this meeting is so important, and for what? I'm pretty sure this poor man doesn't even understand a word of English," he declared, signaling out of reflex in the direction of their international guest.
The man's placid smile remained. "Actually, I understand it just fine," he said in an accented but otherwise flawless English. "Swedish, too."
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry," Wille blurted out, genuinely mortified. He hadn't meant to bring the man into it at all; he was just on a roll and didn't think before he spoke. He shouldn't have assumed, regardless.
"It's quite alright, young man," the older businessman said magnanimously, still smiling like he was completely unbothered by all the drama. "I'm rather entertained by this conversation. Please, do go on."
"What is even happening right now?" Nils asked dimly like he'd only just arrived at the table.
"What I'm saying is..." Wille tried to soldier on past his blunder because at this point he had to, right? In for a penny, in for a pound. He took a deep breath and let it out before starting over. "I'm saying I don't want to want to be an asshole."
Vincent leaned forward across Nils to speak directly to Wille in a low tone, probably so their guest wouldn't hear him. "You sound insane," he said, giving Wille a look like his mother used to give him when he was little and wasn't behaving as he was expected to in front of company.
"Just eat your steak," Vincent all but ordered as he pulled back to finish his own meal. "You can bet August will be hearing about this. There's still time for him to take back that promotion he gave you, after all."
Right. Well, then. Wille had intended to wait until his mother and August got back from Amsterdam to do this, but Vincent was making it entirely too easy to just say "To hell with it."
He stood up, his chair almost bumping into a server behind him as he did so. "You know what?" he said, hand dipping into his pocket for his wallet. "You don't need me for this. Here"— He pulled out a credit card and laid it on the table— "Order anything else you want, on me."
With that parting line, he started making his way toward the exit. Except that three steps— or more like stomps— into it, he changed his mind. "What the hell am I doing?" He spun on his heel and walked back to the table, snatching his card back just a second before Nils picked it up. "I don't even like you; I'm not paying for your food! You can pass the bill to Krona like you're supposed to."
He did take a second from his righteous departure to bow his head respectfully at their guest. "Tanoshinde ne," he said, for once grateful to his mother for forcing language lessons on him and Erik when they were younger. "And I'm sorry, again."
"I hope you find your place, friend," the man said in English as Wille left. He appreciated the sentiment, but it was unnecessary. For once in his life, he knew exactly where he belonged.
He pulled out his cell phone, found Simon's contact, and pressed Call.
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.
.
The restaurant was already packed full of people having dinner, but Simon was too in-the-zone to notice. His soda had gone flat, and he'd finished his third refill of naan bread half an hour previous, but he was getting it done.
Sara had been right: he could write this proposal in his sleep. Well, maybe not in his sleep, but it was fairly easy once he hit his groove. He still skipped a few sections that he was going to have to come back to later, but when he really got started on the true core of it, the arrangement and logistics of the concert itself, it was like the proposal wrote itself.
He heard the server ask him if he was ready to order, but it was a bit like she was speaking to him from underwater. Or maybe he was the one underwater in this scenario, though that sounded bad— realistically, it was because he had his headphones on (music to inspire a concert proposal, right?)— but the important part was that he was not letting the "outside" world distract him.
Then his phone, which was on the bar top right beside his laptop, vibrated with a call. Wille's picture greeted him with a small, adorable smile. His nickname popped up under the picture with that stupid heart emoji Simon hadn't yet removed because he'd spent the entire weekend trying not to think about Wille.
Was it wrong of him that he almost wanted to pick up the call? Yes, he was still angry and offended and disappointed, but also it was the first time Wille attempted to communicate with him since their argument after weeks of talking and/or texting practically every day, and a part of Simon missed that. Missed him. Was that terrible? He was so angry at Wille. He should be able to easily cut him out of his life.
But it hurt.
It hurt to think of what he'd done, but it also hurt to be without him. He'd burrowed so deep into Simon's heart so quickly, and now Simon had pushed him out even quicker, and it was a little disorienting. It just hurt.
"You're not gonna get that?"
The bartender— Dany, if Simon recalled correctly— snapped Simon out of his reverie. It was like the entire world had been blurry, silent for the past minute or so, and then in a blink, all the sensory information rushed at him like an avalanche: the cozy lighting of the restaurant, the different colors of the bottles on the bar racks, the clinking of glass against glass, the murmur of voices from the people dining all around him.
He looked up at the person and stared without truly seeing them, a little dizzy, blinking slowly from the momentary dissonance. Then he shook his head, partly in response to their question and partly to clear it of all thoughts of Wille.
"No," he finally answered, his voice raspy as much from emotion as from disuse. But he meant it. He had no time to waste pining for someone who couldn't do the right thing even when spelled out for him. He had better things to do.
He declined the call and went back to his proposal.
.
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Author's notes!—
Not me passing my issues with my thesis onto poor Simon lol.
East Ventures is a real venture capitalist firm, one of the largest in East and Southeast Asia, based in Singapore, Indonesia, and Japan. Bad Bunny is a Puerto Rican rapper/singer/songwriter. The Sámi are an indigenous people of northern Fennoscandia and the Kola peninsula of Russia, in an area known as Sápmi (formerly Lapland); a gákti is a traditional piece of clothing of the Sámi people.
Knivsta is a municipality in Uppsala County, about an hour north of Stockholm. The castle Sara and Alex spent the weekend at is Noors Slott; they host weddings, indeed, and it just looks like an amazing, beautiful place to get married in. Hajimemashite means "Nice to meet you" in Japanese, and Tanoshinde ne (lit. "Have fun" or "Enjoy yourself") is a way of saying "Have a nice day."
I know this chapter didn't particularly feel like a step up from the previous one, emotionally speaking, but things are happening even if on the surface it doesn't seem like it. We've hit the final stretch, all! We're getting it done! :D It might take a bit, though, as I have to move out of my place over the next couple of weeks. I'll appreciate your patience.
Next up: Our happy ending, per rom-com law, but I'm not legally obligated to tell you how it comes about. So. You'll have to read and find out. ;)
You can always holler my way on any of my social media to see how things are coming along: on Tumblr (girls-are-weird), Mastodon (cpinillad dot creativewriting dot social), Post (cpinillad), Spoutible (cpinillad), Discord (cpinillad), Bluesky (cpinillad dot bsky dot social), and even on Threads (cpinillad), though I won't actively use that account until there's a browser version. Feel free to follow me in advance if you want, though. I can't tell you what to do with your life. xD Anyway, see you in the last chapter! Eeeee!
