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I can see them staring, honey (at his arms around your body)

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Wilhelm blames the mirror.

 

Because he’s enveloped in the secluded symphony of the boy currently falling apart under him, his senses completely overwhelmed. All he feels is goose-pimpled skin under his broad hands, all he hears is how each fractional movement pulls a differently layered exhale from Simon’s lips. His own roughly inhaled breaths bring with them the scent of Simon’s (sister’s, probably borrowed) bodywash; something fruity now where last month was shea butter and almonds.

The taste under his tongue something so… Simon, as Wilhelm lathes wet pulses over Simon’s nipple, the taste increasingly stronger, headier, as he points the tip of his tongue to run the outline of Simon’s pectoral muscle and up through the coarse hair under his arm. Wilhelm’s eyes are closed, seeing nothing but the shifting pattern of light dancing behind his eyelids. He doesn’t need the gift of sight to map his favourite constellation of Simon’s; his dotted freckles, soothed scars and secretly sensitive spaces. He knows this journey now by heart.

He’s got Simon writhing under him, the heat of their hips moulded together and the two of them moving as one, chasing sweet friction, hindered only slightly by the thin layers of fabric between them.

Wilhelm blames the mirror, because he’s content; he’s deliriously happy, preemptively sated. 

Until Simon’s gentle fingers skate across the back of his elbow and down his forearm as he’s pressing open mouth kisses to the centre of Simon’s sternum, Wilhelm holding his weight up with a palm on the mattress by Simon’s right hip. This touch is unexpected enough to prompt Wilhelm to blink his eyes hazily open, and turning lazily to investigate, he catches sight of the debauched picture they paint in the mirror across the room from Simon’s bed.

The reflective glass is quiet and unassuming where it rests against the wall, angled perfectly to capture their upper bodies in its frame. It’s window shaped, with a flat base and curved hemisphere at the top, enclosed in the thinnest gilded outline. Wilhelm knows it’s something Simon recently rescued from Sara’s donation pile, that he always secretly eyed where it previously hung over his sister’s bed. 

The mirror itself is unassuming, yes, but their intertwined figures staring back at Wilhelm are not.

They’re all too familiar. 

 

Because Wilhelm lived this exact experience once before, then woke one day to the entire world experiencing it for him. Without him. To smite him. To spite him.

Then he spoke, and the entire world, a little too easily, dismissed that it was him. 

(And he listened, as his entire world proceeded to dismiss him.)

How most so readily believed Wilhelm’s brash untelling of the truth was a mystery to him; but he understands the answer to why so many jumped at the alternate reality as a poisoned truth in itself. 

He’d always known the life in him existed not for himself, but for others to covet, correct, coerce, condemn. 

Conceal.

But not anymore

Now, following his candour, his clarification; these ‘others’ have, for the most part capitulated, conceded, accepted his cardinal truth.

A catharsis.

 

Wilhelm watches in the frame as Simon registers his pause, glances down at him and then follows his gaze across the room. Their eyes meet in the mirror, neither moving a muscle in the silence.

“Oh.” Simon places the single syllable ever-so-gently between them.

And Wilhelm shifts his weight, haltingly bringing his left hand, quivering, to cover the dip of Simon’s waist. Completing the picture that’s tortured the two of them (and terrifyingly titillated too many others) for months, now.

Oh,” repeats Simon, seeing more than feeling Wilhelm’s warm brand land on his skin. His chest heaves with a panted breath as he throws his head back, elongating his neck, mouth parted in ecstasy; holding Wilhelm's stare through it all.

And Wilhelm, observing Simon’s vulnerable surrender, realises (is vaguely sickened by the fact) that only now is the picture fully complete.

He snips the livewire stretching between them.

Looks away to find a safer reality; the expanse of Simon’s coffee skin, soft hairs dancing in Wilhelm’s puffed breaths when Simon again stretches his body closer up to Wilhelm’s lips.

He’s feeling brave, tonight.

Considers that perhaps enough time has passed, now, to allow his unfurling honesty a safe journey home. 

“The idea,” Wilhelm begins shakily. He takes a cycle of breath before going on, “That even a single soul believed,” he opens his lips to kiss a wet mark in the centre of Simon’s chest, “for a single second-”

Uh-

“That it was someone else,” Wilhelm continues, shifting his lips slightly to the left to place another kiss, “someone not me,” and another, “touching you this way-” 

The hand on Simon’s hip has not moved a millimeter, and Wilhelm’s fingers tighten this grip as he says, “Their hands here.” And he’s pressing bruising, messy, open mouth caresses quickly down Simon’s chest now.

“Their lips on your skin,” Wilhelm drags his swollen lips through the expanse between his last kiss and the centre of Simon’s belly, “their tongue on you.” Wilhelm swirls his pointed tongue inside Simon’s navel, then gets his teeth to nip at it.

Wille-

“Was killing me.”

Simon brings his hands up at this, passing one through Wilhelm’s fringe and the other scrabbling for purchase at the back of his neck.

“Me too,” Simon gasps out, as Wilhelm begins to nip at the thin skin around Simon’s belly button, pinching sections between his teeth and leaving marks when they’re released from his rough treatment. “Me too,” repeated like a mantra, “me too,” like a prayer, spine curving into Wilhelm’s touch.

“Because no one else could-” Wilhelm lays a hand over Simon’s other hip as well, two anchors now pinning Simon to the bed.

Nej, nej-”

“Ever-”

Nej, only you,” and Simon’s speaking too fast, can’t find enough breath, the words coming out thin and reedy at the top of his register, “bara du, fan-”

Wilhelm turns from where he’s been firing words directly into Simon’s stomach to rest his cheek on the now-reddened skin, eyes drawn back to the image of his five pale fingers striped over Simon’s hip reflected at him in a golden frame. Simon’s brought a leg up and around to cradle Wilhelm closer into his body, and Wilhelm feels crescent indents embossed into the back of his neck where Simon’s nails have dug in at his hairline.

“I can’t-” Wilhelm whispers, the prelude to a thought, and then he’s mumbling incoherently, nonsensically, words and sounds escaping in undecipherable patterns; it’s ‘I’m sorry’, it’s ‘I couldn’t- I, sorry- can’t, but-’, it’s ‘you’re so-’

Yours, Wille-”

Wilhelm immediately quiets at Simon’s measured interjection, tone at odds with the way he’s frantically clutching Wilhelm to him, palms searching for a grasp that will prove unbreakable (like if he just holds on tight enough they’ll never be separated again).

“...I’m all yours.”

And Wilhelm tears his gaze away from their smudged likenesses across the room to meet Simon’s eyes, pointy chin digging in at the base of Simon’s ribcage.

“Always,” whispers Simon, sweetly. His hooded eyes are focussed down where Wilhelm’s resting his head, cheeks stained deep red and the curls at his ear pulled from their ringlets into a frizzled mess by Wilhelm’s earlier treatment. Simon pinches a strand of hair that’s fallen in front of Wilhelm’s eye, twisting it tenderly behind his ear.

“Only- shit,” Simon tries, the expletive pulled from him by Wilhelm digging fingernails into his side body, “ever been yours.”

They’re standing at the edge of a precipice, here. Eyes locked, unwavering, as if daring the other to jump.

Wilhelm takes this as permission to hurtle them (gently, lovingly, tenderly) over the edge.

He lifts the thumb of his left hand, and it’s the first time since their moment in the mirror that he’s broken any contact with Simon’s waist. A pale oval appears in its wake; a thumbprint where Simon’s blood has been guided out of existence at this pinpoint by Wilhelm’s grip.

Wilhelm presses a kiss to the spot before Simon’s natural colouring has even returned, and it’s a single gentle caress… until it’s not. 

Following a whistling breath in through his nose, Wilhelm firmly attaches his lips and sucks, intermittently nibbling at the captured flesh between his teeth. Simon keens under him, arching into the sensation. 

When Wilhelm finally decides his artwork’s complete, he lathes the flat of his tongue over the bruise just once, replaces his thumbprint hard over the now wet and swollen red mark as he iterates, “Mine.”

And then lifts his index finger.

Now understanding exactly where this is going, Simon wantonly moans Wilhelm’s name amongst a select few swears, lifting a forearm to cover his eyes like the only way he’ll survive this journey is if he can’t even see it happening.

He’s still clinging to Wille’s sweat-damp strands, chest heaving with tight breaths as Wilhelm systematically targets the skin below each of his fingertips at Simon’s side. Tormenting the innocent flesh with lips, teeth, tongue, exhaling ‘Mine, only mine’ over the reddened flesh every time he’s suckled the skin enough to replace a finger. 

When his pinky finds a home on the last baby bruise, Wilhelm lifts his head a fraction. Drags his fingers down Simon’s body, only an inch, to reveal the five rapidly darkening marks, entranced at how deeply coloured the thumb shaped bruise is already. Wilhelm licks his (equally swollen, wet) lips, bringing his fingers exactly over the marks again, hovering. He imagines he can feel the warmth from the increased blood flow to each area radiating into his fingerprints.

When he’s perfectly aligned his palm, his gaze shifts up to where Simon’s staring back at him now, forearm pushed up against his hairline to give his sight back.

Wilhelm connects his touch to Simon’s hip again, hand branding a weight where it falls like before, but now his five fingernails also harshly digging into the bruises he’s just crafted, creating divots in the expanse of Simon’s smooth flesh. Simon involuntarily bucks his hips into Wilhelm’s chest at this, a saccharine cocktail of pleasure-pain, which kick starts a desperation in him. 

Simon brings both hands to frame Wilhelm’s face, whispers, “Kiss me,” curling nails into his jawline, “please kiss me,” grinding filthily up into Wilhelm’s body.

Wilhelm’s eyes flicker down to Simon’s waist as he simply says, “Seems... I have been,” almost as if he’s awoken from a dream, realising he’s sleepwalked into danger, defenceless.

Nej,” Simon intones, nudging Wilhelm’s chin up, “Nej, up here, mi tontito.”

Wilhelm lets himself be dragged up Simon’s chest by the prints under his jaw as Simon repeats, “Need you up here, Wille, need-”

And then a crimson collision, Simon’s bitten-red and Wilhelm’s saliva-slick lips crashing together in a burning kiss. Wilhelm’s got a hand in Simon’s curls, the other not having shifted an inch from his waist. Simon’s arms circle Wilhelm’s body, skate trembling over his spine, digits dipping under the waistband of his boxers at the small of his back.

They’re devouring each other now, connected shoulder to toe and rocking together where the friction foreshadows a sweet release. And all of a sudden, as if a switch has flicked in both of them at the exact same time, chasing this pleasure is paramount; it’s all that matters.

Wilhelm abandons Simon’s lips to bury himself in his neck, gasping, curling his hips down fiercely into the outline of Simon’s length between them. Simon reaches his hand down Wilhelm’s back and under the elastic at the top of his boxers, scratchy stripe biting into his wrist as he gets a hand on his ass, hauling Wilhelms weight further into him.

“Wille, Wille I-”

Need you to-” Wilhelm breaks off with a groan as he feels Simon’s hand travelling across his hip and into the space between them, getting his fingers around Wille’s length, still confined to his boxers.

Shit- Simme, oh-”

Simon runs a thumb over the head to gather and spread pre-cum down the length of him to soften the glide, then strokes once, twice. Wilhelm’s completely at his mercy, one arm holding himself up with an elbow by Simon’s shoulder, the other never fucking moving from where he’s marked himself into Simon’s waist.

Simon must understand this as he quickly gets both of his hands between them, lowering first Wilhelm’s and then his own underwear just enough to feel them rub against each other, finally skin on skin. It’s electric, as Simon pins both of their cocks to his stomach with one hand, the other returning to Wilhelm’s ass, urging him to thrust into Simon’s grip.

Vad fan,” escapes unbidden from Simon’s lips as Wilhelm gets the picture, the muscles under Simon’s hand flexing as he fucks into the warmth where Simon’s holding him against the heat of his own arousal. 

The sensitive head of his cock brushes against Simon’s with every move of his hips, and it’s enough, today, after everything- he’s turned on enough to come from just this- this imitation of the sweetest surrender Wille’s known from Simon.

The image of the first time he’d entered Simon floats, foggy, to the front of his mind, ‘cause it was just like this; Simon splayed out under him, Wilhelm fucking into his tight wet heat, feeling so lucky and loved and in love with the gorgeous mess writhing to meet his thrusts, to keep them connected.

Shit- Simme, fuck me,” Wilhelm pants. He somehow finds the coordination to get his lips working where they’re pressed into Simon’s pulse point, sucking lightly and tonguing at the skin.

Simon’s grip tightens between them, thumb coming to massage the head of his own cock as he feels Wilhelm start marking him again, above the collar, where people can see.

He starts airily reciting, “Yours, yours, Wille, all yours-”

“Mine,” Wilhelm gets out between his loud suckling kisses, “mine.” He's high on the idea, full of helium, floating above them, unable to be tugged down to earth. “Simon, I’m so- shit! You’re so- mine, mine.”

Wilhelm goes searching for Simon’s mouth again, the hand in his curls angling Simon’s head down to meet him in the middle, their tongues tangling before their lips even make contact, then herded into Simon’s mouth by Wille’s insistent presses.

In between kisses Wille jumbles out, “Only me,” and, “mine.” His nails dig hard into the bruises at Simon’s hip as he wetly gasps “Please, forever.”

And shit Wilhelm only considers the words the moment after he’s planted them on Simon’s lips (thinks fucking hell, forever’s intense), but there’s no time to regret any of it. Because the combination of these words and Wilhelm clutching at him that must be a five-pronged burn at Simon’s waist has Simon fucking coming between them with a low groan.

His obliques are contracting under Wilhelm’s iron grip, cock twitching against Wilhelm’s under Simon’s palm as he paints up his own heaving chest. Simon shifts to stroke himself through the last of his release, knuckles brushing Wilhelm’s length.

Wilhelm rakes a hand through Simon’s hair, swallowing the needy grunts leaving Simon’s lips with deep kisses. 

Wilhelm expects Simon to have melted, coming back to reality slowly, so he doesn’t expect when Simon gets a come-wet hand on Wilhelms cock again almost immediately, stroking punishingly.

Si-” is all Wilhelm gets out as Simon starts panting into their kisses, still settling from his high.

“Yours, Wille, always,” Simon murmurs as Wilhelm’s thrusts finally fall into the pattern of Simon’s strokes, “only ever- I’m yours-

And then Wilhelm’s coming too, spine bowing forward as he bites down on Simon’s bottom lip with a soft whine in the back of his throat; abdominal muscles clenching as his hips stutter, shooting over Simon’s ribs between them. Simon caresses the back of Wilhelm’s neck tenderly, guiding him through the aftershocks, only releasing Wilhelm when he starts softening in Simon’s hand.

Conscious of collapsing into the mess on Simon’s stomach, Wille plants a last kiss on Simon’s open lips as he semi-coherently drags himself up to sit on his heels. He stays close, knees splayed by Simon’s hips and Simon’s thighs resting over the top of his.

Wilhelm hasn’t once let go of Simon’s waist. 

Looking down at the sight in front of him though, Wilhelm’s breath stops. 

And his gaze hasn’t even made its way to Simon’s face, which he knows will be staring back at him with blown out pupils ringed in deep brown, set above warm-to-the-touch cheekbones and disastrously full lips, licked around the edges. He’s gathered enough data to know that look like the back of his hand.

But no, at the moment he’s stunned by the picture painted by pearly liquid settling into the divots of Simon’s chest, striped over a nipple, outlining his bellybutton. And he wants… he wants-

It’s this want that prompts him to release his grip on Simon’s waist.

Unthinkingly, Wilhelm lifts this stubborn hand to run through the stickiness on Simon’s torso, the mess they made (the mess he made), gathering it onto his five fingertips. He hesitates, because this is new, finally forcing his eyes up to Simon’s face, and it’s almost the exact tableau he’d put together in his mind. Gorgeous.

But Simon’s not looking back up to meet Wilhelm’s gaze. No, he’s attached his stare to Wilhelm’s trembling hand. Simon must sense Wilhelm faltering, as he brings his tongue quickly to wet the part of his lips, swiftly inhales.

“Do it,” he says, wrecked, pointedly still focussed on Wilhelm’s left hand.

So Wilhelm does it; plants just the tips of his five fingers back over now-purpling bruises, glancing down for only a second to land them correctly. Then he’s concentrating on Simon’s face as he begins to move his fingers in tiny circles, massaging his (their?) come into the thin skin of Simon’s waist where he’s been clutching all night; all because too many believed it’s where someone else had their hands on Simon, and where Wilhelm’s kissed and licked and claimed back this touch that was his, is his. Has always been his. All his.

Sealing his marks with an everlasting stain.

Wilhelm descends the flat of his palm to Simon’s skin, and it’s like coming home as he curls his fingers to press crescent nails into the viscid marks, feeling Simon’s stomach contract and seeing his lips part around a light cry at the (slightly torturous, it must be by now) sensation.

Simon lifts a hand up to clutch Wilhelm’s wrist like a lifeline, thumb stroking over the bony knob as he sluggishly traces the line of Wilhelm’s arm with his gaze, heat spreading across Wilhelm’s shoulder and up the line of his neck until Simon meets his eyes.

“It’s yours, Wille.”

The moment following Simon’s words stretches between them, another silken thread unwinding from the knot it’s been tangled in for months, this new understanding pulling it taut again between them. Connecting them. (‘Forever’ echoes in Wilhelm’s mind.)

“All of it,” Simon continues, and now he’s shifting Wilhelm’s hand away from its clasp at his waist for the first time all night. Pressing Wilhelm’s hand hard into his own flesh so they don’t separate for a second, he drags Wilhelm’s touch towards the centre of his chest, capturing more of their drying mess and smearing this with Wilhelm’s palm up to rest over Simon’s heart.

Wilhelm loses the ability to inhale; to exhale.

He’s feeling faint as Simon confides, “This too,” covering Wilhelms flat palm with his own, rocking it slightly, imploring Wilhelm to massage at this point as well, “all yours.” His fingers slip in between Wilhelm’s where they’re gently circling to feel their combined release soaking into his skin. “I’m all yours.”

Wilhelm’s thunderstruck at these words, at how they herald the sensation of something immaculately crafted pouring life into him. It’s glowing and overflowing in the cavern of his heartspace; that place within him the twin to where his palm’s currently resting on Simon.

And then he feels Simon remove his hand covering Wilhelm’s, and a warmth lands on the left of Wilhelm’s chest. It’s Simon’s palm, holding steady, mirroring Wilhelm’s hold on his heart, a radiant latent heat that’s as if he’s unknowingly drawn out the sunburst from its previously intangible existence in Wilhelm’s mind to mould it into material reality.

There’s suddenly too much empty space between their bodies.

No reason to mind the mess now, Wilhelm leans forward, once again resting his weight on his right hand beside Simon’s head as he presses slowly into the expanse of Simon’s chest, Simon’s arm bending at the elbow to accommodate the new lack of space between them; refusing to give up his handprint over Wilhelm’s heart. 

“And you’re mine,” Simon gingerly exhales into the rapidly diminishing distance between their lips.

Wilhelm feels Simon situate himself so that they’re connected everywhere, as if they’re one entity; sticky, sated, and (a little ironically), with these bruises finally recovering from being battered by the swirling winds of their sorry spectacle.

It’s a lot and it’s filthy, maybe a little wrong (and Wilhelm knows it’s overly possessive). But this quiet cacophony they’ve created in the cocoon of Simon’s room; this moment that is only theirs (only theirs) is goddamn healing.

A balm over the burns they received from being tossed into someone else’s flames.

A bridge built between the fucking impossible decisions they each had to make, standing opposite sides of a canyon. To maybe, finally, almost unimaginably allow them to meet in the middle.

“You’re mine,” Simon emphasises, his lips brushing against Wilhelm’s where they’re now breathing each other’s air (meeting in the middle), “and I’m yours.”

A promise. Wilhelm seals it with a kiss.

 

Wilhelm pays close attention in class the next day.

Not to the lesson, mind - but to the way Simon a few rows ahead keeps subconsciously reaching for the right side of his waist, bringing the base of his pen in to press against his skin through his layers of clothing. 

To anyone else it would seem a fidgety occurrence; they’d find no order in the action. But Wilhelm counts the five times Simon repeats this press every time he reaches down. He sees, almost with an x-ray vision, the five purpling marks arranged as if they’re his fingerprints across Simon’s side body.

Simon lifts his right hand to answer a question and his hoodie and t-shirt ride up to reveal a sliver of soft skin at his waist, the hint of one, two (of five, Wilhelm knows) darkened bruises hovering under his raised hem.

Wilhelm’s mouth goes dry. Fuck

 

(Wilhelm thanks the mirror.)