Work Text:
It’s too hot. Why is it so hot? It’s London, for fuck’s sake. Sure, it’s July, but still. Wille already regrets coming here. He isn’t even sure what he’s doing here. Or he supposes he’s here to watch some tennis. But what he doesn’t know is why? He doesn’t even like tennis.
He takes the little paper napkin that came with his drink and dabs at his forehead. It’ll look all shiny in the inevitable press photos. If only he wasn’t in a full suit and tie. But the instructions by his team were very clear.
Wille heads to the bar and gets a Coke with lots of ice in it. It helps a little, as does standing in front of one of the fans that’s been set up next to an open French window. He sends his gaze around the room and wonders which of these people his box neighbor is. He doesn’t remember the name, all he knows is he’s some kind of American pro athlete or something. His eyes catch on a knot of people. Or women rather. They’re gathered around a dark-haired guy who looks to be in his mid-twenties. Maybe that’s him. He could be an athlete judging by the way the seams of his sports jacket are fighting for their lives.
He also looks surprisingly miserable for a guy surrounded by beautiful women. But maybe Wille is just projecting. He suppresses a sigh and an urge to bolt when someone comes towards him with a determined stride. The guy seems vaguely familiar, but Wille is almost certain they haven’t met before. Like eighty percent. Sixty-five. The guy greets him and introduces himself and it turns out he used to go to school with Erik. Great. Making awkward small talk about Hillerska is just what Wille needed today.
Somehow he gets through it before he leaves the room and locks himself in a bathroom cubicle with a weird smell to pull himself together. He’s a little ashamed that it’s not the grief about his brother that’s brought him in here. Or only to a small degree.
He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help himself and pulls out his phone. Feels the same pang in his chest when he stares at the screenshots he took a few days ago. Simon in his graduation hat. Simon and Sara in their hats. Simon and his friends. Happy. Smiling.
How has it been two years since they’ve seen each other, wished each other a nice summer? How is Simon happy and Wille is… Well, he’s not miserable all the time. But he’s not great. The fact that Felice followed him to that obnoxious Swiss school did help a bit. But he’s gotten to a point where he’s hiding things even from her, because they’re just too pathetic. Plus she had her own stuff to go through with her mom, during which for once Wille was able to be the good friend. And Wille knows that it’s more than a little ridiculous to still be hung up on a guy from two years ago.
They even text from time to time and have loosely made plans to meet up this summer. But as friends. Former friends. Acquaintances? Wille doesn’t know what they are. He knows that they’re not what he wants them to be. Even after two years. Even after trying really hard to move on. He’s okay without Simon. He is. Okay-ish. It’s fine, he just needs to take a couple of deep breaths. In a stinky bathroom stall.
Finally, he gets ushered to his box, has to shake more hands and pretend that he knows what the fuck he’s doing. He’s been getting good at faking it. As it turns out, it really is the miserable guy from earlier who’s been seated next to Wille. There’s a sheen of sweat on his face, so Wille supposes at least there’s no risk one of them will outshine the other in pictures.
“Shane Hollander,” the guy says with a neat, polite smile and stretches out his hand. He has a very firm handshake.
“Wilhelm,” Wille introduces himself. Even though they’re the same height, he feels small next to Shane.
They sit down and Shane takes a pair of Ray Bans out of his breast pocket and puts them on. He pulls back his sleeve to reveal the Rolex on his wrist, then opens a button at the top of his shirt. Nobody on his team told him about the tie apparently. Or maybe he doesn’t even have a team. “It’s kind of hot, right?” he says and fans himself a little with his shirt.
“Yeah,” Wille agrees. His feet are sweating.
“I guess I’m not used to the heat,” Shane says.
“Yeah, me neither.”
“What’s the weather like in… Stockholm?” Shane asks. “Is that where you live?”
Wille decides to nod and not bring up the boarding school in Switzerland thing. “How about you? You’re from the US?”
Shane shakes his head. “Canada. Montreal during the season. But I spend most of that indoors on ice, so… my tolerance for heat is very low.”
So he’s probably a hockey player. Interesting. Wille knows even less about hockey than he knows about tennis. Shane does seem to have a very straight nose and a lot of natural looking teeth for a hockey player.
“So, do you have a, uhm, prediction?” Shane asks and nods towards the court.
“About the match?” Wille replies stupidly. To be honest, he doesn’t entirely remember who’s playing.
Shane gives a small nod.
“None. I’ll just let myself be surprised,” Wille says.
Shane studies him quietly for a moment. “Not a big tennis fan?”
Wille grins. “Caught me.”
Shane leans a little closer. “Me neither.”
They exchange a knowing smile. “Don’t tell me your mother made you come here too,” Wille jokes.
Shane looks at his hands, fiddles with his Rolex. “Kind of, yeah,” he says.
“Really?” Wille can’t help a small, unprincely snort. He was totally joking. This guy must be at least five years older than Wille, and his mom is probably not also his queen and therefore boss among other things. So why would he still let her tell him what to do? God, Wille will still have to do what his mom tells him to when he’s Shane’s age. Longer. He knows that. Of course he does. But sometimes it just… hits him.
The two players are introduced and Wille has heard neither woman’s name before. So he gets out his phone and does a quick google search. It just seems to be the decent thing to do. From the corner of his eye, he sees Shane take his phone into his hand as well, so maybe he’s doing the same.
Except that when Wille glances to his left, he sees… himself. With a red school blazer, in front of a microphone. He doesn’t read the headline, instead turns away. Why the fuck can’t he escape his past today? Why is hockey guy sitting here, googling him? After a few seconds, Wille glances back over, he can’t help it. Shane is typing something into a text conversation that looks to be mostly a string of links to articles sent to him.
Wille leans in slightly and says in a low voice, “Don’t believe everything you read. Only, like, half of that is actually true.”
Shane blushes as he quickly locks his screen and shoves the phone back into his pocket. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “My mom… She… always goes a little crazy with the research.”
Wille hums and nods. He would probably have found a neat little dossier on Shane Hollander if he’d bothered to check his email.
Shane stares straight ahead onto the court where the match has begun. After a while, he turns back to Wille. “So… that part about the, uhm, sex tape… that’s not… true, is it?”
Oh wow. So this guy clearly doesn’t do small talk. “Oh no, that part’s true,” Wille says easily.
“Fuck. That’s awful.”
Wille makes an acknowledging sound.
“And the, uhm, fight?”
“Also true, I’m afraid.”
“Ah.” Shane gives a small nod.
Wille can’t tell what he’s thinking behind his sunglasses. Maybe he’s just started to watch the game for real and is not still pondering the scandalous life of the Swedish crown prince.
🎾🎾🎾
Shane can’t stop thinking about the things he just learned about the prince. He wishes he hadn’t clicked on the links. He wishes he didn’t know. Because now his brain has started obsessing over it. All this time there’s been a gay European prince and he didn’t know about it? The heat probably isn’t helping either. Whatever his stylist told him about linen and its ‘cooling effect’ was clearly bullshit. All he can hope for at this point is that he doesn’t get up with giant sweat stains on his ass later.
They’re two games in when Shane loses control over his mouth, turns to Wilhelm and asks, “So, that guy who was in the video with you… that’s your… boyfriend?”
Wilhelm clears his throat. “No,” he says without so much as turning his head.
“Oh, sorry. The article said—”
“He was. He isn’t anymore.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Shane knows he should just let it rest. “What happened?” he asks.
Wilhelm takes a deep breath. His hand moves to the knot of his tie, loosens it.
“Was it because… he’s a boy?”
Wilhelm glances at him and a sad little smile flickers across his lips. He sighs. “I mean, that probably didn’t help, but… No.”
“Oh. Good,” Shane says. “I mean, of course it must still suck. But good that at least it wasn’t because… you know.” He throws a look around, just to make sure that they’re not being overheard. But the people in front of them are busy talking, the row behind them is empty and the guy next to Shane is involved in a conversation about crypto currency with the other guy in the next seat.
“Right,” Wilhelm says.
He’s silent for a while and Shane is worried that he’s pissed him off somehow. Which would be regrettable. He kind of likes the prince. He’s definitely much nicer than Shane expected, and… different. In a good way.
“It was mostly because I’m a fucking prince. And that means my life comes with so much shit and so many regulations and rules that… he just couldn’t… we just couldn’t make it work.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. There’s a sadness wafting off him that seems too heavy for a, what, nineteen-year-old? “I’m sorry,” Shane says again. And he really feels sorry for Wilhelm. At least Shane has the prospect that one day, he will be able to escape the MLH and be free to be with whoever he chooses. Or has chosen. If Ilya even wants to—
Shane stops himself. Not now. The main reason he decided to accept the invitation to Wimbledon after all is to distract himself for a bit until Ilya is coming to the cottage next week. Shane’s stomach tingles. He’s really fucking nervous about it.
The second reason he came is that he thought it might show Yuna how dedicated he is to this job, hoping he’ll be in her good graces if he decides to maybe, possibly, come out to his parents later this summer. In case he finds the right moment. He’d even hoped to maybe do it here in London, but then his dad came down with Covid last week and the planned family vacation turned into a solo trip.
“So is it any easier for you?” Wilhelm asks, pulling Shane from his thoughts. “Dating, I mean? Like, you’re probably sort of famous over there or you wouldn’t be here. I imagine that would also cause some problems.”
It really sounds like Wilhelm has no idea about the hockey world, at all. It’s a little baffling to Shane. He also wants to go and slap past-Shane from a couple of minutes ago because it’s entirely his fault that out of all the things they could be talking about right now (or be silent! Silence would have been an option!), they have somehow ended up talking about dating. Shane supposes he owes Wilhelm an answer.
“I don’t know if it’s easier than it is for you,” he says. “But… it can be difficult. For some more than others.”
He lets the words hang in the air, not sure if he’s said too much. He feels the prince’s eyes on his face and is glad that he’s wearing the shades. For a while they follow the action down at the court and Shane almost thinks he’s safe when Wilhelm asks, “What if a hockey player wants to date another guy? Is that an option? Or is it like with all other male sports where everyone pretends to be straight until their career is over?”
Jesus, he’s blunt. Shane wonders if he’ll get diplomacy training at some point in his future or if he’ll just be unleashed on the world like this. It’s an insane thought that this guy will be a king one day.
“The latter,” Shane replies a little stiffly. He’s suddenly scared that Wilhelm will figure him out. “Well, we do have one player who’s out.”
“Oh,” Wilhelm says. He seems pleased. “Who is he?”
“Scott Hunter. Plays for the New York Admirals.”
Wilhelm gives a shrug. Of course he hasn’t heard the name.
“He, uhm, came out only a few weeks ago,” Shane says. “By kissing his boyfriend on live TV after winning the cup.”
“Oh, wow,” Wilhelm says. “And they told me I was being dramatic for a little speech.”
They both chuckle and Shane feels an odd moment of kinship with this stranger.
“How has that been received?” Wilhelm asks. “Will it affect his career?”
Shane shrugs. “I don’t know. I think there was some hate, but not too much publicly. And about his career… I guess we’ll have to see. I mean, he’s kind of old, so… he might just play out his contract and then retire and won’t have to be left without a team when nobody will hire him.”
Wilhelm’s eyebrows pull up behind his sunglasses. “Surely there’s some sort of anti-discrimination policy, right? That they can’t not hire someone because of their sexuality?”
Shane’s stomach clenches. “They wouldn’t say that of course. But… They could probably find other reasons if they wanted.”
“That sucks. Not surprising, but…”
“Yeah.”
Wilhelm stares straight ahead for a while and Shane tries to not let the panic bubble up. The audience cheers when one of the players wins another game. Shane and Wilhelm clap along. Afterwards Wilhelm turns to Shane and says, “Sometimes I wish there was something I could do to lose my job. But, you know, tried the gay thing and apparently that’s not enough.”
He’s probably being sarcastic and doesn’t really expect an answer. But Shane replies anyway, “Can you not… quit or something?”
Wilhelm pulls his lower lip between his teeth, chews on it for a moment. Then he raises a hand, flagging down one of the servers to order a drink.
Luckily they do find some other things to talk about afterwards, alternating with stretches of companionable silence where they just watch the game. They have some fun trying to figure out the rules and all in all, the whole thing ends up being a lot better than Shane feared. Fun even. They part with a friendly handshake and when they meet again at the afterparty, Shane is quite happy to see a familiar face.
Because of course there’s an afterparty. There always is. And of course Shane is expected to show up there as well. He usually stays for an hour or two until everyone gets too drunk to notice him leaving early.
About thirty minutes into the party, Shane’s phone buzzes and he finds a text from Ilya. His heart jumps into his throat and he hides behind a large fake plant to check the message. It’s a screenshot from Instagram, a picture from this afternoon’s game, showing Shane and Wilhelm laughing.
Lily
You said you wouldn’t enjoy it.
So this is you not enjoying it?
Did you invite him to the cottage too?
Shane’s stomach tingles warmly. It almost sounds like Ilya is… jealous? A new text comes through before Shane has a chance to reply.
Lily
You know he’s only 19
A part of Shane is considering not answering. The idea of Ilya going a little crazy for a few hours is kind of tempting. Another part of Shane, the one that had a bit too much to drink because he’s been so thirsty that he forgot about the alcohol, types a reply.
Jane
He’s very mature for his age
He’s a little nervous and has to suppress a slightly hysteric giggle as he stares at the little typing bubbles. Ilya is taking an unusually long time for his reply.
Lily
Make sure to get him home before bedtime.
Jane
I will
He waits for a bit to see if Ilya sends anything else. Types ‘wish you were here’ and deletes it, not because it’s not true but because the idea of attending a public event like this with Ilya by his side is kind of terrifying and he has to fight a hint of panic again.
Back inside the main room, he finds a quiet corner that remains quiet for about two minutes before someone else comes to strike up a conversation. Shane is rapidly reaching the end of his tolerance for social interactions and after another half hour decides to call it a night. He’s still genuinely glad when, just as he starts heading for the door, Wilhelm intercepts him, grabs his arm and pulls him to the side. Surprisingly enough, the Swedish prince really is the nicest, most genuine person Shane has met today, and he wants to say goodbye properly. Judging by Wilhelm’s flushed face and his slightly glassy eyes, he has definitely had quite a few drinks. He also seems very excited about something.
“I want to thank you,” Wilhelm says, leaning in slightly, his boozy breath hot against Shane’s ear.
“For what?”
“I don’t know. For listening. For helping me figure something out.”
“I did?” Shane goes through their conversation in his mind and tries to remember at what point he said something that could have been misconstrued as advice.
Wilhelm grins and nods, then, to Shane’s utter surprise, throws his arms around Shane’s shoulders and squeezes tightly. “I’m gonna quit,” he says.
“What?” Shane doesn’t quite understand what he’s referring to.
“Abdicate,” Wilhelm says, releasing Shane.
Shane stares at him blankly. What the fuck is he talking about?
“And then I’m getting Simon back,” Wilhelm says, grins, presses a kiss to Shane’s cheek, pats his upper arm and leaves him standing. “Hit me up on Insta if you want!” he calls over his shoulder, almost collides with the broad chest of a famous actor, laughs, gives Shane a little wave and disappears in the crowd.
What the fuck did I do? Shane thinks, flooded by a mild panic. But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t figure out where he might have said something along the lines of ‘abdicate the throne and get back with your ex’. So he should be able to claim plausible deniability in case that wasn’t just drunk insanity.
🎾🎾🎾
“I can’t believe he actually did it!” Shane sits up on the couch.
“Hey!” Ilya complains as his feet slip off Shane’s lap.
“Sorry,” Shane mutters absentmindedly, hand apologetically patting Ilya’s foot, as he skims the news article.
“Who did what?” Ilya asks, moving over and hooking his chin over Shane’s shoulder.
Shane suppresses a shiver and angles the phone so Ilya can see. “The Swedish prince. He abdicated the throne.”
“Am I supposed to know this guy?” Ilya asks in a bored tone.
Shane decides to ignore him and reads through the statement Wilhelm made. It sounds very reasonable and mature and not at all like a drunken mistake.
“What are you doing?” Ilya asks when Shane opens his Instagram.
“Sending him a message,” Shane replies. He’s been kind of busy, so he hasn’t ‘hit Wilhelm up’ yet. He did follow him though. “To say congrats.”
“Wait,” Ilya says, pulling back to study Shane, “did you have something to do with this?”
“No,” Shane replies. “Not really. We just talked a bit.”
“Ah.”
Ilya is adorable when he’s sulking. Shane bites back a smile and types out a short message, then puts the phone down on the cushion next to him. “I wonder if he got his boyfriend back too.”
“Oh my God, Hollander, you did not give him relationship advice!”
“Excuse me? What’s that supposed to mean?” Shane looks at his own boyfriend in mock offense.
Ilya pulls up his eyebrows.
“I didn’t, I swear!”
“Good. You shouldn’t.”
“Why? I managed to get myself a pretty amazing boyfriend after all,” Shane says, nudging Ilya with his elbow.
Ilya snorts. “You? You managed that? I think it was me who—”
Shane moves quickly and climbs onto Ilya’s lap. He takes his face into his hands and says, “Not everything is a competition, Rozanov.”
Ilya is still fighting it, but the smile is already quivering in the corners of his eyes. “Oh, but I think you’re wrong. If I hadn’t—”
Shane shuts him up with a kiss. “Idiot,” he murmurs against Ilya’s lips before he kisses him again.
🎾🎾🎾
“Hah! I knew it!”
“What? What happened?” Simon rushes over from the kitchen, a towel in one hand, a spoon in the other.
Wille grins up at him. “Your boyfriend has an excellent gaydar is what happened.”
Simon’s eyebrows shoot up. “Which boyfriend?”
“Oh, you have more than one?”
Simon grins and lowers to the couch next to Wille. “Who did you clock?”
Wille shows him his phone. “This hockey guy I met at Wimbledon. I just had a feeling.”
“Wow,” Simon says. “He’s… hot.”
Wille hums and scrolls down. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters at the photo of Shane’s alleged partner. Simon whistles.
As soon as Wille starts reading the actual post, he sobers pretty quickly though. “Fuck. They got outed. By a video someone posted online.”
The video in question starts playing on the screen.
“Shit,” Simon says and the look they exchange is heavy with unpleasant memories. Something hisses in the kitchen and Simon jumps up with a “Fuck, the pasta!”
So far neither Shane nor the other guy who Wille recognizes from Shane’s social media posts as his former archrival-turned-charity-co-founder Ilya Rozanov have released any public statements. Even though chances are slim Shane will actually see it, Wille types a quick message of support to him before he throws his phone on the coffee table and walks over to the kitchen.
Simon is stirring the pasta sauce which smells delicious. Wille wraps his arms around Simon’s middle and buries his face in his curls. “I hope they’ll be okay,” he says quietly.
Simon rubs his free hand along Wille’s forearm. “I’m sure they will. It sucks, but at least they’re fully grown adults and not teenagers. And it’s not a sex tape. Or, well…”
Wille chuckles, then presses his lips to Simon’s nape. “You know, I never told you, but… talking to Shane back then actually made me decide to abdicate.”
Simon huffs out a surprised laugh. “It did? How?”
“I’m… not quite sure, to be honest,” Wille says, then laughs softly. “It might just have been the heat melting my brain. But… I don’t know. Maybe the fact that there are people like these hockey pros who voluntarily choose a life where they can’t be who they are and can’t be with who they want to be with made me realize how fucking sad that is and that I was an idiot for accepting that exact same thing for myself when I hadn’t even made that choice. And I wasn’t even getting paid several million dollars a year either.”
“Oh, so what I’m hearing is you would have been fine without me if you’d have been compensated with a shit ton of money?” Simon teases.
Wille takes the wooden spoon from his hand, puts it down and gently turns Simon around in his arms until they’re face to face. “Stop being an idiot,” he says softly.
Simon grins and melts into Wille’s embrace. Sometimes Wille can’t believe how lucky he is. His throat tightens and he feels tears prickling in his eyes. “I love you,” he whispers and kisses Simon softly.
“I love you too.” Simon smiles and brushes his lips against Wille’s again, before he gently but determinedly pushes his hand against Wille’s chest. “But now you need to get off me or I’ll burn the sauce.”
“Fine,” Wille sighs dramatically.
Simon giggles and Wille kisses his neck quickly, one more time, before he starts setting the table.