Like Because, Love Despite, Chapter 6. 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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It took Wilhelm two tries to put the USB stick into the correct slot, since the first time he did it, he didn't realize he had it upside down. This was the fifth USB stick he tried to open, and just as it had happened with the last three, a message popped up on his computer screen telling him the drive needed to be formatted before it could be opened.

He threw his head back with a groan. What was wrong with technology today? He was fairly certain the problem was his computer, except the first USB stick had opened fine. He was this close to just marching up to the firm's IT specialist, dumping the dozen or so sticks on his desk, and demanding loudly that he make them work. Except that was a particularly Karen-ish move in an office that was already filled to the brim with finance bros pulling Karen-ish stunts, and Wilhelm didn't want to add to the poor guy's stress. But he also really needed to listen to the contents of these USB sticks, or August would have his head. What else could he do?

Speaking of, the door to August's office was open, and Wilhelm (and anybody else who walked by) could hear his side of the conversation with some fellow finance person from somewhere— Wilhelm couldn't tell who, even though he'd forwarded the call himself. Outside of the firm, analysts' and partners' names and positions just blended in his mind. How he managed to do his job despite his obvious lack of personable skills, he would never know.

"No, no, it gets worse," August was saying, and Wilhelm couldn't see him from where he sat, but he could hear the sneer in his voice. "He goes up to Daniel in the most ill-fitting suit you'll ever see. Can you imagine that? Going up to the Operating Partner at Creandum in anything but a perfectly tailored suit? It's like he wasn't even trying! Utter lack of respect, I tell you. I would never introduce Aunt Kristina to someone who doesn't have their clothes professionally tailored."

That last sentence made Wilhelm pause as he was about to try inserting stick number six. He processed the words for maybe a heartbeat before frantically lunging for his phone, sending Simon an urgent text.

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They met in the elevator because it was too early to go to lunch, but Wille couldn't meet at lunch because he and August had a scheduled appointment then. "What's up?" Simon asked as he stepped into the nearly empty car.

Wille sighed as the elevator doors closed behind Simon. "Englund needs to get his wardrobe professionally tailored," he declared in a resigned tone.

Simon's immediate reaction was to chuckle incredulously, thinking Wille was joking. Then he realized from Wille's thoroughly unamused expression that he wasn't. "You're kidding, right? We don't have that kind of budget."

Wille shook his head. "You don't need to worry about that. I'll pay for it; you just need to—"

Simon couldn't hold back a scowl, galled by the mere suggestion. "What? No. I'm not going to let you just pay for all of that, especially when I don't see why any of this is even necessary." He shook his head. "The man is in his sixties; it's not like a snip here and there is going to make him look like James fucking Bond."

"No, you don't get it," Wille threw back, clearly frustrated. "If this deal between us and you guys goes through, it would be an official sponsorship. That's the kind of thing that not only has to be approved through the entire hierarchy of the firm but also has to be presented to my mother. If we want her to sign off on it and for Krona's name to be associated with it publicly, there's an expectation on Englund, particularly, to present as someone who's successful in his field..."

Simon's scowl only deepened at that. "You can't equate success to the way people dress or how expensive their clothes are. Just because most of us don't have the kind of money needed to buy designer outfits or bespoke suits doesn't mean that we're not doing great work and are worthy of investment—"

Wille ran both his hands over his face. "Simon," he started, in a mollifying tone, "I get what you mean, and I completely agree, but I am telling you how it's going to be from August and my mother's point of view. For them, the appearance of success matters, and if Englund shows up to a meeting with my mother looking like a high school math teacher, it's going to be a point against him before he even opens his mouth. We can't have that."

Simon just stared back at him, jaw clenched. He knew this wasn't something Wille was just coming up with; it was something they had to do because of the environment they had to move in if they wanted this deal to come through. They couldn't afford anything that might break the tentative interest they had going at the moment, even if it was something as stupid as the fit of Englund's clothes.

Simon sighed. "This is bullshit," he told Wille, giving him a pointed stare just in case his displeasure hadn't already been entered into the record. But he had to go with it, even if he didn't like it.

"I know," Wille said, and looked like he truly understood. "I'm really sorry this is even a thing. I wish I could change it, but no one's going to listen to me even if I try." Simon still didn't understand the inner workings of Wille's family— one where his cousin and even his own mother didn't place any value on his opinion or his effort. It boggled his mind, and he found it rather sad. But at least it meant that Wille knew what they were dealing with, what to expect as the partnership moved forward.

The defensiveness flowing out of him in a heavy exhale, he conceded. "Fine. What do you need me to do?"

Wille smiled at him gratefully, and Simon wondered if he would've given in eventually anyway.

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Simon looked at the last item on the to-do list he was holding on his clipboard. "And I've sent you that report you asked for of our most profitable projects. It should be in your inbox, so you can look at it and let me know if you want me to make any changes or if there's any information that's missing."

"Fine," Englund said with a sigh. He wasn't looking at Simon; he was leaning over his desktop, head in his hand as he wrote something down on the project specs the team had just turned in. Simon felt like it was the polite thing to at least say thanks, but he'd been working for Englund long enough that he knew it wasn't going to happen.

Instead, after a minute or so, his boss looked up at him like he'd expected Simon to go back to his cubicle and was surprised to find him still standing there. "Was there anything else?" he asked blandly.

"Yes, I just wanted to remind you," Simon added, jumping into the plan he'd come up with before he entered Englund's office, "that you have that wardrobe fitting coming up this week. On Thursday."

Englund's brow furrowed. "What wardrobe fitting? I haven't told you to book me a wardrobe fitting."

"Right," Simon hurried to reply, not wanting him to think he was just running rogue with the team's budget. "No, this is the one you won at the, uh, Christmas party last year? The coupon only came through now. You know how it is with all the bureaucracy." He tried his hardest to sell it even though every word coming out of his mouth was a complete lie.

The v between his boss's eyebrows only deepened. "I don't remember winning anything at last year's Christmas party. You'd think they'd hand me the coupon right there, but they didn't. Are you sure they didn't get the recipient wrong?"

Simon shook his head, a little worried that his made-up excuse was getting way too complex for him to keep track of every single detail. Englund might be a terrible boss, but he wasn't dumb. "Yeah, no, this was a, um, a raffle they did after, with the names of everyone who was at the party. Your name was picked. The email must've gotten buried in your inbox, but now they sent one to me since it has to do with your schedule."

Englund took a moment to process that, his expression unchanging. Simon freaked out internally, sure that the man was going to figure him out and call bullshit on the whole thing. To his surprise, when he did react, it wasn't as bad as Simon expected. "Huh," he said, in a tone that sounded almost mystified. "Well, I don't particularly think my clothes need tailoring—"

"No," Simon intervened hurriedly, suddenly paranoid that his boss would think he was insulting his sense of fashion— which he did not have, but Simon wasn't about to say that to his face— and take it against him. "No, you're fine." Shit, now that sounded like he was sexually harassing his boss. Eww. "I mean, your clothes are fine. You don't need tailoring. But you should get it, anyway. But you don't need it."

The older man just stared at him over the rim of his glasses, thoroughly unamused. Simon knew he had to reel back his nerves or he was going to lose him. "Sorry. I'm just saying... you won it. Might as well use it."

"I guess if I don't have to pay for it," Englund conceded, one eyebrow arched high, certainly, in open judgment of Simon's babbling.

"You don't," Simon said, just in case he hadn't made that clear before. "You just have to show up. Everything is paid for."

The eyebrow did not come down. "Yes. Because that is how prizes work," he deadpanned, looking at Simon like he had the mental capacity of a drunk gnat. Before Simon even had time to contemplate feeling offended, Englund went back to the project specs on his desk. "Was that all?"

"Yes. Yes, that was all," Simon said quickly, internally cheering that his convoluted, hastily put together plan had actually worked. "I'm just— I'll be in my cubicle if you need anything." He hightailed out of the room before Englund changed his mind.

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Simon and Wille regrouped that afternoon on a tea run, funnily enough— August had started some kind of juice cleanse, while Englund was having digestive issues, so coincidentally, both of them were having tea that day. This allowed Wille and Simon to meet up and debrief each other on how this latest movement on their plan was coming along.

"Is three-thirty okay?" Wille asked, looking at his contacts list on his phone. "I can make the appointment now, just to be safe. The tailor will be happy to accommodate me— he does all the work for my entire family, so we have a pretty good rapport."

"'Rapport,'" Simon mocked the lofty language with a chuckle, prompting Wille to mock glare at him. Still laughing, Simon checked his phone for Englund's schedule. "Four would be better. The early afternoon is a bit tight for us on Thursday."

"Noted," Wille said, struggling to type on his phone with just one hand as he held a drink holder in his other hand containing August's tea as well as half of Simon's order. "I'll let you know when I hear back. It shouldn't take long, though."

Simon nodded, and a moment later, sighed— Wille couldn't tell if it was in exhaustion or frustration. "It's so silly, isn't it?" he mused out loud. "These are two grown men who deal in financial transactions every day— in different ways, but they both do. You'd think once we nudged them in the direction of a mutually beneficial business deal, they'd be able to get it to the finish line almost automatically. Instead, something as stupid as some baggy clothes can make the whole thing fall apart." He shook his head. "What is this, Mean Girls?"

Wille snorted. "Regina Georges, both of them."

Simon made a face. "You don't think Englund is more of a Gretchen?" he proposed instead. "He's got that 'pick-me' thing going, that's for sure."

"You'd know better than I would," Wille conceded with a shrug. "August is definitely a Regina, though."

"And we're bringing them together instead of keeping them apart, as we should for the good of humanity." Simon rolled his eyes. "The worst part is that we're going to have to keep nudging them along until the ink is finally dry on the sponsorship deal. They clearly can't get there on their own."

"So we Parent Trap them into it," Wille suggested cheekily.

Simon laughed. "Okay, you really like Lindsay Lohan movies. I get it." The mirth made his shoulders shake, and they were walking so close that the fabric of their sleeves nearly brushed against each other.

"Oh, I've never seen the Lindsay Lohan version," Wille confessed. The admission shocked Simon so much that he stopped walking abruptly, and Wille, now a couple of steps ahead of him, had to turn around to talk to him. "The 60s original is one of my mother's favorite movies, so my brother and I watched it often with her when we were little. Guess I just never got around to watching the remake."

Simon was looking at him with such a flabbergasted expression that Wille was starting to feel a little self-conscious. "What?"

Simon shook his head. "It's like you belong in a museum."

Wille chuckled, unsure of how to take that. "Because I'm a piece of art?" he asked hopefully.

"More like a piece of work," Simon said, shaking his head. But he was smiling as he walked past Wille, leaving him behind this time, the gesture mirrored in the crinkle of his lips. He jogged to catch up, glad they could still have these light, banter-filled moments. Even if Simon was with someone else, Wille would rather have this than nothing.

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Once the Great Tailoring Crisis was averted, and Simon and Wille agreed they'd have to keep shepherding their bosses through this business deal until it was complete, things started going really well for them. They couldn't single-handedly guarantee that August and Englund remained in a good mood all the time, but they could ensure they never soured on each other or the deal, and those small actions actually went a long way in improving their general mood and their favorability to their poor, tired, beleaguered assistants.

So, the following week they had "Englund" send August a (very expensive) box of Cuban cigars that August raved and bragged about to his minions for the next few days. A few days later they had "August" send Englund a (luxury) engraved fountain pen that he displayed on a privileged space on his desk like it was a medal. Together, they selected new pieces for Englund's wardrobe that Wille could attest would satisfy August and his mother's requirement of a clean-cut, business-savvy image.

All of this came out of Wille's trust fund–boosted personal account, of course. Wille knew Simon was uncomfortable about this, about the fact that Wille was paying for everything. Wille kept assuring him that what he was putting in financially, he was getting out in better workplace conditions: a more benevolent supervisor, a smaller workload, and actual free time.

So every time August left the office early to have drinks with Englund and discuss business like the manly businessmen they were, every time they attended some function so August could network and introduce Englund and HSF to important people in the world of finance like he'd "discovered" some kind of hidden treasure, it more than justified Wille's investment.

It also allowed him to hang out more with Simon. But he didn't say that out loud.

Having so much more free time was pretty sweet, though, even without taking that into account. Wille's burnt risotto got to have its revenge when he made a second batch to share with Felice and Maddie. Being the great friends they were, they happily informed him that his attempt was "good in the way anything smothered in cheese is good." Wille chose to take that as a win.

On top of that, it really did seem like August was growing to respect him, little by little. The day Wille delivered some documents August had asked him to put together (he didn't say what for, but Wille knew it was for the HSF sponsorship), August asked if he wanted to come along with him and his friends for drinks after work. Nils and Vincent's expressions were priceless. Then a few days later, at a work meeting at Sällskapet, Wille was actually allowed inside; he had to hold back the swagger in his steps as he walked past the bouncer and into the club.

Simon had been taking advantage of the extra time as well. Mainly, he was helping his sister plan her engagement party, and apparently, it was going really well— she'd already sent out the e-vites and formally asked Simon to be her best man. Wille thought that was pretty cool that they were bucking convention in that way.

He'd also gone on at least one more date with Marcus. They'd had dinner at Marcus's place, and watched a horror movie together after that. Simon didn't offer any more details than that, and Wille definitely didn't want him to, but just hearing about it had him nearly running to the bathroom. His mind was more than eager to fill in the blanks, regardless. He was trying to be supportive, to "hang in there," as Erik had suggested— but just the mere possibility of Simon and Marcus kissing, or possibly even more than kissing, made him nauseous.

It was a confusing situation overall. He was glad for every second he got to spend with Simon as they worked on this plan of theirs, but sometimes he also hoped they could get it done already. He wasn't sure he could survive it much longer, being so close to Simon while knowing it was some other man who got to hold him after hours.

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One Tuesday found Simon and Wille finally making good on that post-work dinner hangout offer at a small Indian restaurant close to their office building. Well, "post-work" was a bit of a stretch— they still had to go back to the office after dinner, though hopefully not for long— but at least it was something.

A server approached them for the third time since they arrived; she was probably a little older than them, maybe in her thirties. "Hey there. Are you ready to order now?"

"Give us a few more minutes, please?" Simon requested, though he'd already been poring over the menu for the last ten minutes. "And if you could bring us some more naan and this little yummy dipping sauce, that would be lovely."

"Raita," Wille corrected casually, being more familiar with the name of the dish.

"Yes, that," Simon grinned and pointed at him with a finger as a host at a trivia show would. Then he turned back toward their server again. "Thank you." Wille, who had already decided what he wanted to eat ages ago, just gave the woman a polite smile.

"You really don't know what you want?" Wille asked as their server moved on to the next table. At least the delay gave him time to discreetly observe Simon as he examined the restaurant's food offerings. It was really kind of cute how he crinkled his nose when he came across a dish that didn't sound appetizing to him, or how his eyes would light up when he read a description of one he might like. The latter happened much more often than the former.

"There's just so much to choose from!" Simon replied, almost a whine, and it made Wille chuckle. That was cute, too. He was cute.

"Anyway, as I was saying," he added, finally giving Wille his full attention, rather than the food, "Sara's engagement party is on Saturday. I cannot miss it because of work, or she will never forgive me. So I need you to help me make sure I can be there, okay?" Wille nodded.

"So here's what I'm thinking," Simon continued, excited. "There is a business innovation and diversity retreat in a resort villa in Öland this weekend." He pulled a brochure out of his bag and handed it to Wille, who skimmed through it as the other man spoke. "We can't just buy a ticket; only corporations are allowed to reserve a space for one or more of their employees."

Simon pointed to the pricing table that was on the back of the brochure. "Now, HSF has no budget for such a thing, so you're going to have to make August think that he came up with the idea of sending Englund there. Like maybe it would be beneficial for their partnership to become more familiar with innovative business techniques or whatever. And then Englund will be out of Stockholm and with limited mobile service, and hopefully completely forget that I exist for one weekend. Do you think that's doable?"

"I think so," Wille agreed, with only the slightest tilt of his head. "August has his birthday pool party that Saturday, too. Thankfully, he doesn't trust me to organize it for him— he hired a professional event planner— but it's all he can think about lately, so I'm sure he'll barely pay attention to anything else I run by him. And if he asks later, I can always tell him he asked for this for Englund as some kind of professional improvement thing. He'll only pat himself on the back for having such a good idea."

Simon snorted. "A birthday pool party? Like in grundskola?"

"Yep. Except with smaller bathing suits and lots and lots of booze." Wille shook his head, a dry smirk on his lips. Simon laughed. "It's really obnoxious, honestly, but I still have to go. If I want that promotion, I have to show August that I can network even in purely social situations. 'Every opportunity is a business opportunity, little cousin,'" he imitated August in all his insufferable glory. Then he paused for a second and frowned. "Even though I'm terrible at that."

Simon tipped his glass of water at him like making a toast. "Godspeed to you and your tiny Speedo, then," he said, snickering as he spoke the words.

Wille's eyes widened. "I am not wearing a tiny Speedo!" he sputtered, flustered at the mere suggestion, but he also recognized that he, himself, had opened the door to that one. He only had himself to blame.

Simon chuckled. "Pity. I would've liked to see that." He said it so casually, and yet Wille's face felt like it was about to explode. He knew Simon liked teasing his friends— teasing Wille, specifically, because he got flustered so easily— but he wondered if Simon was aware of how that offhand comment could be interpreted.

Or maybe he does realize how suggestive it sounds and he just doesn't care, Wille thought as Simon went back to look at the food. He didn't have time to ponder on the implications of such a possibility, because Simon's phone, which was lying on the table beside the menu, vibrated with a text notification. He placidly peeked at the pop-up, unlocked his phone, read the message, and then replied in three, maybe four taps of the screen before going back to the menu. Their server stopped by briefly to leave a fresh plate of naan and raita on the corner of the table but hurried off without interacting in any way.

Wille frowned at Simon's actions. "That's gotta sting."

The comment prompted Simon to look at him. "What do you mean?" he asked in a curious tone.

Wille pointed at the phone. "That's Marcus you're texting, right?" Simon nodded. "This is the third time since we got here that you've replied to his messages with just a single emoji."

It was Simon's turn to frown. "So what? I like emojis."

Wille nodded. That much he had to concede; Simon really did love his emojis! "I know, but most of the time you also have more to say. This"— He pointed at the chat screen again— "feels like the Simon version of responding in grunts and monosyllables, and whenever I do that, people assume I'm angry or worried about something. And they're usually right."

Simon narrowed his eyes at him, and for a moment Wille worried he'd upset him— he needed to stop doing that, but he couldn't seem to keep his opinions to himself when it came to this Marcus guy. It's not that he was trying to interfere with Simon's... relationship, or whatever it may be; he knew he didn't have that right. It was just that the jealousy burned inside him every time he even remembered that Simon was seeing someone else, and the fumes pushed all the feelings out of him like word vomit.

But it wasn't just jealousy. When he spoke his opinion about Marcus and Simon, it wasn't out of selfishness... or at least that wasn't the only reason. He wanted Simon to be happy- even if he was happy with someone else- and that was the problem: he didn't seem happy with Marcus. If anything, it almost sounded like he was pushing himself into it; like going out with Marcus was a chore. And that, Wille couldn't just quietly accept. Simon deserved better.

Fortunately for Wille, Simon's expression relaxed as he sighed. "I'm not angry or worried," he said, resigned. "There's just... nothing more to say, really." He shook his head, frowning down at his phone. "Marcus is nice and all, but there's... there's just nothing."

Wille tried hard— he really did— to not get his hopes up. But he'd always been bad at multitasking, and it was taking all of his focus to keep a straight (ha!) face without pushing down the fireworks exploding inside his chest. "So why are you still seeing him, then?" he asked, cautious not to seem too invested in the response.

Simon let out a frustrated huff. "Because," he said, but for a moment he didn't elaborate any further like just the one word was enough to convey his meaning. His expression in the silence suggested that he was organizing his thoughts, and when he spoke again, he sounded surer of what he was saying. "It's like... on paper, Marcus is everything I've been looking for. He's a good guy, he's fun, he obviously really likes me... I just don't understand why I can't feel the same way about him."

Wille had to bite his lip to keep himself from woo-hoo-ing like an idiot. Just because Simon didn't like Marcus, that didn't mean he liked him. Still, it was a relief. "I'm no expert on relationships," Wille said carefully, not wanting to seem pushy, "but I'm pretty sure most of the time things don't pan out in real life the way they look on paper."

Simon's only response was a low hum. He was looking down at the menu again, but not reading it; rather, he seemed to be processing Wille's words. Wille just watched him, letting him have that time, but out of the blue, something just occurred to him.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, drawing Simon's attention back to him. "Marcus is your bucketful of frogs."

Simon stared at him, confused, before bursting into snort-laughter. "I'm sorry, what?"

Wille also had to laugh. He knew he'd just thrown Simon a total non-sequitur— he did that sometimes— and now he just had to explain so Simon could understand. "Yeah, it's one of those things where... you know how, when you're a kid, you just get obsessed with something, like... say, frogs?"

"I... can't say I've ever experienced that, no," Simon said, shoulders still shaking with laughter. Wille had to remind himself that most people weren't terribly fond of slimy reptiles, no matter how cute they could be.

"Right. Well, I was, at least," he conceded. Simon arched a brow like he was curious to know how that came about. "Frogs are just a thing between me and my brother, Erik. Kind of an inside joke, I guess. Long story." Simon nodded like that explanation was satisfactory.

"Anyway," Wille continued, "when I was in lågstadiet, I was obsessed with frogs. I really wanted to have a pet frog; it was like my biggest dream when I was little." He chuckled. "Now, this isn't something my mother would ever enable. But right beside my school, there was a pond. Sometimes after it rained, it would fill up with these little, tiny frogs— the kind that people step on without even noticing."

Simon's face twisted into a disgusted grimace, which made Wille laugh aloud. "Sorry about that visual. I promise I never stepped on one." He shook his head. "But one day, as I was waiting for our chauffeur to pick me up—"

He was cut off by Simon groaning exaggeratedly. "No! You had a chauffeur?" he asked in the same tone a thespian might pronounce the line "Et tu, Brute?" Like this new knowledge physically hurt him.

Wille rolled his eyes. "Still have one, actually. Well, technically my mother does," he corrected himself. "It's okay, though; Malin's basically part of the family by now." Simon shook his head in mock disappointment.

"But as I was saying," Wille said, going back to the story, "as I was waiting to be picked up, I decided this was my chance. So I snuck a small, quart-sized bucket with a lid out of a janitor's closet, and I filled it up with frogs. Dozens of them just packed inside the bucket." Simon grimaced again.

"So I get into the car with my bucketful of frogs," he continued, chuckling to himself at the memory of Erik's reaction. "My brother, who's a teenager at this point, is clearly horrified, but also he doesn't want to burst my bubble, so he just lets it happen."

He snorted. "I'm sure at least a few of them must've escaped into the house; I don't know. There was really no way for me to tell since there were so many of them. But I had my frogs, and they were going to be my pets, and I was going to love them forever."

A dramatic pause, and then he was the one to exhale in a huff. "And then they just started dying. Like a day later. I cried so much; I was miserable."

Simon was laughing so hard by this point, he was bent forward, his nose nearly pressed against the menu. "Oh my God," he said as he caught his breath, wiping a tear from the corner of his eyes. "You know you had to figure out a way to feed them, right?"

"Well, I know that now!" Wille retorted, faux-defensive, sending Simon into another fit of giggles. "I thought they'd last more than a day! I was like ten." He ran a hand through his hair. "Anyway, my brother tried to make me feel better by giving me this little frog prince snowglobe our grandfather had given him when he was younger. That was kind of what started the whole frog obsession in the first place, so it did help."

"That was sweet of him," Simon commented with a soft smile.

"My brother's the best," Wille agreed.

"This is a good story," Simon added. "But what, exactly, does it have to do with Marcus?"

Right, because this conversation wasn't about Erik, or even about Wille himself. He shook his head. "Just that... sometimes you think you really want something, but you don't really know what things are going to be like when you have it," he said thoughtfully. "And then you do get it, and you realize that... you didn't really want it, after all."

He shrugged. "For me, it was a bucketful of frogs. But maybe it's Marcus... for you."

Simon tapped his fingers against the laminated surface of the menu. "That's a very long-winded way of telling me I should break up with him."

The phrasing gave Wille pause. Simon had already said that he didn't feel for Marcus the way Marcus felt for him, which was pretty great in Wille's book, but that didn't mean Simon felt nothing. "Break up?" he noted guardedly. He didn't look at Simon as he spoke. "So you guys are, like... together together?"

Simon started just slightly, like he hadn't expected that question— or like he didn't realize he'd used that verb. "Oh," he said, caught off-guard. "No, that's not... we're not together like that. I shouldn't have said 'break up.' We're just hanging out. It's not that deep."

Once again, Wille felt immense relief at that, but a part of him wondered if Marcus saw it the same way; that might be what was giving Simon pause if he thought backing away from their "hanging out" would hurt the other man.

He was about to suggest (very, very lightly) that sometimes it was better to let people down softly than to lead them on (because, of course, Wille had so much experience with breakups himself). But before he could open his mouth to speak, Simon frowned down at his phone and cursed faintly under his breath. "What's wrong?" Wille asked, curious.

"My card is overdrawn again," Simon explained with a groan. He grabbed his bag, making as if to get up. "We won't be able to eat here, after all. Can you get the rest of that naan, please? Maybe wrap it in some napkins or something," he added, pointing to the mostly untouched second plate of naan bread and raita still sitting between them.

Wille frowned. "Wait, what do you—"

His question was interrupted when their server came up to their table once again. "Hey. Are you two ready to order now?" she asked politely, though one could tell from her tone that she was a little stressed, and would rather not be hounding them for their order every five minutes. She looked pointedly at Simon, who had frozen halfway out of his chair.

"I'm so sorry, but we're going to have to go," Simon said, getting up to his full height and pushing his now-empty chair in, almost by reflex.

The woman then dropped all pretense of politeness, eyebrows lifting high on her forehead as she gave Simon a look of pure annoyance. "Seriously? You're going to come in here, gorge yourself on free bread, and then just leave without spending a single kronor? That's so low."

Simon scoffed. "It's not like we planned to do that; it just worked out that way!" The woman shook her head, clearly not buying it.

"Simon," Wille intervened, trying to avoid a confrontation, "we don't have to go. Let's order some food." He didn't want to go back to work yet. Also, he didn't want to cut his time with Simon short. "I'll get the check; it's no problem. You can pay me back later, like last time."

Simon hesitated for a second, apparently conflicted, as Wille had expected he would be. But at least he seemed to be considering the offer, if not outright jumping at it. "I—" he started, but whatever he'd been about to say got cut off again by their server.

"Oh, so this happens often, then?" she asked, almost sneeringly, signaling between the two in what felt like a very judgy manner.

Simon gasped. "Well!" he interjected, offended. "I was actually thinking of taking Wille up on his offer, but after that bit of sass, I don't think so!" He slung his bag over his head and across his torso. He seemed about to spin on his heel and leave, but he thought better about it, coming back to look at the woman. "You know, it's bad enough that us working class people are exploited to make profiteers more money. But it's even worse when we show no empathy for each other—"

"Says the guy who expects me to feed him for free," the woman retorted just as flippantly, and if Wille hadn't been too uneasy to involve himself any further in the conversation, he might have laughed. It wasn't every day that someone bested Simon so effortlessly when it came to socio-economic discourse.

"Just go," the woman added, waving them out. "It's not like I can stop you. But you know this isn't right."

Still gaping like a fish (which was funny, because he had fish as pets), Simon turned to Wille. "Do not give her any money for food," he all but barked, pointing a finger straight at him.

Wille was startled— not just by the sudden warning, but also by the fact that Simon could tell he'd been thinking of doing exactly that: ordering something and leaving the money for it behind as they left. Did Simon know him that well already, or was Wille just that predictable?

Simon turned around, walking between the tables on his way out of the restaurant. Wille scrambled to his feet and hurried to shoulder his work bag, grabbing the leftover naan as Simon had requested. "I'm so sorry," he sheepishly told their server. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and laid a handful of bills down on the table.

At the woman's questioning look, he explained: "He didn't say anything about not leaving a tip."

The server just stared at him blankly, arms crossed like she couldn't decide whether to pity him or just laugh. "Dude, you are so whipped for that guy," she declared in a dry tone, and now Wille was the one who ended up gaping at her.

With an indignant frown that matched Simon's from earlier, Wille grabbed about half of the bills he'd previously left on the table and, after pettily showing them to the woman, pocketed them again. Then he walked out of the dining establishment, dashing to catch up with his... friend? Would-be love interest? Absolute pain in the ass? All of the above?

Simon. Just Simon.

He dashed to catch up with Simon on the opposite side of the street.

.

.

.

It took all of two days for everything to go to shit again.

Wilhelm had just arrived at the Krona offices and was walking to his desk, just about to walk past the open doorway to August's office, when something large flew through it, producing a loud crash as it hit a desk on the opposite side of the room. The woman who was sitting at the desk, an entry-level analyst, yelped and jumped to her feet in surprise, but was otherwise unharmed. Wilhelm jumped back so suddenly that he fell, landing on his butt on the floor. If he had been a second earlier to the office, he would've been crushed by the hurtling chair.

It took him a little bit to recover from his shock, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest in utter panic, but eventually, he got back on his feet and peeked... really cautiously... into August's office.

Thankfully, no more desk chairs were flying out of the room, just dozens and dozens of sheets of paper gliding down to the ground slowly like feathers— August had angrily swept all the documents off his desk without caring where they ended up.

"Um," Wilhelm started carefully, knowing it was a very, very bad idea to draw attention to himself in this situation, but also knowing he had no other choice. "August? Is everything okay?"

His cousin spun around to face him, his expression scrunched tight in anger. "Does it fucking look like everything's okay?!" he all but growled at Wilhelm. His eyes were the coldest Wilhelm thought he'd ever seen them.

He stalked across the office right in Wilhelm's direction, and Wilhelm had to hold himself from taking a defensive step back. It's not that he was afraid of August, physically speaking; his cousin might be a bit taller than him and work out more (way, way more), but they would still more or less fall within the same weight class, and Wilhelm was sure he could put up a good fight if it came down to it.

The thing was that Wilhelm didn't want to fight August. That would be a career-ender for him— maybe for August, too, but definitely for him. So the only thing he could do was stand there and try to come off as unassuming as possible, like a wary camper having to play dead so the incoming bear wouldn't attack him.

Thankfully, August didn't lunge at him as Wilhelm had feared. "And where the fuck were you last night, huh?!" he snarled right in Wilhelm's face, instead. Then he pushed past Wilhelm out the door, shoving his shoulder against his cousin's.

Wilhelm had to bite his lip to keep down the irked response that was threatening to leave his mouth. "I mean, you said you wouldn't need me after dinner, so I thought it would be okay to turn off my work SIM—"

"Well, you should've known better!" August threw back. He reached out to Wilhelm's desk, where the little bowl was that held the USB sticks he was supposed to be working on. Wilhelm saw the movement, and could immediately tell what was about to happen. He tried to stop it— he really did— but it was like the entire world was moving in slow motion.

August grabbed the bowl, pulled his arm back, and swung it straight at the nearest open window.

Among the stunned gasps of the people at nearby desks, Wilhelm ran to the window, heart in his throat. He wasn't fast enough to catch the plastic bowl before it flew out, of course, but he reached the window just in time to see it fall more than twelve floors down and hit the street below, the USB sticks nearly invisible as they rained down around it, only to be crushed by the cars driving by. It was a sheer miracle that none of it had hit a vehicle, or worse, a passerby.

He spun to glare at August. "Are you insane?! You could've killed someone!" Later it would cross his mind that calling his supervisor insane was probably grounds for him to be fired, but at the moment he was too horrified to dial back his words.

In good news for his employment status, however— if his current employment could ever be considered good— August did not dwell on the insult. Instead, he sniffed and took a second to rearrange his suit jacket, his cuffs, which had ended up disheveled by the all physical exertion.

"This mess better be clean by the time I get back," he sentenced like he hadn't been the one to make the damn mess. Wilhelm's jaw clenched with the stress of not saying the two-word imperative he really, really wanted to throw at his cousin at that moment.

With that last declaration, August left, making his way to the stairs. Wilhelm ignored the blather of the people around him as they commented on the incident in dismay. His gaze tilted down to the floor, where a plastic piece maybe half the size of his finger was lying just centimeters away from his left foot. It was part of the only USB stick that hadn't shot out the window; instead, it had hit the wall with such momentum that it had broken into at least three separate pieces.

With a sigh, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent Simon a message before bending down to pick up the pieces. Hopefully, the tiny device was salvageable; otherwise, he was in ever deeper shit than one would imagine just from this altercation alone.

.

.

.

Simon frowned down at his phone as he read the message. Code red? What did that even mean? The exaggerated stream of red police light emojis suggested whatever had happened, it was urgent and probably not good, but he could've used more details rather than a string of two dozen emojis.

He was about to send just that as a reply to Wille when he caught sight of Englund walking down the hallway in Simon's, or really in his office's, direction at a very brisk pace. Brisker than he would've thought Englund was capable of on a regular day. And then as he got closer, Simon saw that behind his glasses, the skin around his eyes was red, swollen, and his eyes bloodshot. Code red, indeed.

"Oh my God! Are you okay?" Simon asked reflexively. He looked like someone had hit him in the face.

"Send an email to the team!" Englund roared as he walked past Simon's cubicle. "Tell them if they had any plans this weekend, they can go ahead and cancel them because we are going to be working through to Monday!"

Speaking of police lights, that order immediately had alarms going off in Simon's head. No no no no no no, he thought, freaking out on the inside. Sara's party. Fuck. What the hell happened?

"Uh," he tried to intervene, hurriedly getting up and following Englund into his office— well, halting at the doorway just to be at a safe distance from the man's obvious wrath. "But you have that business retreat in Öland over the weekend?" he hinted, hoping his boss had just forgotten.

"I won't be attending that," Englund declared, crushing Simon's tiny sliver of hope in five words. He was looking around his desk for something, Simon didn't know what, but he was slamming drawers closed really hard. "I refuse to work with individuals who put their own ego over my well-being and reputation."

Shit. The sponsorship deal, too? Simon shook the thought out of his head. "I will strike it out of your calendar, then," he confirmed, holding back a frustrated wail. That was the last thing he wanted to do. "Um, have you noticed that, erm... your eyes..."

He was interrupted by the sound of another drawer slamming closed. "I am the leader of the top-performing team in the entirety of HSF. With our track record, I can get us any sponsor I set my eyes to. I do not need to humiliate myself so some venture capitalist firm will take pity on us."

"Absolutely," Simon said, because what else could he do? The plan he and Wille had been working so hard on for weeks was going down the drain fast, but he still had to keep his job. "Mr. Englund, would you like me to get you some—"

Englund straightened up, cutting Simon's question off. "Tell me something: Would you ever insist on ordering food for someone without even asking about any dietary restrictions they might have?"

"Uh, no?" Simon replied, because that sounded like the commonsense response, but he wasn't sure if Englund meant it as a rhetorical question. Not with how red his face was getting. Except Simon wasn't sure if the growing redness was from anger or from whatever anaphylactic reaction the guy was going through. "Um, sir—"

"And when they inform you of those dietary restrictions," Englund continued like Simon hadn't even opened his mouth, "would you insist the food you ordered is safe, because you think you know better than everyone and refuse to ask a server or even look it up online?"

"Of course not," Simon said quickly because, without even needing to think about it, he knew that sounded like a lawsuit waiting to happen. "Sir, I really think you should get that looked—"

"And then," Englund kept going, "when it turns out you're wrong and the person ends up needing to go to the emergency room, would you try to save face by suggesting they are embarrassing you in front of your fellow businessmen by manifesting an allergic reaction just out of spite?!"

Oh, God. Was that what happened? Oh, the plan was so screwed. "Not at all. Never," Simon assured his boss, though he was very aware it was too late for assurances. But at least it was a relief that Englund had already had his allergic reaction looked at by medical professionals. Simon didn't like the guy, but he didn't want him to die— especially not if he was going to drop dead right in front of him when they were the only two people present at the office. His sister would never speak to him again if he got himself thrown in jail right before her engagement party.

"One would expect at this level to be dealing with serious businessmen, not bratty children." Englund pronounced the last two words like he was spitting them out. "I have no reason to put up with this foolishness when they need us more than we need them."

"You are completely right," Simon inputted with an emphatic nod of his head. "If they can't take things seriously, you should—"

His words came to a halt when Englund slammed one last drawer closed. "If I ever require advice on how to do my job, Eriksson, I will ask." He leveled Simon with a glare, which was quite something with the swollen and red eyes. "What are you doing just standing there? Go get me some antihistamines, stat!"

"Right away," Simon said, leaving the office and only pausing at his cubicle to grab his phone.

He opened his chat with Wille and started typing furiously. He didn't know what the other man's point had been in hinting in the vaguest possible terms that something bad had happened while letting Simon walk right into the lion's den. But he knew for sure that now they had to come up with a solution, and pronto, before the little progress they'd made so far evaporated into thin air.

.

.

.

Wilhelm did manage to clean up August's mess before August came back, but once he'd lifted all the paper off the floor, he still had to put them back in order. Which is why he had no choice but to sit down at the small round table just to one side of August's office, trying to piece each document together like a puzzle while his cousin paced in front of his desk, ranting all the way.

"...He's the one with the stupid allergy, but it's my fault he doesn't know what he can and can't eat?" August scoffed, shaking his head in apparent disbelief. "He said he was allergic to tree nuts. I told him there were no nuts in the stuffed plums. How the fuck was I supposed to know that plums can trigger a tree nut allergy, too?!"

Wilhelm grimaced, not wanting to even imagine what Englund must've gone through— he might think the guy is a jerk, but he wouldn't wish such a scare on anyone. "I guess he might've wanted you to ask a server or the chef," he suggested blandly, "or maybe Google it."

August shook his head, dismissive. "No, this was a power play. He did this on purpose to make me look weak in front of the junior associates. Trying to squeeze more money out of Krona, no doubt."

Wilhelm replied just as blandly as before, his attention still focused on piecing together all the scrambled documents in front of him. "Uh... I don't think it's possible to just... summon an allergic reaction at will, August."

"So maybe he was just playing it up, then," August retorted, reaching for the next worst possible explanation— "possible" in all senses of the word. "Pinning it on me to get Krona to reimburse him for the medical costs or something..."

"That's not— that's not how the Swedish healthcare system works," Wilhelm mumbled, piling the papers that he knew for certain belonged together into neat little piles that he would then reorder.

August let out a miffed grunt and angrily grabbed a cell phone that was placed near him on the desk. "I haven't heard a peep from Vincent and Nisse today," he muttered to himself as he tried to unlock the phone. "Those two idiots better not be thinking they've got a leg up on me now..."

Wilhelm winced at the phrasing; he didn't want the mental image of Vincent and Nils— or anyone else, really— with their legs on or around August under any circumstances. He kept his focus on the papers, not wanting to antagonize his supervisor when he was in some kind of paranoid stage, but he had to look up when he heard August mumble a curse. "What's wrong?"

"This stupid phone won't unlock," August said heatedly. Losing his tenuous hold on his cool, he slammed the phone against the desk the way a mechanic might hit a machine as a last resort when no other valid mechanical intervention could get it to work. Even that didn't seem to help August, though, and a second later he just threw the phone into the nearest garbage can, muttering "Piece of trash" under his breath.

Wilhelm watched the whole scene, utterly aghast. "Um... that's my phone," he revealed with a pained sigh.

August looked between him and the trash can like it took him a couple of seconds to put two and two together. "Oh. Well, where the fuck is my phone?" he asked, more to himself than to Wille, really, before turning his head just a smidgen and immediately locating his own cell phone on the opposite corner of the desk.

Feeling the familiar sting of defeat he associated with all things August— and most things Krona, really— Wilhelm made his way to the trash can and fished out his phone. It now sported a brand-new vertical crack from top to bottom of the screen. It was also lit up with a message notification from Simon.

He bit back a groan. Seems there was still some space on his calendar to add a little more defeat on top of the already staggering pile of continuous disasters that had been his day so far. Just for funsies.

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.

.

They met in the elevator, again.

When Simon stepped inside, an Apotek Hjärtat bag with two boxes of Zyrlex in his hand, Wille was literally banging his head against the wall. Simon just stared at the repetitive motion until the car doors closed behind him. "Really? You let them choose the restaurant on their own?"

"Sorry," Wille said, sounding genuinely contrite. With his forehead still pressed against the side of the elevator car, he turned his head just enough that he could look at Simon as he spoke. "In my defense, the problem wasn't so much the restaurant, but rather the food," he pointed out, which Simon had to admit was correct. "I think outright ordering for them would've been a bit suspicious."

"Well, we might have to take that risk, because right now, the sponsorship deal, and any human being or living creature who even comes near Englund, including myself, are on thin fucking ice." Simon suppressed a shudder at the memory of Englund's last glare, allergy or no allergy.

"Tell me about it," Wille said, pushing away from the wall. "August is worse than before we started this. He tried to fire a Teracom employee today! I know he's always fancied himself the King of Sweden, but trying to sack state employees may be pushing that delusion a little too far." He shook his head and sighed. "What are we going to do?"

Simon shrugged, washing his hands off this mess. "You tell me. Considering it was your boss who put my boss in an actual life-threatening situation..." He waved the bag with the pills between them as a visual aid. "...I think the fix needs to come from your side."

Wille groaned loudly and ran a hand through his hair, but did not refute Simon's very compelling argument. Eventually, he nodded. "Okay. I'll figure it out. You'll be off work for your sister's party. I promise."

Though he was still annoyed, Simon couldn't help but believe him. Wille was so earnest, even if he couldn't somehow pull it off, Simon knew he would give it his best try. "Yeah, fine," he conceded. "Just make sure I'm off work and not out of work, alright?"

Wille nodded more enthusiastically than Simon would've thought possible from someone who'd just been bumping his head repeatedly against a wall just a moment ago. It made him smile.

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.

When Simon got back to the HSF offices with the meds, he was met with Englund waiting for him at his cubicle. That was never a good sign, even without taking into account the peeved expression on his face.

"It took you forty-five minutes to get allergy pills?" he asked, clearly displeased with Simon. "The entire team is here already, and yet they are not working because you've decided to waste all of our time this morning."

"I'm so sorry," Simon said as he extended the bag with the medicine toward, scrambling to come up with an excuse that didn't involve a detour for a clandestine meeting with Wille in the elevator (and ha, in those terms it sounded way more suggestive than it actually was). "There was a long line, and—"

"So go to a different pharmacy next time," Englund spat back as he harshly pulled the bag out of Simon's hands. "I've told you this before, Eriksson: if you can't anticipate stuff like this, then you are of no use to me." He pinned the younger man with a sharp look. "This is your second strike. Don't let there be a third."

"Yes, Mr. Englund," Simon mumbled into the air of the hallway, as his boss had already started making his way back to his office.

Feeling a Sword of Damocles hanging over his head, he rounded the cubicle and sat at his desk, wondering if it would help any to text Wille and remind him just how important this weekend was for him. In the end, he decided against it; he had to trust that Wille already knew.

.


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Author's notes!—

I wanted to get this out before Christmas so I could do the "Hope you have a nice Christmas" joke, but I didn't make it. xD Oh, well. Happy New Year, everybody! I know this chapter was kind of stressful, but don't worry, we're coming up on the real good stuff. Just hang in there. ;)

Creandum is a real Swedish capital venture firm; Daniel Blomquist is their Operating Partner, which is kind of their equivalent to a CEO. It's also a bit of a meta joke because, if you check their website's "About" page, no one on their team is actually wearing a suit in their headshot. xD Peter Carlberg, who plays Mr. Englund on the show, is actually 72, but we'll just say he's in his sixties in this fic.

Regina George is the leader of the popular clique (the "Plastics") in the 2004 rom-com Mean Girls; Gretchen Wieners is her second-in-command. The Parent Trap is a 1961 Disney comedy starring Hayley Mills where two twins who were separated when their parents divorced meet at summer camp and plot to bring their parents back together. I would never have known it existed if it wasn't for the 1998 remake starring Lindsay Lohan, which is without a doubt an integral part of my and my generation's childhood.

Naan is a Middle Eastern flatbread also popular in India and South Asia. Raita is an Indian yoghurt-based side dish or condiment mixed with raw or cooked vegetables or fruit, such as cucumber and mint. Öland is the second-largest island in Sweden and its smallest province, just off the coast of Småland; it is a popular vacation destination for Swedes, and many families own cottages or frequent rental villas there, which they visit during the summer.

Grundskola is Swedish comprehensive school, which includes the primary and lower secondary years. Lågstadiet is the lower stage of grundskola, encompassing 1st through 3rd grade. Speedo is a Scottish-Australian swimwear company known for their racing bathing suits. Apotek Hjärtat is Sweden's largest pharmacy chain. Zyrlex is the Swedish brand name for cetirizine, an antihistamine commonly used to treat allergy symptoms. People from the US will recognize it as Zyrtec. Teracom is a Swedish state-owned company that is in charge of communication services and infrastructure for media, internet, and mobile networks for the private, public, and even military sectors.

The "bucketful of frogs" story is, of course, a nod to Wille's frog prince snowglobe from the show and Erik's frog prince figurine, as well. But the story itself is, in fact, inspired by real-life events: I'll just say that at one point in my early teenage years, I was Erik, staring agog as my younger sibling brought a bucketful of tiny, slimy reptiles onto our schoolbus and into our home. Fun times. (And yes, I can attest those frogs can be easily stepped on. It's not pretty.)

Next up: A late-night conversation, a song, two parties, and a title drop. (Maybe. I think the chapter might end up being too long and I may need to shift one or more of these to chapter 8. But we'll see how it goes!)

I am uploading episode reactions for season two to the interwebz! The first two episodes are already up on my vlog, and the rest are in the process of being posted exclusively to my along with the untagged versions of the first two. So if you'd like to hear my thoughts as I first watched the episodes, be sure to subscribe!

I'm no longer on Twitter, but you can find me on Tumblr (girls-are-weird), Mastodon (girls_are_weird), Post (cpinillad), or even on Discord if you want to chat with me. Comments and kudos are welcome and appreciated! See y'all next time.