Chapter Text
Thank youuuuuuu, betas simonsfangs and maiarobers
Part VI
Shadowhunters HQ, a few weeks later
In the early evening of a pleasant day, Simon found himself at the Shadowhunters headquarters. He stood in the hall with Clary, Alec, and Izzy. Alec appeared bored, as usual.
The weather had taken a sharp turn and the last hints of winter vanished. The air was now fresh and cool, with a warm undertone that promised spring. By the end of March, New Yorkers enjoyed the sunshine that made the flowers bloom.
The building was breathtakingly beautiful. The old buttresses from the church were still visible in most places. Simon wondered if the angelic beings ever felt tacky for having their headquarters in a house of god. Didn’t they think it was a tad obnoxious?
To his left, the elevator pinged. A shadowhunter with half her hair shaved off stepped out of the metal doors, and gave him the stink eye when she realized what he was. Did he have a neon sign on his forehead or something? She marched to the main lobby without greeting any of them.
Even at more-or-less peaceful times such as these, wherein a truce existed between the downworlders and the Shadowhunters, Simon was still unwelcome. He had never in his life experienced this type of exclusion and was faced with some harsh realities. His kind was hated – he repeated the words in his head in disbelief, his kind was hated, his kind was hated, looked down upon, regarded as lesser, inferior, unworthy. History was repeating itself, and if his Jewish grandmother – had she still been alive – had found out about his situation, she would have been devastated. Angered, too.
“Simon!”
Izzy waited impatiently as she called his name.
“Huh?”
“Will you give the document to him?”
“Uhm… to who?”
She rolled her eyes. “Raphael, of course. As clan leader, this falls under his jurisdiction.” She held out a manila folder. At his empty expression, she re-explained that it contained an updated version of the Accords with minor changes regarding the resident group of seelies near the wharf – they had been causing problems recently, and had to be turned out.
“Oh,” he replied dumbly, accepting the packet automatically. “Yeah. Yeah. I’ll give it to him. Next time I hang at Dumort with my besties, I’ll be sure to drop this off. Give it to the boss-man. If he’ll see me – that is, ha!” He was rambling now and grimaced at his own awkwardness.
Izzy had a calculating look on her face. “Trouble in paradise?”
“I don’t believe in heaven,” he said.
She appeared confused. “Okay?”
“Never mind!” He glanced down at the manila envelope, and moved it hand from hand.
“You and Raphael okay?” Izzy asked. Alec was not paying attention, and Clary was focussing on her blades, scratching at a bit of dirt embedded in a groove.
“Well – eh,” Simon stuttered, “there isn’t a really a Raphael and me – or maybe, I don’t know.” It seemed as if Izzy would resume her questions and Simon quickly made for the exit, mumbling something about the importance of Shadowhunter downworlder relations and speed of the Simon Delivery System.
He thought he saw her smile.
Dumort, three thirty seven a.m.
In the kitchen at the Dumort, Raphael’s phone buzzed.
[Magnus] Talked to him yet?
After decades of knowing Magnus, Raphael could expertly imagine exactly what kind of facial expression accompanied the text. A slight furrowing of the brows, expectation clear in his eyes. The words were not only a question, but they were also a reprimand. After all, Magnus was a father figure of some sort to Raphael. Even when he didn’t know he was doing something wrong or when he didn’t realize why he was feeling off, chances were Magnus could easily decipher what plagued his age-old friend. At times like these, however, Raphael wished Magnus wouldn’t know him so well – at least then he could pretend nothing was the matter and he wouldn’t have to deal with admonishments from Magnus. Before cell phones were available to everyone, Raphael had the fortune of not being reachable at every moment. He wasn’t lucky any longer. He stared down at his glossy IPhone, and regretted spending so much money on a device he hated at times. Flipping over the phone and pushing it away, he ignored the text. When it buzzed again several minutes later, he turned it off.
Stan and he continued their game of chess. The night had been a slow one and he was going out of his mind with boredom.
It had been a few weeks since Raphael had received a visit from an angered Magnus. Ever since, Magnus had been bugging him incessantly with texts. Raphael’s mood had stabilized a while ago, but he still felt no inclination to patch things up with Simon, or to tell him what had been going on with him over the past couple of months – cowardice, his mind informed him haughtily.
Unfortunately, fate had decided to intervene, and before he could fully process the footsteps out in the hall, Simon had burst into the kitchen of the hotel and was standing in front of him with hands on his hips and a furious frown on his face.
“I’m fucking tired of waiting.” He turned to Stan and barked, “Get out.” At Stan’s murderous glare, Simon shrunk and coughed, “Please. Get the hell out, if you please.”
Once Stan had shuffled out of the kitchen, Simon swivelled around and addressed Raphael, who still sat at the table, more or less frozen with a knife hanging above a split lime.
Simon said, “I know Magnus talked to you.”
Raphael pursed his lips.
Simon advanced until he stood right in front of him and glowered. “Well?”
A dirty plan wormed its way into Raphael’s mind. Simon stood so close, it was almost too easy to let old habits take over. He looked down and hooked on of his fingers into the belt hoops of Simon’s jeans. He pulled. Simon’s breath hitched. It was a dirty trick, because Raphael knew just how much Simon liked these sort of things. All the kissing, the touching, sex, all of it.
Raphael gripped one of Simon’s hips and hauled himself up from the chair. Simon stumbled backwards and they kept falling until they hit a wall with a loud thump. A manila envelope fell to the ground with a thwack.
For one moment, Raphael hesitated, but when he saw Simon’s dilated pupils and the blush on his cheeks, he pulled Simon in for a deep kiss, leaving no room for turning back. Simon dug his fingers into Raphael’s hair and sank against the wall, before rethinking the move and plastering himself against Raphael. They kissed until their lips felt bruised and sore, mouths a tangled mess of saliva. Raphael felt himself grow eager. He could admit readily how much he’d missed this. He pushed his thigh between Simon’s legs, widening his stance, and pressed against Simon’s straining jeans.
Outside, to neither of their knowledge, Lily rolled her eyes. The rest of Dumort heaved a collective sigh, unsure whether it was in relief or annoyance.
Simon followed his movements, reacting with such ease that it felt like coming home, and they kept going and going and going, unbuttoning and making up for lost time, moaning and groaning against the stone wall, and Raphael thought, love me love me love me, and for the first time in weeks his mind felt right—
Simon shoved him off with all his strength, and Raphael knocked against the corner of the kitchen table, cursing. It would most definitely leave a bruise.
“No, no, no, no!” Simon shouted. “You little bastard! Asshole! You think you can distract me like this? Fuck you! You’ve got some explaining to do.” Simon adjusted his pants with a pained grimace and marched over to the refrigerator. He took out a packet of blood, which he tore open and sucked on greedily. He shut the refrigerator door with a loud bang.
Raphael stood in the middle of the kitchen. His plan had backfired, all right.
Once the blood bag was empty, he asked, “What do you want, Simon?”
Simon mocked him, imitating the words with a childish lilt to it. “What do I want? Are you serious? How about an explanation? Finally.”
Raphael eyed the manila folder left discarded on the floor, but Simon waved him off. “Leave that for later.”
“I told you, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, that sucks for you, I guess. I do, however. And I know Magnus went to see you, okay. So, please, put in a little effort, and speak.”
Raphael remained silent for a moment. Simon’s anxiety came back momentarily – Raphael noticed the little signs, like the jittery hands movements, or the unnecessary puffs of breaths – and he occupied himself by lifting up and inspecting every object in the kitchen as if it would calm him down. He picked up a knife and twirled it on the kitchen counter. He grabbed a wine opener and threw it in the air, catching it swiftly. Then he seemed to realize he was fidgeting, and placed himself leaning against the fridge.
A big, painful lump formed in the back of Raphael’s throat, and he felt his eyes starting to sting. This happened sometimes, whenever he had to talk about his mental illness. It left him so vulnerable, unarmed, that he could not talk about it without losing face. The silence went on too long, and before he could open his mouth, Simon spoke quietly.
“Magnus told me you were jealous.”
“What?” This was not what he’d expected.
“He told me that, that you were jealous? Is that why – why you broke it off? Because of Clary?”
Raphael couldn’t help it – he laughed. “Clarissa?”
“Yeah?” Simon seemed taken aback by his laughter, angered even. “Petite redhead?”
“I know who she is, Simon, I’m well aware.”
“Is it because of her?”
Raphael shook his head. The jealousy towards Clary had always been there, it probably always would be. “No.”
Simon appeared very confused, almost comically so. “But … but you did feel jealous?”
Glaring, he grit out, “Yes.”
“Why on earth didn’t you ever say anything about it?”
“What is there to say?” The anger simmered right beneath the surface, threatening to burst. What was it about that girl that always made him feel unhinged and volatile? “You want me to admit it to you? Fine. I’ll say the words, if my body language wasn’t clear enough in the first place.” Raphael walked over to Simon and gripped his chin forcefully. “I don’t like Clarissa. I never have. I like her even less now, after she toyed with you and discarded you like a rag doll.” He leaned in. “I don’t like the way you light up when she’s around. I don’t like her scent on you, that cloying stench makes me want to hurl. When she touches you, I want to yank you away and take you for myself. But do I do that? No. Why not? Because it isn’t appropriate. Because you wouldn’t like it. So, instead, I leave it be. But still that is not enough for you, apparently.”
“Christ, Raphael!” Simon shouted as he wrenched himself away, “I’m not asking you to turn into a twentieth century caveman! I just expected you to talk about it! At least mention it!”
“Why? What good would it do?”
“UH!” Simon’s eyes bugged. “It would’ve prevented this in the first fucking place! All that pent-up anger, it could’ve been avoided if you’d talked about it.”
“Not everyone feels like talking about their feelings all the damn time, Simon.”
“In all those months we were together? No? Not even once? You idiot.” Simon took a few steps backwards, muttering, “Un-be-lie-va-ble.”
Minutes of stubborn silence passed. The two of them sat down opposite each other at the table. Simon started fumbling with the chess pieces.
In the hallway, the clock struck four o’clock.
“Can we forget about Clary for a minute?” Simon asked.
He nodded once.
“What is going on with you?” His tone had flipped a one eighty, and now Simon sounded worried, genuinely worried and almost scared, at the end of his wits. The sight of his face made Raphael’s eyes sting again.
“What’s wrong?” he asked again. “I don’t know what to do.”
Raphael clenched his jaws, licked his lips and stared steadily at a scratch on the surface of the table. He crossed his legs and cleared his throat.
Why was he so unable to put his anguish into words? They were just words. Simple words.
Raphael wondered if perhaps his brain had frozen at seventeen as well as his body. Maybe he hadn’t grown up at all. Maybe he was still the clueless boy at seventeen he’d always been. The thought made him feel ill. Was he really doomed to spend an eternity in stasis, jailed in a seventeen-year-old mind?
Simon offered his hand on the table, and Raphael took it hesitantly.
“Your mother …” he started, unsure of how to proceed. “You told me, a while ago, that she has problems with drinking. Alcohol.”
“Yeah.”
Raphael forced himself to not obsessively analyse every minor change in facial expression on Simon’s face. “For an outsider, I guess it’s tiresome. It worries you, too, I know that. I’ve heard that people who are feeling stressed or down, it leads to relapses, quickly. Or more quick, I do not know. But then, to an outsider, there’s a certain reassurance or expectation that it’ll be over at some point, those moment will pass, and the people will get better. But when you’re on the other side of it, it seems like there’s no end. Someone saying that the moment will pass doesn’t help, because –,” he swallowed, “because it seems infinite. There is no other reality than the one you’re in at that moment.
“And even when I don’t feel it, when I’m not stuck in one of those,” Raphael moved his hand in a circular motion, as he cautiously admitted his own experience, “moments, it is still present somewhere in the background, like an animal waiting to pounce. I know it’s there. I’m not like your mother, but I have my own issues. I get depressed. I’ve been diagnosed dozens of times. It always comes back. And for an immortal being, that’s not reassuring at all.”
Raphael took a moment to gather himself. Simon looked at him steadily.
“You’ve got so much going on in your life,” he continued, “and you’re so young. I don’t expect you to carry my burdens as well.”
Simon pinched Raphael’s thumb, pressing against the nail. “So you’re saying … that you broke our thing off because you’re a depressed martyr?”
Just like that, the spell was broken and the air cleared of all sincerity.
“Dios mio. No, that’s not what I’m trying to say.”
“Sorry! It’s just, it’s difficult okay? I’m trying to understand.”
“What I choose to share and with whom is my choice, and I know Magnus probably thinks that makes me a martyr and a fool, but just because he’s old, doesn’t mean he’s always right.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I didn’t tell you I get depressed because it’s not always something I want to share. But more importantly, because I think you’re not – how should I put this – ready to deal with more than you’re dealing with at the moment. Or not mature enough.”
Simon appeared offended. “What?”
“You’re surrounded by people who need you – Clary and your mother. And I remember you telling me it weighed heavily on you. It is not your responsibility to take care of me, too.”
“Oh! But I – I mean – I was just complaining! Moaning and whining, you know.”
“Regardless, there is some truth behind it. You even seemed angry at her.”
Simon closed his eyes and let out an embarrassed hiss. He sighed and opened his mouth to speak. “I – I – I’m not gonna … deny that I’m angry sometimes. But I’m not actually angry at her, you know? I’m angry at the situation. Just because I don’t know how to handle it. And because I feel guilty. She relapsed because of me.”
Raphael attempted to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault, but Simon pouted and squeezed Raphael’s hand.
“Simon, your mother needs you. But it’s not your fault if she relapses.”
“I am there for her, but I can’t always be there. Especially now with Clary. And Rebecca has school, as well, so. Somehow we have to manage.”
“By being angry you only manage to push her away, though,” Raphael said quietly.
Simon huffed. “That’s hypocritical. You did the exact same thing. You pushed me away, but you could’ve just talked to me about it. Why didn’t you?”
Feeling foolish, Raphael realized Simon was right. Mostly. He said, “I told you, I don’t want to talk about it. Sometimes, when I’m not in a good place, I don’t have the energy to talk, even if I wanted to. Talking doesn’t always help.”
Obviously, Simon disagreed, as he huffed again and shook his head. “But you have to. You have to talk. If not with me, somebody else,” he urged. “And, Jesus, you certainly don’t break up with someone just because the other guy was an insensitive idiot and blabbered something unthinkingly.” Simon scratched his nose and adjusted his glasses. “If you break up with me every time I say something stupid, we might as well quit while we’re ahead. I thought I’d told you once, to not pay too much attention to what comes out of my mouth! I say all kinds of shit. I know I’m immature sometimes, okay? I’m sorry. And if I’d known you struggled so much, I wouldn’t have been so careless! I’m sorry! I’m such an ass!”
Simon seemed to suddenly realize he was apologizing and stood up abruptly, walking around the table and bending down to haul Raphael out of his chair. It was a little out of his comfort zone, but eventually Raphael rubbed Simon’s back as they embraced.
He would remember this evening as one of the rare evenings Simon was able to disprove his young nature. While it was obvious to Raphael that a reason for his attraction to Simon was that joyous youth, it felt nice to see the more serious side of Simon, a side that would perhaps one day understand him.
An odd sense of relief sparked in his chest as they stood in the kitchen. It felt strange, because it was mixed with leftover melancholy, weeks old. It was the animal lurking in the dark waiting to pounce. It was prowling, intending to strike. Only now Raphael had someone there alongside him.
They let go of each other. Simon shuffled on his feet and scratched at the back of his neck. He sighed and smiled reassuringly – although his body language indicated discomfort, Raphael could tell Simon felt more or less heartened by their exchange.
They stood opposite one another in the kitchen and let the quiet sink in peacefully.
—
Later that evening, Lily barged into Raphael’s bedroom without knocking, hoping to discuss some clan business that was on her mind. When she entered, the stream of light from the hallway illuminated a part of the room, and she glimpsed the two of them entangled in bed, Simon gripping Raphael around the neck and shoulders, Raphael covering Simon’s mouth with his hand. It was Simon’s muffled shout that revved her into motion from where she’d been standing shock still.
Lily, embarrassed and flustered, stomped out of the room, slamming the door shut and yelling about locks and the usefulness of their existence.
Raphael shouted at her in Spanish while Simon muttered embarrassedly under his breath.
—
Dumort Living Room, nearing midnight.
Raphael stumbled out of his empty bed, disoriented and groggy. It was eleven p.m. He’d slept in late. The sheets next to him were rumpled but unoccupied. He quickly took stock of the going-ons in the hotel and could hear Simon’s chittering laughter coming from downstairs.
Once carefully dressed, he descended the carpeted stairs, pausing a moment on one of the last steps as he realized Simon was in the company of a few clan members. Before entering the living room, where the chatter was coming from, he detoured to the kitchen to grab a quick breakfast. He flexed his fingers impatiently while waiting for the blood to heat up.
A burst of laughter came from next door. Feeling as if he was missing out on the fun, he hurried along and didn’t clean up the used cup, instead dumping it in the sink carelessly.
In the shared living quarters of Dumort, ambiance reigned. Simon was seated at a large table in his pyjamas, surrounded by Stan, Lily, and a small group of others. Raphael peered over Simon’s shoulders while squeezing his neck briefly.
Simon looked up with a concentrated frown. “The game of life,” he said, showing him the little blue card that declared him to be a travel agent. His red car was jam-packed with blue and pink pins. “I need a payday,” he muttered gravely. “My house got flooded two rounds ago.” Raphael bent forward and turned the green card around, indicating Simon’s pay to be about 40.000 $.
Lily smirked at them from across the table. She was an accountant and had already bought off her house. “El está perdiendo, big time.” She snorted and spun the wheel.
Simon turned to Raphael with an angered sullen look. “She’s out to get me. She’s conspiring against me with Stan, I’m telling you.” The others laughed, and Simon groaned when his car landed on ‘Salary Due’.
“No fair!” he shouted.
The next few hours passed in similar fashion. Raphael had taken a book from upstairs and settled in the seat in the alcove beside the dining room table where the clan went through a large stack of board games. Everyone voted against Monopoly, complaining that the game took too long and was boring. At one point Raphael noticed he was smiling to himself.
Around midnight, he heard her approaching the steps of Dumort.
After dealing with the guard posted near the entrance of the building, Clary knocked quietly on the wooden door of the living room.
Most of the clan members hissed or rolled their eyes at her arrival, but Simon jolted and jumped out of his chair with a broad smile of his face. “Be nice!” he warned.
He opened the door and waved her inside.
“Simon!” she chastised, looking him up and down, “You’re still in your PJs!”
“Oh,” he said. “I got caught up in our gaming sesh.” He pointed over his shoulders. “I’ll be right back. Real quick, I swear. You’re okay if I leave you here, right?”
“Of course, Si.”
He bolted up the stars and Clary was left in a room filled with vampires, most of whom hated her – on principle. Not to mention the Camille debacle. However, Raphael reasoned as he put his book aside and straightened his clothing while standing up, Simon was doing his best to make friendly with Raphael’s people, the least he could do was extend the same courtesy. He sighed and went to stand by her. That way she was exempt from receiving the dirty looks the others were sending her.
“Clarissa,” he greeted. Perhaps the name sounded stiff on his lips, perhaps it sounded slick, but he couldn’t help it.
“Hey, Raphael.” She didn’t hold his eyes and picked at a healing wound on her palm. The scab came off and left pink, scarring skin. Now that he took a good look at her face, Raphael noticed that there were deep circles under her eyes. She smelled unwashed and her clothes were wrinkly. A few attempts had been made to cover up her unkempt state, such as the subtle and sweet perfume, the thin layer of foundation, or the tight braid to keep together her greasy hair. He had to admit he was a little taken aback at her appearance. She smelled exactly like the scent that always clung to Simon, but her presence betrayed the easy lie that was conjured up using perfume and make-up. He realized, feeling very stupid and small, that his jealousy was petty and childish. This girl deserved his sympathy, not his contempt. The death of her mother chased her like a shadow sticks to your body. Raphael could not change much about his nature and his instincts, but he was human enough to cast them aside.
“How are you?” she asked, giving a small hint of a smile.
“Fine. I’m well. You?”
She nodded and gripped her thin arms. “Yeah, I’m all right. We’re going out tonight. Listen to one more obscure band Simon found somewhere on a poster in a dingy toiler of a music bar.” She huffed out a laugh and rubbed at her eyes.
Raphael could only hum in acquiescence. He considered offering his condolences, but refrained.
Simon barged into the room, heaving unnecessary breaths like a typical fledgling vampire and almost yelled right in Clary’s ear, “Okay! Okay! I’m ready! Let’s go!”
She grimaced at the volume, as did most clan members, who, thankfully, had kept their distance. Surely they must have sensed Raphael’s hesitancy and desire to keep a respectful distance from her. Undoubtedly, he’d have the clan’s questions fired at him as soon as the redhead was gone.
Simon put on his jacket, tugging at the arms. Once he was finally done, he looked up at his best friend and gave her a thumbs up. “Okay! Okay!”
Before leaving the Dumort – Raphael’s undead heart was doing odd things he couldn’t describe – Simon quickly sidestepped Clary and winked at Raphael, pressing a short, chaste kiss on Raphael’s cheek. Raphael almost backed away out of habit, but pushed down that old instinct.
As an eighty-something-years-old, he was living the strange occurrence of a novelty – eighty five years, give or take, more than thirty thousand days on this planet, and still something so simple as a human had the ability to surprise him, to change him.
As Clary and Simon exited out of the room and out of the Dumort, Raphael watched them walk away, and thought to himself, oddly pleased and feeling an unknown energy thrumming in his chest, that maybe he wasn’t doomed to live an endless life trapped in the mind of a seventeen year-old.
There was hope for him yet.