Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hello?”  The voice rings through loud and clear from the front of the shop, accompanied by the sound of someone hammering the little bell that sits on the counter.  “Anyone here?”

“Rosh!” yells Simon at full volume, not looking up from his sketchbook.

“Busy!” comes the reply.  Simon puts down his pencil and shakes off the slight daze he’d got into working on a new design.  Stretching out his arms, memory catches up with him.  Right.  He remembers now.  Mila, their very pregnant receptionist, had popped her head round earlier to say she was leaving early for an appointment and could they please keep an eye on the front desk.  If Simon concentrates, he can hear the faint buzz of the needle that means Rosh is still with her last client of the day, so it’s down to Simon to deal with whoever it is currently shouting in reception.

Great.  Probably a drunk.  They don’t get too many walk-ins – most people are able to read the sign in the shop window saying ‘APPOINTMENTS ONLY’ – but the tattoo parlour is fairly central, with a fair number of bars and restaurants within walking distance, so it happens from time to time.

Simon hates dealing with the drinkers.  Putting aside the whole childhood trauma aspect of it all, they tend to run in packs, egging each other on, and Rosh is just so much better at it than he is.  One look from her can have a room full of intoxicated idiots, all puffed up on bravado and toxic masculinity, leaving with their heads down while convincing each other it’s what they meant to do anyway.

He’s expecting a drunk when he walks through the curtain that divides the front reception area from the back rooms, and that’s what he gets.  He’s not expecting the drunk to be alone though.  That almost never happens.  And he’s not expecting the drunk to be Prince fucking Wilhelm.

There is a long, slightly surreal moment where they just stare at each other.

Simon knows why he’s staring.  It’s not every day the second in line to the Swedish throne walks into your tattoo parlour – or is he third now?  Simon doesn’t pay much attention to this kind of thing, but it would have been all over the news and everywhere else if the new royal baby had been born, right?

Why Prince Wilhelm was staring at Simon as though he’d never come across a human being in his life before though, Simon couldn’t begin to imagine.

Actually, he didn’t really want to imagine.  Unlikely to be anything good considering the source.

The prince is wearing what was probably once an expensive tailored suit, though he’s slung the jacket over one shoulder, the tie has been mislaid, and there’s some miscellaneous stains on the shirt which has lost its first few buttons.  Combined with the loose, messy hair flopping down on his forehead and falling into his eyes, the overall effect was a dishevelled look that rather suited the prince, giving him kind of an old-school movie star vibe.

It’s an unsettling thought that flickers across the back of Simon’s mind before he squares his shoulders, puts up his defences and speaks, deciding to treat the visitor as though he’s any other customer.  “All right?  Can I help?”

“I, uh…” Wilhelm takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, glassy-eyed and swaying ever so slightly where he stands.  “I want a tattoo.”

“You’ve come to the right place then,” says Simon lightly, still in shock.  “Do you mean now?”

“Yeah.”  Wilhelm nods vigorously.  “Yeah.  That’s right, now.”  His shirt sleeves are already rolled up to mid-forearm, but he starts to push up his left sleeve further with the slow, exaggerated movements of the seriously drunk.  “So, I want…”

Simon interrupts.  “We don’t do walk-ins.”

“What?”

“We can’t do it now, we don’t do walk-in appointments.  You need to book in advance.  I’ll warn you though, all of our artists get booked up quickly.  It might be a month or two before we find you a slot.”  He says it with pride and more than a hint of defiance, because no one gets to jump the queue, no matter who they are.  Or who their mother might be.  The small tattoo parlour is relatively new on the scene but already getting an excellent reputation, and their waiting list is growing by the day.

“Oh.”  Wilhelm looks completely lost.  The rather cynical thought occurs to Simon that maybe no one has ever told him no before.  After blinking a few times, he nods and rolls the sleeve back down again.  “Okay. I’ll go somewhere else then.  Thanks.”

He turns to leave, and some small voice inside Simon finally wakes up and starts shouting at him not to just let the prince wander out into the night.  Simon is no royalist, but how often do you get to meet someone who’s genuinely, properly famous?  Not to mention the fact that the man looks in no fit state at all to be wandering the streets on his own.

“Just so you know,” Simon calls out.  Wilhelm stops and turns back, brow furrowed as if he’s trying to focus.  “No reputable place will take someone who’s clearly plastered, even if they do walk-ins.”

“Really?”    The prince seems to think for a minute before a slow, disarming smirk creeps over his face.  “What about disreputable ones?”

Huh.  There’s something about the way he says it, eyes bright with mischief, that sends a tiny shiver down Simon’s spine despite himself.

For some reason, he’s having to bite back a smile of his own as he replies, amusement bubbling in his gut.  “As long as you’re all good with the risk of infection or scabbing or mainly them just doing a really shit job and leaving you stuck with a tattoo you hate, then yeah, go for it.”

“’m not very drunk,” Wilhelm protests, though the way the words are slurring as he says them doesn’t really help his case.  At least he seems a fairly mellow and easy-going drinker rather than an aggressive one, though Simon knows all too well how quickly that can turn.  Actually, if anything, he looks rather wistful and sad as he frowns at Simon, lost in thought.

The initial shock is beginning to wear off now, Simon’s head becoming clearer as he finally starts to wonder why on earth Wilhelm is there and all on his own.  Don’t the royals all have an entourage with them wherever they go, flunkies or minders or bodyguards at least?  A disturbing thought crosses Simon’s mind that maybe he should call the police.  God knows what he’d say though.  I think you might have misplaced a member of the royal family, do you want to come check?

“Look,” he says instead, wondering if he should try and keep Wilhelm talking for a while so he can work out what to do next, “why don’t you give us a ring tomorrow when you’re sober and we’ll see what we can do for you.”

“If…if I wait until I’m sober they’ll talk me out of it.”

“Yes,” says Simon patiently, even as he wonders who ‘they’ might be. “That’s why we don’t do it.  Tattoos are kind of permanent, we do like people to be sure.”  It’s not the only reason, but somehow he doesn’t think Wilhelm is going to take in a lecture about how alcohol thins the blood and makes tattooing more difficult right now.

“I just want…”  He leans on the front desk, resting his weight on his forearms, his eyes pleading where they’re fixed on Simon.  Simon swallows, his mouth suddenly dry for some reason.  “I just want something they can’t cover up or hide away, you know?  Something that’s mine.”

There’s a strange atmosphere that’s settled over them, the air thick as they look at each other across the desk, the shop so quiet they can hear the roar of traffic on the main road.

Simon swallows again and tries to lighten the mood.  “Okay, but they can cover it up though.”

Wilhelm frowns at him, head on one side.

“I mean, if you need to, you can cover a tattoo up with clothes or make-up, or you can airbrush it out of pictures.  Or you can get it removed altogether by laser.  It’s—” he nearly says ‘very expensive’ out of habit, remembers who he’s talking to and changes it to “—really painful, but it can be done.”

A pang of regret flashes through him at the way Wilhelm’s shoulders slump in defeat, the light going out of his eyes.

“What tattoo were you thinking of anyway?” Simon asks, partly out of guilt but mainly because some inner imp of curiosity does actually want to know.

“Okay, right, so…”  Wilhelm straightens up, pulling himself back into the conversation.  He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment as though trying to concentrate.  “Right. So this was my first thought, in big letters all down this arm: ‘Fuck The Monarchy’.”

Simon bursts out laughing.  He couldn’t have stopped himself if he’d wanted to.

Wilhelm blinks again, slowly, once and then twice, before his lips curve up in a smile, and huh, okay, honestly it’s kind of endearing.  It’s the first genuine smile he’s displayed since walking into the shop and it transforms his face, making him look kind of sweet and younger somehow than the stiff figure Simon’s seen on TV.  “Don’t laugh though, I’m serious.”

I know, thinks Simon, that’s what makes it so funny.  He doesn’t say it though.

“Anyway, that’s Option A.”

“What’s Option B?”

“‘God Save the Queen’ down this arm…and ‘the fascist regime’ on the other arm.”  He says the words in English, clearly quoting the song, and Simon snorts in surprise.  “It’s a song,” Wilhelm explains solemnly as Simon doesn’t dare speak for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from losing it completely.

He finally manages to get his face under control enough to reply.  “Oh, I know.  I’m familiar with the Sex Pistols.  Didn’t think they’d be your sort of thing though.”

There’s a glint in Wilhelm’s eye and something indefinable in his expression as he looks Simon up and down.  “Believe me, there’s a lot you won’t know about me.”

If Simon didn’t know better, he’d swear he’d just been rather blatantly checked out.  And in different circumstances he would not object to that at all.  In different circumstances he’d might respond accordingly, flirting back as hard as he dares.  He has eyes, okay?  He’s not completely immune to the combination of those cheekbones and the hazel eyes and whatever this unexpected but kind of hot minor rebellion is.   

However, even if the prince wasn’t a prince – and it’s a hard thing to forget – he’s also clearly so out of it Simon’s a little amazed he’s still standing upright and vomit-free.  There are rules about that kind of thing.

God, he wants to do it though.  Not the flirting…well, okay, not just the flirting, but the tattoo as well.  Unfortunately, he has ethics and morals and professional pride, not to mention a job he loves and doesn’t want to lose.  So however much he wants to, Simon can’t be the person to permanently tattoo Fuck the Monarchy onto a prince of the realm.

He really, really wants to be though.  Damn his principles.

“Okay,” he says carefully, lost a little in sheer disbelief that any of this is happening.  “Well, I’m in favour of the sentiment, don’t get me wrong, and those are both very good options…”

“Mm-hmm.”  Wilhelm looks smugly pleased with himself.  It should not be as cute as Simon is currently finding it, but he pushes the thought to one side and continues on.

“But they’re both a bit…” He pauses, not wanting to use the word childish even if it was his first reaction, and changes it to, “…negative?  I mean, I get that you maybe want to make a statement, and believe me, it’s a great statement, but do you want to carry all that anger around with you all day every day?  You might feel differently in a few months or a few years—” or tomorrow morning when you sober up “—but you’d be stuck with it.”

There’s an odd note in Wilhelm’s voice as he asks, “You really think I might feel differently?”  His gaze is intense as he meets Simon’s eyes, and Simon’s not quite sure what’s going on in his head.

“There’s always hope,” says Simon, not knowing what else to say.  “Look, you can get whatever you want, it’s your body, I’m not going to stop you.  But for me, personally, I think a tattoo should be something beautiful.  Something that brings you joy or love every time you see it.”  He waves a hand at his own favourite tattoo without thinking.  Wilhelm follows the gesture – eventually, because his reaction times are clearly a bit slow right now – before gasping softly.

“Oh wow.”  Wilhelm blinks. “That’s really beautiful,” he adds in awed, hushed tones.

Simon’s not going to disagree with him.  He’s got quite a few tattoos after getting the bug when he was still in school, but this is by far his favourite.  It’s the reason he currently wears vests and tank tops even in the middle of a cold Swedish winter, showing his beloved baby off; a long curling vine of leaves and flowers running up his arm and onto his shoulder.  Entwined through the vine are the things that make him who he is, like musical notes and initials of his loved ones.

“Thank you,” Simon says with quiet pride.  “I designed it, and my friend Rosh inked it.”

“That’s stunning.”

Simon’s never been one for false modesty; he’s been doing this for long enough now and he knows how good he is.  But the compliment fills him with warmth anyway, a red-hot tingle spreading down his limbs and wrapping round his bones.  Wilhelm is still staring in awe, his eyes trailing up Simon’s arm in a way that feels oddly intimate, and Simon is suddenly very glad he’s never been prone to blushing.

Wilhelm reaches out a hand as if he’s about to touch Simon’s arm before stopping himself and pulling back.  No doubt even in his drunk state remembering that touching strangers without their permission is not okay.  And Simon’s fully with him on that, absolutely hates being touched without consent, which is why the flutter of disappointment in his chest when Wilhelm pulls away makes absolutely no sense at all.

Wilhelm’s gaze then stops and lingers on a trio of flags nestled in the vine where it curls around the top of Simon’s bicep.  Simon finds himself tensing, realising what Wilhelm is seeing; a Pride flag together with the Swedish and Venezuelan flags.

After a long pause, Wilhelm says “Now there’s an idea.”  Something unreadable in his eyes, he glances back up at Simon and asks, “What about a Pride flag?  Or a, um…what’s the inclusive one, with the triangles?”

“The Progress flag?” says Simon, his mouth unaccountably dry.  It’s not like it’s a huge surprise, not with the direction this conversation has been going and the way Wilhelm has been looking at him ever since he walked in.  And Simon’s not one to pay much attention to tabloid rumours and gossip on social media, especially when it’s about trying to out someone against their will, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t seen any of it.  There’s been murmurings about the younger prince for a few years now, but the royal family have stayed tight-lipped on the subject and the mainstream press have stayed well away from it.

“Right.  How about a great big Progress flag, right across my neck where no one could miss it?”  His voice has dropped lower, that soft smile back on his lips and eyes boring into Simon’s like he can see right through him.

Simon’s face feels like it’s on fire.  Maybe he’s a little more prone to blushing than he thought he was.

He pretends to think.  “Well, I like the positivity, but please, please don’t get a neck tattoo for your first one.  Especially not when you’ve been drinking.  I cannot begin to tell you how painful that would be.”

Wilhelm hums.  “They wouldn’t be able to hide it though.”

“What, you’ve never heard of turtlenecks?”

Wilhelm snorts with laughter in a very unprincely way, and the sound of it sends the tiniest thrill up Simon’s spine.

Feeling brave, he dares to ask,  “If you want to, you know, make a statement, why not just…make a statement?  Post a video or give an interview or something.” 

There’s a long pause after he says it.  Long enough for Simon to worry he’s overstepped, before Wilhelm sighs, then groans, flinging his head down onto his crossed arms for a moment.

“I don’t think I do want to make a statement,” he says, muffled, into his arms, before raising his head again, hair messy and face flushed.  “I just want…I don’t know!  Something real, I guess.  Everything else in my life is so fake,” he spits out with sudden venom, pushing against the wooden counter as though it’s personally offended him.

The sound of it is like cold water thrown over Simon, waking him up from this bizarre dream where he’s considering flirting with a member of the royal family.  Whatever’s going on here, it’s probably a whole mess he should stay well away from.

They’re both silent for a long moment, Wilhelm looking a little green around the gills as he stares, unfocused, at the wall behind Simon, filled with framed photos of colourful tattoos.

Eventually, he speaks again.  “Would you…?”

Whatever he was about to ask is lost though as the door to the shop crashes open, startling both of them as they pull apart and turn round to look.  An efficient-looking woman in a smart suit sighs in relief as she enters, followed by a veritable mountain of a man dressed in black, silent and forbidding as he takes up a position by the door, eyes darting around the room.

“Your Highness?” says the woman, displaying some impressive multitasking as she walks towards them while typing furiously on her mobile phone.  “Thank goodness!  Are you all right?”  She gives Simon a look that seems full of suspicion if not outright disdain.  The kind of look that ten years ago might have left Simon feeling like a worm about to be crushed under her expensive shoes.  Instead, he lifts his chin and gives her a hard stare right back.

“I’m fine,” says Wilhelm, waving a careless hand.  “’m fine.  I was just talking to, um…”  He raises his eyebrows and after a beat, Simon realises what he’s asking.

“Simon.”

“Hello, Simon.”  He’s not sure he’s strong enough to cope with the way Wilhelm seems to relish the sound of Simon’s name on his tongue.  “I’m Wille.  It’s nice to meet you.”

He holds out a hand.  Simon shakes it solemnly, trying not to laugh.

The woman closes her eyes as if in pain.  “Your Highness," she begins again.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“The Crown Prince was very worried, sir, I think it’s best that we get straight back…”

“Well, maybe if the Crown Prince could spend a little more time being my brother and a bit less time being the Crown fucking Prince, none of us would be in this mess, would we?”

For the first time in his life Simon maybe gets why people love reality shows about celebrities.  He’s completely engrossed in the drama playing out in front of him, dying to hear more details about whatever was going on with Wilhelm and his brother.

“Sir, I really think…”

“I haven’t finished,” Wilhelm says curtly, cutting her off, and Simon would feel a little more sorry for the woman if it wasn’t for the way she’d looked at him when she walked in.  Wilhelm turns back to Simon, a little unsteady on his feet as he grips the counter for balance.  “If I wanted to book an appointment, how would…how would I do that?”

“Um…” For a moment, Simon forgets the answer to the question, mesmerised by the way Wilhelm is looking at him.  Then he pulls himself together.  “There’s an enquiry form on the website.  Or else…”  He fishes a business card from the rack behind the counter, his fingers hovering for a second over the generic one for the shop before picking up one of his own personal cards.  “Here you go, you can ring us, make an appointment, or that’s my own email there, feel free to get in touch.”

He’s definitely not blushing as the smartly-dressed woman finally manages to steer the prince away.  She doesn’t acknowledge Simon as she does so, and nor does the bodyguard.  Wilhelm lingers though, fingers wrapped around the business card, throwing Simon one last long look before the door finally closes.

He turns around and nearly walks into Rosh, frozen in place in the doorway with eyes comically wide as she asks,

“What the fuck just happened?”

Chapter Text

Wilhelm doesn’t get in touch the next day, nor the day after.  It’s fine. Simon hadn’t really expected him to.  He’d probably gone home, made up with his family, sobered up the next morning and remembered with horror the stupid mistake he’d almost made.  He’d have thrown the business card straight in the bin and never given it a second thought, Simon had told himself repeatedly as he’d lain awake in bed that night they’d met, unable to sleep for some unknown reason.

So it was ridiculous, really, the way Simon’s heart had leapt into his throat every time the shop phone had rung or the bell over the door had dinged for the next few days.  It was beyond stupid the way he’d jumped on every email notification with a thrill running through him, followed by something that felt weirdly like disappointment every time it turned out to be nothing.

Rosh thinks it’s hilarious.

“It’s not a crush,” he finally snaps at her in the tiny staff break room at the back of the shop after four days of incessant teasing.  He hadn’t told her the full details of his slightly bizarre encounter with Prince Wilhelm but unfortunately she’d caught the last few minutes of it for herself, including Simon’s slightly flustered reaction to Wilhelm’s lingering looks before he’d left.

Rosh raises her eyebrows, sketchpad balanced on one knee and coffee in her other hand as she leans back on the worn sofa.  “Oh please.  You’ve been checking your phone every five seconds like a lovesick teenager waiting to be asked to the dance.”

“Have not,” he grumbles.

“What are you working on, anyway?” she asks, leaning over to see his own sketchbook.  “Are you writing Prince Simon over and over with little love hearts around it?”

He shoves her off, not roughly, because she’s Rosh and he can.  “Mind your own.”  He wasn’t doing anything of the sort. He was just sketching flowers out of habit, practising his skills.  “It’s not like that.  It’s…” He pauses, and to her credit Rosh waits, taking him seriously for once.  “It’s like the story’s unfinished, you know?  I just want to know what happened, whether he got that tattoo in the end or not.  If he’s okay.  He seemed really sad,” he adds quietly, remembering.

“Oh shit.”  Rosh stares at him with horror.

“What?”

“He’s another one of your lame ducks, isn’t he.”

“I don’t know what—"

“Yeah, you do.  He’s your type.  He’s tall.”  She begins to tick them off on her fingers.  “Bit awkward. Good-looking, probably, if you’re into pasty white boys.  And just the smallest bit sad and pathetic and in need of looking after.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” he says haughtily.  Because even if there’s a tiny, tiny chance Rosh might have the faintest trace of a point, she was hardly one to talk with her disastrous love life. 

“Lame. Duck.”  She punctuates the words with a pointing finger.  “He’s a bird with a broken wing, and you want to scoop him up and take him home and feed him soup.”

“Why are you feeding soup to birds?  Please don’t feed soup to birds, they eat…”  He trails off, suddenly realising he’s reached the limit of his bird knowledge.  “I don’t know, insects or seeds or something.”

“Don’t change the subject.  This is Par all over again.”

“You’re talking nonsense,” he says firmly, not without a slight shudder at the memory of that particular break up.  It had taken him far too long to realise that just being very fond of someone and supporting them through their personal disasters wasn’t the same thing as being in love with them.  Things had got messy.  “Anyway, even if Prince Wilhelm ever did turn up here again, which is unlikely verging on impossible, and even if he isn’t the privileged asshole he probably is in reality - because how could anyone not be with that upbringing…?”

“Fair point.”

“Then I still wouldn’t be interested, because he’d be a customer.  I don’t date customers.”

“Why not?  I do.  My last three girlfriends were all customers.”

“Oh, we’re calling them girlfriends now?  I didn’t realise two weeks of hooking up and then ghosting them constituted a relationship.”

She mock gasps, picking up and throwing a purple felt-tip pen in his general direction.  “Fuck you.”  It hits his shoulder and the cap flies off, leaving a mark as it tumbles down his shirt.

“Oh, it’s like that is it?”  He picks up another pen from the table in front of them and leans over to draw a bright green line down Rosh’s arm, managing an inch or so before she pushes him off, reaching for the neon yellow as her weapon of choice.

Things descend after that, with two fully grown adults doing a pretty good impression of squabbling toddlers by the time their receptionist walks in and stops to stare at them, slightly baffled.

They stop fighting to look at her, breathless and laughing.

“Uh, your first appointment is here, Rosh,” says Mila slowly, eyes flitting over the streaks of colour dotting their skin.  “And there’s a guy at reception asking for you, Simon.”

That gets their full attention, both sitting up straight.  “A guy?”

“The weird thing is…he kind of looks a lot like Prince Wilhelm?”

There isn’t quite an undignified scramble for the door.  Simon at least hopes he kept most of his dignity when he leapt up from the sofa, though Rosh had no such qualms, keeping so close on his heels as they head past the customer booths to the front of the shop that she nearly trips him up a couple of times.

Mila follows at a more sedate pace, mindful of her pregnant belly.

Wilhelm’s face lights up when they emerge into reception, exhaling softly as he smiles at Simon.  He looks a lot more put together than the last time he’d been here.  Simon’s breath catches in his throat.  Despite his protestations to Rosh, he’s fully aware of just how attracted he is to the man.  It just doesn’t have to mean anything, except that he is objectively nice looking, and that maybe Simon’s been single a little too long.

Dazzled again by the way Wilhelm is looking at him, it takes him a moment to notice the other people in the room; a severe woman in a black suit standing guard by the door, and a familiar figure on the sofa reserved for waiting customers.  Nik is a long-standing client of Rosh’s, no doubt here to add another arm tattoo to their already impressive collection, but currently staring with jaw open at Wilhelm like they can’t quite believe their eyes.

“Hey,” says Wilhelm, gazing at Simon as though he’s unbothered by the audience.

“Hey.  It’s nice to see you again,” says Simon, a little shyly for him, suddenly not sure what to do now that Wilhelm has actually reappeared against all expectations.  Distantly, he hears Rosh snort.

Or perhaps Wilhelm simply hadn’t noticed the audience at all, as he seems startled when Simon introduces Rosh after a pointed elbow in the ribs.

“Uh, this is Rosh.  Who has a customer, I think,” he adds with a hard stare.

“No, I’m fine,” says Rosh, choosing to ignore the hint.  “Be with you in a minute, Nik!”

“No worries!” they reply from the sofa, eyes agog, clearly happy not to miss a minute of the drama.

“It’s nice to meet you, Rosh,” says Wilhelm, smiling politely.  “Please call me Wille.”

Mila, standing behind Rosh, clears her throat, and Simon wakes up from the slight daze he’s in.  “Oh, and you’ve already met Mila.”

“Yes of course, very nice to meet you too.”

There’s a long awkward pause while everyone seems uncertain what happens next.  Taking the initiative, Simon decides to move to the other end of the counter as far as he can go, wedged in next to the wall and the display of aftercare products and lotions.  Thankfully, Prince Wilhelm - Wille - follows.

He lowers his voice, not that it will do much good with all of the eyes on them.  “So.  I didn’t imagine you then.”  He runs a hand through his hair in a slightly awkward gesture.

“Is that likely?” asks Simon, amused.

Wille shrugs, gaze soft where it’s fixed on Simon.  “I was pretty out of it the other night, I couldn’t quite believe you were real.  I thought maybe my brain had conjured up an angel to rescue me.”

Simon’s brain completely screeches to a halt, unable to process that because what the hell.  “Um,” is all he manages to say.  In his peripheral vision he swears he can see Rosh roll her eyes.

“Speaking of,” Wille continues, clearing his throat, “I, er, wanted to apologise for all of that.  Not my finest hour.  And…to thank you.”

“Thought you said you couldn’t remember it?” says Simon, pulling himself together.

Wille smiles sheepishly.  “I might be hazy on some of the finer details, but I do remember that you were kind, and you were honest with me.  I was…in a bad place that day.  A really bad place.  And you tried to stop me doing something incredibly stupid, which I am very grateful for.  Because…” He takes a deep breath. “You were right.  About a few things.”

Simon is dying to ask which parts he was right about as he’s struggling to remember exactly what he’d said that night.  But he’s very aware of at least three pairs of ears listening intently – possibly four, it’s hard to tell if the bodyguard is paying attention or not – so he stops himself.

“No problem,” he says instead. “I’d do the same for any random drunk who wandered in off the street.”  He regrets the joke as soon as he’s said it though when Wille’s face falls, just a little, before rallying.

“Okay.  Well, I just wanted to say sorry.  And thank you.”  He lowers his voice still further, meaning Simon has to lean forward and strain to hear him.  “Some things are going to change.  And I heard what you said, about positivity, and I think you’re right.  There might be something I want to celebrate, soon.  But not just yet.  Could I maybe get in touch later on, make an appointment to get something that…what was it you said, would bring me joy?”

“Yes, of course, happy to, whenever you want,” says Simon, before wanting to groan at how overeager he sounds.  He tries to regain a professional detachment as he goes on, “I can give you a card with my details…”

“No need.  I’ve still got the first one.”  Wille taps his jacket on the left side of his chest.  Simon very definitely doesn’t swoon, because it’s probably just a gesture that means ‘inside pocket where I keep business cards’ rather than Wille actually carrying around a piece of Simon close to his heart, but still.  How is anyone meant to react to that?

He’d imagined what might happen if Wille ever turned up again, of course he had.  His traitorous brain had run away with itself more than a few times in the last few days.  But at no point had he imagined that he’d turn up in order to be nice, grateful, sweet and sincere.  It’s a little overwhelming.

“I, uh, look forward to hearing from you,” Simon says, mouth dry.

“Great,” says Wille, that soft smile flashing again, and Simon seriously needs to get a grip.  “It was really good to meet you again, Simon.”  He lingers on the name just as he did once before, before turning and acknowledging the others.  “Rosh.  Mila.”  He nods at them both before he leaves, the bodyguard opening the door for him, still without saying a word.

Simon busies himself for a moment with rearranging the shelf of aftercare lotions with face turned to the wall, feeling three sets of eyes on his back.

Eventually, Rosh sigh, collects her client and leaves, though not before leaning over to Simon on her way past and muttering under her breath.

“Quack.  Quack.”

Simon’s not so sure she’s right about that.  But more importantly, grinning happily at the wall, he just doesn’t care.

He almost doesn’t spot the email when it comes in, just a few hours later.  He’s not expecting it that fast, and the sender is listed as simply W. with only ‘Hi’ as the subject line.

It’s clearly been sent from an anonymous burner account he realises later, almost missing it entirely buried between two promotional emails and an obvious phishing attempt when he’s clearing out his inbox on the bus home that night.

The email itself doesn’t give many more clues.

Do I need to tell you exactly what tattoo I want before I can book an appointment?

W.

It takes Simon a second to get it, to realise who the email must be from.  Once he does, a rush of anticipation washes over him, his phone warm in his hand.

Don’t tell me you’ve totally abandoned Options A and B?!  They seemed perfect to me.  But yeah, we need at least an idea of what you want so we know how long an appointment you’ll need.

S.

The reply comes within minutes, as though Wille was waiting for it.

You were the one who said they were too negative!  You may have had a point.  Not in the best headspace at the time.

I think I’d like to make an appointment at the end of next month if possible.  Things should be in place by then.  Next question: if I tell you what I want, can you turn it into an actual proper design, make it look good?

W.

Simon’s halfway through typing out a response when the next email pops up.

I was blown away by your tattoo that you showed me btw.  You’re so talented.

He stops and stares at that for a moment, then glances round at his fellow bus passengers as if they might know how he’s feeling right now, cheeks flaming hot.  None of them are paying any attention to him whatsoever of course.

Thank you. 😊  That’s very kind of you to say.

And of course, let me know what you want and I can make up a design for you.  If you send me the details, I’ll give you a quote for the total price including the design and we can get a date in the diary.

The reply doesn’t come until Simon is back home, having stopped off to pick up some food shopping on the way.  Feeling the phone buzz in his pocket, he juggles grocery bags and keys until he can fish it out and read the email while unlocking his front door.

Then he laughs to himself as he pushes the door open with his hip, grinning all the way inside, hugging to himself the knowledge of the tattoo Wille wants that no one else knows about.

He’s not sure he totally gets Wille’s choice of tattoo, but that’s fine, it’s not his body and none of his business.  It makes him smile though.  He tells Wille so when he emails back later that night with a quote and a few options for an appointment in about six weeks’ time.

“Seen the baby news?”

“What? No!” Simon exclaims around a mouth full of sandwich, scarfing down some lunch between appointments a few weeks later.  He reaches for his phone, then frowns at the sight of no new notifications.  “Why would Mila tell you and not me?”

Rosh rolls her eyes at him, dropping onto the break room sofa.  “Not that baby news.  What planet are you on today?  Mila’s still out front where she’s been all morning.  Anyway, she’s got ages left.  I meant the royal baby, they just announced it.  Thought your new best friend might have told you.”

He ignores the dig.  He and Wille have exchanged a few emails over the last few weeks since that first one, but entirely about tattoos – the process, how much will it hurt, will the colours fade, how to prepare, how to take care of it afterwards…

Simon’s been far more patient in answering all his questions than he would be with anyone else.  He can’t quite shake the feeling that Wille is looking for excuses to keep emailing him, and if he’s completely honest with himself he doesn’t mind at all.  Not that Rosh needs to know that.

It’s not a friendship though.  It certainly wasn’t on the level of getting royal baby news ahead of the general public.

“Mind you, looks like he’s got other things on his mind right now,” Rosh goes on.

Simon frowns at her.  “What do you mean?”

Phone in hand, she starts to read out loud.  “In a shock move that has surprised Royal observers, the announcement of the birth of Princess Charlotta also included the news that Prince Wilhelm will be stepping back from his public-facing role as a working member of the royal family…”

“Wait, what?” He grabs her phone so he can read it for himself, heart hammering in his chest though he couldn’t have said why.  “He’s going to ‘relinquish his titles’?” he reads, eyes scanning down the text.  “What the hell does that mean?  You can’t just stop being a prince, right?”

Rosh shrugs.  “Don’t ask me.  So what happened, one conversation with you and he’s suddenly throwing away his gilded life to slum it with the commoners?  Did you do your all landlords are evil rant again?”

“No…” says Simon, barely paying attention as he reads the news article again, an image of Wille’s sad face from that first night hovering in the front of his mind.  “No.  I think this pre-dates me by a long way.”

Rosh narrows her eyes at him.  “What did he say to you that night?”

Simon shoves the remainder of his sandwich in his mouth and gives Rosh her phone back without further comment, getting to his feet.  “Got to get ready for my next appointment.”

“Simon.  Simon!” she calls to his retreating back.  “Come on, spill!”

He emails Wille that evening after work, having spent the whole day drafting and re-drafting it in his head.  In the end, he sends a simple:

Congratulations on the new niece!  Hope mum and baby doing well.

He’s not going to stress about the right wording, or protocol or the correct form of address or anything like that.  It’s the kind of message he’d send to any acquaintance with a new family member.  He’s not going to change who he is.  Wille can take it or leave it.

He does stress before sending it about whether he should acknowledge the other bit of news though.  He spends far too long debating with himself whether to add something like ‘the tattoo makes sense now’ but in the end he decides against it.  None of his business, really.

The reply from Wille doesn’t arrive until the next day; a straightforward, “Thanks, Simon.  Looking forward to the next time we meet.”

It’s the last email Wille sends him.

Chapter Text

By the time the day of the appointment arrives, Simon is pretty firmly convinced that Wille’s going to cancel.  He’s had nothing to say so, but on the other hand he’s had no further correspondence at all since that last email; and in the two weeks since the announcement, the whole country seems to have gone insane.

Perhaps the Royal Court or whoever decides these things thought that sneaking in the news that the least important prince was quitting along with the royal baby announcement meant that everyone would be too busy cooing over the new princess to care.  If so, they were wrong.  There’s not a lot to say about a new baby once you’ve covered weight, sex, name, and the fact they’ll be monarch of their country at some long distant point in the future.  Wilhelm’s announcement on the other hand seemed to provide endless hours of speculation and analysis.  The media were obsessed, it was all anyone in Sweden was talking about online, and even customers coming for tattoos seemed to view it as the number one topic of conversation.

Social media had of course dragged up all the old gossip from the past; rumours of fights in nightclubs, unverified stories of drink and drugs and wild parties, paparazzi pictures of Wilhelm leaving gay clubs in London and Munich.  Obsessed people on twitter pulling together threads of ‘evidence’ of how he was absolutely in a relationship with this famous actor or that friend from uni based on nothing but some old Instagram posts, and each proclaiming it the real reason he stepped down.

Simon avoided it all as much as he could, feeling sick to his stomach at the way everyone suddenly seemed to be an expert, convinced they knew everything about a man they’d never met based on a few photos on social media.  He stopped watching the news, changed the subject when his clients brought it up, and tried to stop himself looking at his phone quite so much.  It never lasted though.  He’d read another article even though he knew he shouldn’t, feel sick, put the phone down; then five minutes later he’d pick it back up again, unable to stop himself doomscrolling once again.

It makes Simon’s head hurt, who has no real idea what’s actually happened apart from the tiny glimpse he’d been given from a man wanting an ill-advised tattoo.  How Wille was coping with it all, he had no idea.

The day of the appointment, he’s fully expecting a phone call or an email to cancel - or perhaps Wille will just fail to turn up altogether with no word.  Unable to concentrate on anything, Simon spends most of the morning hanging around reception until Mila makes him leave because he’s driving her up the wall.  He goes back to the staff room for at least four or five whole minutes before he’s back at the front desk again, drumming his fingers on the wood as he stares at the clock tick forward to the appointment time on his phone.

“All right,” says Mila eventually, pulling herself off her chair with annoyance.  “If you’re going to do that, you can man the phones.  Baby’s bouncing on my bladder again anyway.”

She heads to the toilet, meaning Simon is alone when the front door to the shop finally opens a few minutes later and Wille enters.  Not alone, either, though Simon is too busy trying not to laugh to pay any attention to his companion.

To be frank, Wille looks ridiculous.  He’s wearing a large baggy hoodie with hood pulled up, and baseball cap and big sunglasses covering half his face, and is conspicuous as hell.  He might as well be wearing a sandwich board saying I AM IN DISGUISE.

Possibly it worked anyway though, as both of the new arrivals look anxiously back over their shoulders as the door swings shut, before a female voice says, “No, I think we’re good.”

It’s that which makes Simon pay attention to her for the first time, slightly in shock to realise it’s not a bodyguard Wille’s brought with him, but a beautiful woman about their age with a mass of black curls and wearing an elegant outfit that even Simon, with his total lack of interest in fashion, can tell is designer and probably ridiculously expensive.

But then Wille is smiling at Simon and greeting him with a soft, “Hey,” as he pulls off the glasses and the cap, and Simon forgets all about the woman for a moment, smiling back in return.  He’s almost a little dizzy with disbelief he’s really here.

“Hey.”

“You must be Simon,” says the woman, with a hint of laughter in her voice.  “Felice.  The best friend.  I’m here to hold his hand.”

A tiny knot of irrational jealousy Simon wasn’t even aware had been sitting in his chest eases out.  The look Wille is currently giving her is pure annoyed sibling.

“Actually, she invited herself.”

“It’s a momentous day!  I’ve been waiting years for this, I’m not missing it,” Felice protests, definitely laughing now.  Simon can’t help but take to her.

“Are you wanting to come in with him?” asks Simon, trying to strike the balance between not sounding too doubtful but not exactly encouraging it either.  The customer booths were small and it was normally a rule that they didn’t allow a third person.  But it was a fairly flexible rule, they’d all broken it here and there in the past for a particularly nervous customer.

Simon doesn’t quite know what it says about him that he’s fully prepared to bend the rule for Wille without a second thought, or at the fact there’s a small flare of disappointment at the idea that it wouldn’t be just the two of them after all.

Not that Wille looks particularly nervous, and Felice is already shaking her head.  “Oh, no, I’m just here for moral support.  And to be nosy.  I’ll go and grab a coffee, come back when you’re done.”

“Do you want to follow me, then?” says Simon, inclining his head.  Wille nods eagerly, his hair falling down into his eyes as he follows.  It’s much longer than the last time Simon saw him, but the messiness suits him.  Maybe he’d not had time for a haircut with everything going on.

“Have fun,” calls Felice with a wicked smile as they leave, and Simon wonders how much she knows.

He resists the sudden urge to apologise for the smallness of the space as he leads Wille into the customer booth.  Not that Wille seems bothered.

“Cosy,” is all he says, eyes flitting with interest over the equipment and bottles of ink.  To Simon’s surprise, it sounds sincere.

He directs Wille to take a seat before clearing his throat and reaching for a folder.

“Okay, so few things we need to go over before we start – there’s the consent form for you to sign, and of course I’ve got the final design here for your approval.  Actually, I’ve, uh, done a couple.”

Wille looks up in surprise at that from where he’s reading over the consent form, eyebrows raised.

Simon takes a deep breath and continues, handing over the papers one at a time.  “So, this is the original one you asked for, just as you asked, pretty straightforward with the text and the rest, but I’ve also put together this one as well.  Because…okay, you said in your email about how much you loved some of the more colourful ones we’ve got on the website, and especially the watercolour technique we do, and…well, it’s still the same basic idea, but I got kind of inspired and it’s just a suggestion for something slightly different.

“But entirely up to you,” he adds, nerves beginning to build at the way Wille is just staring at the paper, not answering him.  “The second one would take a little longer to apply, so would probably be a bit more painful.  And of course if you want any changes to either of them, please say now, we won’t go ahead until you’re totally happy.”

“No, no changes,” says Wille blankly, still staring.  “That’s…that’s perfect.”

Simon breathes again, his hands relaxing from where they were balled into nervous fists.

“I mean, that’s stunning.  That’s like you reached into my head and worked out what I wanted without me having the words to ask for it.”  He finally looks up and meets Simon’s eyes, disbelieving.  “How did you…?  I feel like I should be doubling your fee or something.”

Simon laughs, face hot with embarrassed pride.  “No, don’t be ridiculous.”  He’s not going to examine the emotions bursting in his chest too closely right now.  After all, it’s just good business sense to let Wille think this is their usual level of customer service.  He might recommend them to all his presumably rich mates.  He doesn’t need to know how many hours Simon spent working on this design in his own time.

Not that Simon has any regrets, even if Wille had decided to reject it.  He’s not going to make a habit of doing this kind of thing, but this is a special case.  It feels like a momentous day, to use Felice’s word.

“We do take tips though,” Simon says with a casual shrug.  “Just saying.  We going ahead then?  Size okay?”

“Fuck, yes,” says Wille with another stare at the paper before handing it back.

“Okay.  I’ll leave you to read over the paperwork and sign it for me while I get the stencil ready, then we can talk about any other questions or concerns you might have before we start.  Then…well, to be blunt, time to take your trousers off and we’ll get going.”

“Mm-hm,” murmurs Wille with a slight cough, head bowed over the consent form and ears turning pink.

Simon had been surprised when Wille had told him he’d wanted the tattoo high on the outside of his thigh where it would never be seen if he’s wearing anything more substantial than a speedo, especially after the bold, public statements he’d drunkenly asked for that first night.  But on reflection, it made sense.  This one was going to be a statement for definite, but one for himself, not to be shared with the world for everyone to have an opinion on.  He probably gets enough of that in his life, judging by the last couple of weeks.

Simon had wondered if it might be awkward.  Wille is far from the first objectively attractive person to sit in this chair and Simon is a professional after all, but he’s never been quite this intrigued by a customer before and he’s certainly never spent this much time thinking about someone before their appointment.  But in the end it all feels very normal, Simon slipping easily into detached business mode as he concentrates on the task ahad, the familiar routine coming naturally to him.  One bare patch of skin is much like another when you’re that close up to it.

Once Wille has removed the loose sweatpants he’s wearing and hopped back up on the chair again, his whole face blushing furious red as he pulls up one side of the loose boxer briefs he’s wearing underneath to expose the skin, he coughs to let Simon know he’s ready.  Simon reminds him he’ll need to shave the area as he pulls his disposable gloves on, grabbing a razor from the pack.

“I know,” says Wille, still not meeting Simon’s eyes as he fixes his gaze firmly on the opposite wall.  “I read up on it all before, all the preparation.  And aftercare.  I’ve been exfoliating and moisturising.”

“Really?” asks Simon, hiding his amusement.  “I mean, I know they say to do that, but hardly anyone actually does it.”

“Oh, I’m taking this seriously,” says Wille, finally turning to look at Simon again, smile dancing around his lips.  “This is years in the making.”

“Hold still for me?”  Wille does so, and Simon begins to shave the area closely.  There’s a tiny voice in his head pointing out that this is a particularly toned and muscular set of thighs under his gloved fingertips that he wouldn’t mind seeing again in other circumstances, but it’s a background noise and easily ignored.  “That’s what your friend Felice said, it’s been years.  Why wait so long for your first one?”  He suspects he already knows the answer even before Wille finally replies, voice hesitant at first.

“I, uh, don’t think either of us were just talking about the tattoo.  But I couldn’t have done it before anyway.  Not appropriate, apparently.  I, uh…”  He grins suddenly, a mischievous, crooked smile.  Simon stills his hand for a second as he glances up.  “I did try once before.  I was seventeen and seeing this guy.”

Simon returns to his task, deliberately not reacting, though he’s warm all over at the way Wille had just trusted him with that casual confirmation of something he’d only previously suspected.

“Absolutely obsessed, thought I was madly in love and it would last forever, and with the wisdom of seventeen year olds we decided to run off and get matching heart tattoos.  But…”  Wille sighs.  “Unfortunately the guy in the tattoo parlour recognised me.  Refused to do it, then demanded money or else he’d sell the story to the press.  My family paid him off, but they were absolutely furious, banned me from seeing my boyfriend again then packed me off to boarding school for my final year.”

It's lucky Simon had finished shaving, as he might have nicked the skin on hearing that last part, hand jumping in shock.  “You’re kidding.”

“You might say I was put off the idea of tattoos slightly after that.”

“Until the other night.”

Wille laughs.  “Exactly.  Until the other night.”  He’s quiet for a moment, lost in thought, before watching with interest as Simon cleans the skin with rubbing alcohol and gets the stencil ready, agreeing that he’s happy with the size and positioning.

“What happened to the guy you were seeing?” Simon has to ask after a minute or two of working in silence.  It’s a personal question but he doesn’t think it’s an unreasonable one considering what Wille’s already shared with him.

“He got a lucky escape,” says Wille dryly.  “Never saw him again.  I wasn’t great at standing up for myself in those days.  Or other people.  I hear he’s happily married and works as a teacher in Malmo now.”

That seems to be the end of that conversation, Simon not sure what else to say.  He doesn’t know Wille well enough to ask whether ‘lucky escape’ referred to the royal family or Wille himself, or whether he really wants to know the answer come to that.  So they sit in silence for a while, Simon concentrating on his work until he’s finished applying the design.

Wille inhales sharply, eyes watching everything Simon does.  “This is it then?”

“This is it,” Simon confirms.  “Last chance to change your mind.  It is going to hurt, but it’s not a large area and it should be bearable.  You picked a good spot.”

“Glad you talked me out of the neck tattoo right now, I won’t lie,” says Wille.  Simon glances up at him, hearing the nerves in his voice, but although he looks pale there’s determination in his eyes.  “Let’s do it.  I’m in your hands.”

Simon swallows, strangely nervous himself for a split second before he gets a grip and gets on with the job he loves.  All other distractions fly out the window once he starts, an artist with this simple patch of skin as his canvas.

He stays quiet for a while, concentrating hard and giving Wille a moment to get used to the needle.  He’s had worse first-timers though; after the initial intake of breath, Wille seems to be coping well, watching him work in peaceful silence.

“Thank you for trusting me with that story,” Simon says eventually, raising his voice over the buzz of the needle.  It’s a little awkward, but he feels like it needs to be said.  “That guy who threatened you was a dick, by the way.  The tattooist’s shop is sacred, it’s like a priest’s confessional.  Appalling behaviour.  Totally against the code.”

“There’s a Code?”

“Well, there is as far as I’m concerned.”

“Good to know,” says Wille with a chuckle.  “Is it weird to say I do trust you?” he goes on in a quieter voice, like he’s wondering himself.  “I have done since that first night.  Is that mad?”

Simon takes a moment to reply, throat tight as he concentrates on outlining the F.  “Not at all.  I told you, this space is sacred.  Think of me like a priest.”

“I’d rather not,” says Wille with a touch of amused alarm, pulling a face.

“So…while we’re on the subject.  Seems like the last couple of weeks have been a bit mad...?”  Simon pauses his needle for a moment, stretching out his hand and glancing up at Wille’s face before resuming his work.  “Congratulations again though.  To your brother, I mean.  And his wife.”  Simon winces internally though his hand never wavers.  He should probably have said the Crown Prince and Princess or something, though he’d feel slightly ridiculous doing so.  He definitely shouldn’t have made Princess Sofia sound like a tacked-on afterthought though, considering she was the one who’d done all the hard work.

Wilhelm didn’t seem that bothered though, smiling softly down at Simon as he worked.  “Thanks, Simon.”  He always says Simon’s name with such care, like it’s precious, and Simon’s not affected by it, honest.

“I have to ask though.  The announcement.  Any connection to that night you came in here…?”

Wille lets out an odd noise; half groan, half laugh.

“You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to.”

“It’s not that,” he says hastily.  “It’s just…it’s a long story.  And it’s complicated.  My family’s complicated, I mean.  It would take forever to explain everything, like years of stuff building until it all exploded in a big mess.  But that particular night...”  He sighs, running one hand through his hair.  Simon pauses for a moment to give him a second to shift in place until he’s comfortable again.  “Okay, so, we’d been out drinking.”

“No.  Really?” says Simon, as sarcastic as he dares.

“Are you going to let me tell this story or not?”

Simon inclines his head in apology, hands still working steadily.

“It was meant to be lunch with my brother and some of his friends, but then it turned into this big session, one last blow out before he has to do the responsible dad thing, apparently.  I didn’t really want to go at all because his friends are…”

He pauses for long enough that Simon feels the need to supply “…difficult?” just as Wilhelm says firmly, “Dickheads.”

Simon laughs in surprise.

“Complete arseholes, most of them.  Don’t know why he still hangs out with them, but they were at school together and Erik’s very loyal.  I don’t usually drink that much, not these days, but honestly I think I was just drinking out of boredom.  Anyway, everyone’s way too hammered and one of them says something…actually, no, they were all saying all this hideous, offensive shit, but then one of them says something that was more…personally offensive, shall we say.  To me.  I won’t repeat it,” Wille says with quiet fury.

Simon stills the needle for a moment, not sure what to say.

“Not that he knew that it’s personal, or not officially anyway.  But Erik…Erik does know.  And he still laughed.”

“Shit,” says Simon with feeling.

“I know it’s bad enough he was laughing at the whole conversation anyway, but that was kind of a final straw.  There’s a few things about me that Erik has never really accepted or taken seriously, but it’s all kind of come to a head recently.  It was always ‘wait until you’re eighteen’, ‘wait until you’re twenty-one’, ‘wait until after the wedding’, ‘wait until after the baby comes’.  Well, the baby was nearly here and he was still saying it wasn’t the time yet.  So I kind of exploded at him, said a few things I probably shouldn’t.  And then I snuck out through a bathroom window…”

“Wait, what?”  Belatedly, Simon remembers what he’s meant to be doing and returns to his task, starting on the I.

Wille waves a hand.  “It’s not as dramatic as it sounds.  It was Valv, round the corner from here – do you know it?  Anyway,” he goes on before Simon has the chance to explain that no, neither he nor anyone he knows has the kind of money or fame that would allow them to drink there, “fancy bathrooms, big old-fashioned windows, easy to get out.  Managed to avoid security and set off into the night.”

“And then you ended up here.  Luckily for me.”

“Luckily for me.”  He says it sincerely in response to Simon’s flippant comment.  “Someone else might have gone through with it.  Or called the tabloids.  Or both.”  He pauses for a moment, watching with interest as Simon carefully inks in the outline.  “Please don’t think too badly of Erik,” he adds hastily, as though he’s only just thought of it.

“None of my business.”

“The thing is, it’s different for me.  I was never going to be King – thank god – so they kind of left me alone a bit.  They let me go to a regular school, at least to start with, and then university in the UK for a while.  I got to meet different people with all sorts of views.  Erik never got that.  He went to boarding school and then into the Navy, and…I don’t know, I know it’s not an excuse, but he’s always been in this kind of bubble, I guess.”

“Okay,” says Simon, his voice flat.  He does kind of get what Wilhelm’s saying and he’s not going to judge a man he’s never met too harshly, but he doesn’t think he’d be quite as forgiving as Wille is in the same circumstances.

It’s definitely not changing his mind on how ridiculous the entire system is though.  Here’s the Crown Prince, meant to one day represent the whole nation as monarch, unable to step out of his bubble of straight white rich privilege for even a moment for his brother’s sake, let alone consider the rest of the population.

“Did he at least apologise?” Simon asks.

“He did.  Eventually.  We both needed to sober up first, but yeah, we made up and he finally listened to me about a few things.  I told him about the tattoo I nearly got and I think he finally realised I was serious after all these years.”  Wille grins, before it turns to a wince as Simon goes over the same bit of skin again.  “Backed me up when I told my parents and the royal court that I was leaving, one way or another, and they could either pretend it was civil and announce it properly, or else I’d go to the press myself and tell them the truth.”

“What’s the truth?”

Wille snorts.  “You got a few hours to spare?”

Simon considers it, stretching out his hand again before he returns to the H.  “About another hour and a half here I reckon, or thereabouts.  Can you fit it into that?”

“I’ll save it for my therapist.  Let’s just say a lifetime of being forced to pretend to be someone I’m not.”

Simon nods, just about managing to keep off his face his sheer delight and disbelief this conversation is even happening.  “So you went for blackmail then.  Interesting choice.”

“Blackmail is for regular people,” Wille deadpans.  “In my family, it’s called strong negotiation.  It’s how we get things done.”

“Well, that’s not messed up at all,” says Simon, followed by a moment of panic he might have gone too far when he feels Wille tense for a second beneath his hands.  He’d been lulled into a false sense of security by their open conversation and the revelations one after another; but when he looks up, he’s relieved to see Wille seems to still be smiling.

“Yeah.  It took me a long time to realise just how messed up it was.”

“Hence the tattoo?” Simon dares to ask.

Wille laughs.  “Exactly.  Hence the tattoo.”

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, there’s another question on Simon’s mind.  “So, leaving…what does that mean, exactly?  Leaving the country?”

“No!”  Wille protests quickly before pausing in thought.  “Well, I hope not.  I might have to for a while if things don’t die down with the press and everything, but I don’t really want to.  No, I just…don’t want to be a part of the whole ridiculous circus any more.  I need things to change.  As much as they can, anyway.”

“You can’t change your family, I suppose,” says Simon, not without a touch of apprehension.  For all the fun he’s been having here, it’s a sobering reminder that the person in front of him is the son of the current monarch and the brother of the next one, and that’s not going to change.

“No.  But I can give up my titles and place in the line of succession, and I can move out of the palace and stop being a working royal, and I can try to live a normal life as far as I can.”

“So what would you do instead?”

“Ah.”  For the first time since he sat down, Wille looks deeply uncomfortable.  “I haven’t quite got that far yet.  One step at a time.”  He nods down to indicate where the tattoo is taking shape under Simon’s careful fingers.  “I’m, uh, not really trained for anything else.”

Simon pretends to think.  “Well, our receptionist is about to go on maternity leave, so there’s an opening.  If you’re interested.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” says Wille with amusement.  “You think I’ve got a chance?”

“Why not?  Good with people, making small talk…” Simon stops there, having reached the end of his limited knowledge of what it is the royals actually do.  It’s not like either of them are exactly being serious here.  “Sounds like transferrable skills to me.  Can you make a decent cup of coffee?”

“I’ve never had any complaints.”

“There you go, then, you’re hired.”

Wille lets out a long breath, at odds with the light-hearted tone of the last minute or so.  “Thank you, Simon,” he says, soft and sincere.

For the rest of the time, they stay away from the heavier topics but they don’t stop talking.  Simon asks Wille how he feels about being an uncle, which leads to a lively discussion about how yes, it’s true, all newborn babies do look the same but no one will admit it.  Simon reassures him though that one day very soon baby Lottie will suddenly turn from a featureless blob into an actual person with a personality all her own.  Wille wants to know if this means Simon himself has kids, and once Simon has stopped laughing at the prospect, he goes on to tell Wille all about his niblings – the official one, through Sara, and all of the honorary nieces and nephews he has through cousins and close friends.

Simon is used to making small talk if his customers want to, but this doesn’t feel like that.  It might be wishful thinking, but it feels easy, like chatting to an old friend.  He doesn’t think an appointment’s ever gone this fast.

After a while, Wille starts asking about Simon’s own tattoos.  The visible ones, anyway.

“There are invisible ones?” asks Wille in response to Simon saying this, raising an eyebrow.

“There are ones only a few very lucky people have ever gotten to see,” Simon says firmly, and wonders if he’s brave enough to hint he’s open to adding a new person to that roster.  He doesn’t though, and Wille doesn’t pry, asking instead about the Toad on Simon’s upper arm.

Simon tells him the story of how he had also been seventeen and looking for matching tattoos when he went for his first time; he, Rosh and Ayub all deciding to get their usual Mario Kart avatars as a symbol of their eternal friendship.  His own Toad had turned out well, but Rosh’s Bowser had been a bit of a disaster and Ayub had point-blank refused to go through with it as soon as he heard the sound of the needle.  It hadn’t put either Simon or Rosh off though, both adding to an ever-growing collection of tattoos as soon as they could, and both ending up in the trade though a few years apart.  It was Simon himself who’d finally fixed Rosh’s wonky Bowser tattoo many years after that first appointment, turning it into a vibrant flower instead.

Simon hadn’t meant to ramble on quite that long but Wille listens to the whole story with what seems like genuine interest, asking questions and adding comments.

“So…are those initials then, the letters on your other arm?” Wille asks.

Simon glances down at his own vine tattoo on his left arm for a moment as though he might need to check the answer.

“Sorry, it’s just it’s been right in front of my face this whole time, and I noticed there’s an RS and an AZ.  Is that for Rosh and Ayub?”

“That’s right,” says Simon, stopping for a moment to flex his cramped hand.  Holding the needle in his other hand, he points them out.  “There’s Rosh, and Ayub…then that’s mum—” pointing to the LE “—and that’s my sister, SE.”

He returns to his work just as Wille says, ears pink and eyes on the ceiling, “Oh. I wondered if one of them might be for a partner?”

“Never met anyone worthy of being added,” says Simon after a moment’s pause, heartbeat hammering in his ears.  “You know, if you wanted to know if I was available, you could have just asked me.  Which I am, by the way.  Available.  Definitely available.”  He addresses the remarks to Wille’s leg, trying to keep control of the giddy feeling rushing over him like he’s a teenager with a crush in a way he hasn’t felt in years.

“Oh,” says Wille, and even though Simon’s not looking at him, he can hear him smiling.  “Well, that’s…”

“But you should know, I don’t go out with customers.  It’s not against the rules or anything, I just find it a bit weird.”  He looks up then, just in time to see Wille’s face fall.

“Right.”  He swallows hard.  “Uh, thanks for…”

“So when you come back for your next tattoo, probably best you book in with one of the others.  I’m biased, but Rosh is very good.  Probably better than me, but don’t tell her I said that.”

A variety of emotions flicker across Wille’s face – Simon definitely thinks he can spot relief, annoyance and maybe happiness in there – before he nods, biting his bottom lip between his teeth as though holding back that same giddy feeling Simon has.  “Good to know.  Thank you.”  After a moment, he adds, brow furrowed, “Wait, next tattoo?”

“Oh, no one stops at one,” says Simon airily, reaching across in preparation to swap to the purple ink.  “Trust me, you’ll be back.”

“We’ll see,” Wille says, still holding back a smile.

It feels like no time at all before Simon is finally putting down the needle, flexing cramped hands and smiling with quiet satisfaction at the result.

“Want to look in the mirror?”

Wille does, and shuffles over on slightly unsteady feet to the full-length mirror propped up in the corner of the booth.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” breathes Wille, his eyes wide as he turns this way and that, holding up one side of his briefs and putting his leg forward to admire the result.  “Yeah.  I mean, it hurts but it’s a good hurt, you know?  But that…that’s amazing.  It’s incredible.  You’re incredible.  I mean…holy shit.”

Simon’s not going to argue with him, pleased with his work.  Wille’s original email had asked simply for the word ‘frihet’ [freedom] with a pride flag below and a broken crown above; but Simon’s second design had made it so that the FRIHET is exploding out of the smashed pieces of the broken crown, dripping in the rainbow colours of the flag, vibrant and full of life.  It is, he thinks, one of his favourite pieces he’s ever done.

“Now I did warn you, the colours will fade, there’s no way around that – but it won’t get much sun exposure where it is, and as long as you take good care of it and let it heal properly, it shouldn’t fade too badly.  We’d suggest you get it touched up in a few years anyway.”

“Simon,” says Wille, cutting through his rambling, delight on his face.  “Trust me, I read all the advice.  I’ll take care of it.”

Simon nods, an odd tension running through him now that they’re nearly done.  “You realise you’ll never be able to wear shorts in public again,” he says without thinking, feeling almost light-headed like he’s getting the flu.

Wille lets his boxers drop back down, half-covering the tattoo so that it’s hard to see, then wrinkles his nose and hums.  “Not exactly part of my wardrobe right now anyway.  Maybe I’ll start wearing shorts all the time instead so only an inch of it’s visible, drive the paparazzi mad trying to work out what it says.”

Simon laughs, still filled with that strange floaty feeling.  “Want a picture before I wrap it up?”

“If that’s okay?”

He hands over his phone and Simon takes the picture; both a close up and a wider shot, snorting with laughter as Wille poses and pouts, unable to hold the model pout for long before breaking into a beaming smile.

He then wraps the tattoo up before telling Wille not to shower for at least a couple of days while Wille pulls his sweatpants back on with care, wincing gingerly.

When they return to the front of the shop, Simon’s amused to find Wille’s friend Felice is holding court, gossiping cheerfully with both Rosh and Mila.  Rosh is in fact looking at Felice with a particular glint in her eye that Simon’s more than familiar with, although it doesn’t look as though Felice objects as they both burst out laughing about something.  None of his business anyway.  Unless they’re talking about him.  Or Wille.  Or him and Wille, and he doesn’t know which of the options would be most embarrassing at this point.

“Ooh, show me!” says Felice excitedly, cutting Rosh off and getting to her feet as Wille walks out into reception, still with a slight limp.

“It’s all covered up,” he says with a shrug.  She rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, but you took a picture though, right?  Tell me you took a pic.”

He gets out his phone, then looks pointedly at Rosh until she takes the hint, backing away with her hands up.

“I’m not looking!”  She comes round the front desk to stand next to Simon, giving him a pointed look with a clear ‘but you’ll show me later?’ subtext.  That’s going to be a fun argument later when he tells her he can’t, it’s private.

Out front, Felice is squealing with delight as Simon leans over to Mila and asks her to ring Wille up please, letting her know the price.  He could do it himself, but somehow it feels a bit awkward after his earlier comments about expecting a tip and where the conversation later went.  He almost wishes he could take it back, but that would probably be more embarrassing than not drawing attention to it.

“Please tell me you’re going to show your mother,” Felice is saying, still cooing over the picture as Wille pulls a horrified face.

“Yeah, sure, and give her a heart attack.”

“Wasn’t that the point?” says Felice with a grin.  Rosh raises her eyebrows at Simon, who shrugs, keeping his face carefully blank.

They all stand back as Wille comes forward to pay with his phone, Mila stuttering slightly, cheeks pink as she remembers to upsell the aftercare package and makes the transaction in front of an unusual audience.  Once he’s done, he scrolls through the notifications on his phone before cursing softly.

“Shit.”  He looks up again and meets Simon’s eye, clearly unhappy about something.  “I’m so sorry.  Apparently there’s a photographer down the street, looks like they’re waiting for me to come out.  Security think someone might have tipped them off.”

Felice sighs, though in a way that implies she’s not all that surprised.

“I hope you don’t think any of us—” Rosh begins, but Wille shakes his head quickly, face grim.

“No, someone probably saw me come in.  I’m really sorry, but…you have a back exit right?” Wille asks, and Simon remembers an email exchange from weeks ago, right back at the beginning of it all, when Wille had asked him about alternative exits.  He hadn’t really thought much of it at the time, but there’s something sitting heavy in his gut right now at the thought that having to know where the back door is is probably Wille’s entire life.

“Yeah, there’s a fire exit,” Mila answers, beginning to stand. “Goes to the alley out the back.”

“I’ll show you out,” says Simon, pulling himself together and seeing the effort it was taking Mila to get to her feet.  “Follow me.”

He takes them through to the back of the shop, Wille having a brief, furious phone conversation with his security as they walk.  Then Felice offers to go out to the alley and wait for the car to arrive, leaving them suddenly alone again in the cramped staff break room, surrounded by cardboard boxes and the tatty old sofa.

Wille exhales slowly, pushing his hair out of his eyes.  “I’m sorry,” he says again.  “Wasn’t how I pictured this.”

“It’s okay,” says Simon, still a little in shock.  But he doesn’t want to leave it there.  “How did you picture it?” he asks instead, dropping his voice, trying to get them back to the flirty fun they were having before.

Wille simply gives him a rueful smile though, not responding in kind.  “My life right now is…well, it’s all like this.  It’s not great.  I’m hoping things will improve as people get used to it, but for now…” He sighs heavily.  “But maybe one day in the future I could email you again?  Say hi?”

Simon swallows, throat tight.  “Sure.”

Wille nods without speaking, eyes sad as he stares at the floor.

“Or…”

Maybe he’ll regret this; but more importantly, maybe he won’t.  Maybe it will be the best decision he’ll ever make.  Or the worst.  He’s hoping for the former though.

Simon speaks up, raising his voice over the rushing of blood in his ears.  “I’m game if you are.”

“You…” Wille stares at him like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

“I mean, no harm in just going for a drink, right?  I could give you my number?”

For a moment, he’s nervous that he’s got this wrong, Wille frozen in place.  Then a huge, beaming smile steals over Wille’s face and he relaxes, limp with relief as Wille takes a step towards him, still radiating joy.

“Yeah?  I mean, would you be free toni—”

“Yes.”

They’re both grinning now, matching identical smiles as Wille’s mobile buzzes, letting him know it’s safe to leave.  He lingers for a moment though to let Simon quickly add his number to the phone, fingertips touching as they pass it back and forth.  And Simon is a grown man with several long-term relationships in his past, and should not be feeling this giddy from simple fingertips touching, for goodness’ sake.

Before he leaves, Wille pauses in the doorway before turning unexpectedly back and leaning down to give Simon a brief, chaste kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you.  For everything.”

Simon feels the ghost of that kiss all the way back to the front of the shop, where his audience are waiting for him.

Rosh takes one look at his face and groans, rolling her eyes.  “Ugh.  Really?”

“Yes, really,” he says, somehow smiling even wider though his cheeks are beginning to hurt with it.  “And before you start, he’s not a lame duck.  Definitely human.  Very human.”  He glances back over his shoulder, even though Wille and Felice will be long gone by now.  “But flying free.”