Chapter Text
Simon
Simon Lewis stood in front of Blue Sky Deli Grocery Shop in East Harlem, inhaling deeply and lamenting the fact he couldn’t stomach food anymore. The melting cheese from inside smelled mouth-watering, but he turned on his heels and continued his walk, knowing if he ate anything, he’d puke it out half an hour later. He missed cheese. Butter.
One upside to being a vampire in a vibrant, gigantic metropolis like New York, was that it didn’t actually matter all too much if you decided to live during the day or the night. It was the ideal living situation for a vampire.
There was enough activity brewing in the streets past sunset to never become bored, so there was that, Simon supposed.
He could continue his passion for music by going to gigs and concerts all over the city. Playing in a band, though? Unless he succeeded in convincing his band mates – whom he’d been avoiding, by the way – to become nocturnal and only practice at night, he could kiss that fantasy goodbye.
What else? Night time wandering across the Hudson bridge? Why not. Nosing around a library well into the wee-hours, nursing a caffeine-spiked blood thermos in relative privacy? Sure. Take a little tour on the Staten Island ferry and gaze at the inky, glittering water? Bring it on. Strike up a conversation with a lonesome security guard looking bored out of her mind? Mh. Catch a late-night comedy show? Possibly. Grab a few drinks at five thirty a.m., surrounded by chatty drunkards, exhausted cabbies that just finished their shift, and lonely, misfit New Yorkers with zoned out gazes telling slurred but outlandish stories? Well. Maybe. Could be a source of entertainment.
But, really, who was he kidding? He’d never do any of that, for a number of reasons.
One, he’d lived in New York his entire life, and had never done any of those things.
Two, the city actually drove him mad. There was such an overflow of — everything, dear G – so much noise, and lights, and smells, and Simon spent half his nights trying not to smell too much, not to flinch back from the neon billboards, the taxis’ unnecessary honking, the torrent of stimuli behind hurtled at his brain.
Three, it was freaking lonely. The last thing he needed was an ocean of time and quiet to succumb to the near lunacy that came with being a newly turned vampire! And wasn’t that just ironic? A damn sea of time. And he was immortal. Kill me now!
No, it was plain and simple. What he needed was a good old distraction.
He already felt guilty for keeping Clary awake with his desperate-for-entertainment four a.m. texting. She’d stopped responding around five. Whoops.
So, as he walked his way back to Dumort – which, seriously, guys, you couldn’t come up with anything subtle? Announce your vampirism, what’s stopping you – after a night of ill-advised musing on his current situation, he started weighing his options.
Before he got to weighing his options, though, Simon realized he’d paused in front of Dumort.
He was basically still persona non grata in there, but after weeks of grovelling and pleading, and an unpleasant conversation with the one and only Magnus Bane who in turn spoke with Raphael, Simon and the clan had come to a precarious agreement, next to a punishment he’d prefer not to speak of: no unnecessary meet-ups with the Shadowhunters. No unsupervised outings (by the way, did he mention another reason he didn’t feel like wandering around the city at night by himself, was that he was not actually by himself but followed around by a mean witch named Rena who despised him?). No skipping blood meals. No leaving the hotel between sunrise and sunset. Mandatory attendance at all clan meetings. Mandatory declaration each time he stepped foot out of Dumort, and each time he returned. Mandatory sensory and physical training.
Mandatory this, mandatory that, no this, no that.
The life of an atoning traitor is a fine one. Un-life, Simon corrected himself. I’m dead now.
Simon heaved a sigh and brushed it off. He entered the hotel and sought out the voices echoing down the decrepit dusty lobby full of cobwebs and broken wood beams. Part of the decor, get it?
Lily’s bright blue hair was the first thing he saw, but a few seconds before he opened the door, the conversation had promptly died down. She nodded at him, mentally making note of his attendance.
‘Ah, the fledgling has returned,’ Stan called out. The rest of them remained quiet. ‘Cutting it a little close, aren’t you?’
‘Well, eh,’ Simon stammered, ‘there’s still an hour left, right? So no harm, no foul.’
With a guilty start, he realized he couldn’t even name every person in the room. Raphael was nowhere to be seen or heard. There was Lily, second-in-command, Stan, Rena, who pushed past him and plopped down on the couch, downing a glass of blood, and then François and Ali, whom he’d met briefly pre-Camille fiasco, and they seemed nice enough, but the other four faces? Shit. Couldn’t even name them.
Apart from Stan and Lily, no one greeted him or so much as looked him in the eye.
Simon shifted on his feet, grappling at something to say, anything, anything that would lessen the tension that always came up as soon as he entered Dumort. He was fucked.
‘Right,’ Stan eventually offered. ‘As long as you don’t burn to a crisp.’
He said the first thing that came to mind. ‘Can you guys watch the sunrise?’
Lily answered, ‘We can, Simon.’ And there. Yet another social blunder to add to the list.
He wanted to punch himself in the face. ‘Yeah. We. Sorry. Shit.’
Rena clonked her glass down on the table, hard, and smacked her hands on her knees. ‘Mh’, she grunted. ‘How about you just go to bed, huh, kid?’
Lily admonished, ‘Rena.’
For a moment, he was at a loss for words. Despite his geekiness and general tendency to flail and babble, he’d never really been bullied. Maybe it was just the guilt that made him feel bad. Maybe. Possibly.
‘No, yeah, I’m pretty beat, I’m just ah-gonna go to bed,’ Simon blurted out in one quick go. He pointed his thumb over his shoulder, pushed up his glasses, ‘I’ll see you guys tomorrow.’
‘Wait,’ Lily ordered. She got up from the divan and held out a glass of blood. ‘You’ve been gone a while.’ Drink. Remember our agreement?
It was god-awful. Not only did it still physically repulse him to drink the blood, but somehow, being ordered to do it in front of a whole bunch of people he barely knew only made it worse. Now they were looking at him. Testing him.
Lump in his throat. ‘Thanks’, he forced out. He drank. Held out the empty glass. ‘Good night.’
And with that, he turned around and left the room, stumbled to his mostly empty bedroom on the second floor, end of the hall, and dumped himself on the shitty mattress they’d offered him when he came back, blood sloshing to and fro.
By the time tiny, tiny specks of light barged through small holes in his curtains, he thought, vaguely and half-asleep: crap. I forgot about my good-old-distraction-plan.
Raphael
‘No, Simon, the bloodbags aren’t recyclable.’
‘Yes, Simon, we’ve got clan members working the night shift at the blood bank. Where do you think this comes from? The blood fairy?’
‘No, Simon. Garlic isn’t poisonous. It just smells like ass.’
‘No, Simon, for God’s sake, we do not sparkle. Mierda. I swear to god, get out of my face.’
‘No.’
‘No.’
‘No.’
Does he ever just shut the hell up? Raphael only wished to be left alone.
--
Raphael’s celibacy track record was near spotless.
The concept of celibacy wasn’t too popular amongst mortals. Even amongst Downworlders or Shadowhunters. Celibacy was for losers, or those who hadn’t found the one, whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. It was all so strange to him. He’d often thought about the difference between celibacy for mortals and immortals. Was one group more prone to it? Surely, if you lived over hundreds of years, it was impossible to be with the same person? He couldn’t imagine ever wanting that.
Either way, Raphael Santiago had been celibate for most of his seventy odd years. From time to time there’d be someone who’d capture his interest. He didn’t care for a continued attachment, either physical or otherwise.
But.
Then came something new and unexpected.
Simon.
He was not the one. But.
It was one of those inexplicable chemical reactions that happened in the brain. No rhyme or reason to it, it was just there.
It was there. It wasn’t sudden, and it wasn’t obtrusive to the point of demanding immediate action, but then there was Simon.
--
Raphael turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. The scent of pine from his bar of soap lingered in the air.
He had nearly burnt his skin with the scalding water. It was one of the only ways to feel heat in this body anymore. Back when he’d just Turned, he’d let the water burn until the skin turned red and wondered if it constituted a first-degree burn. It took a while for the splotches to fade entirely.
For a few seconds he took stock of his bathroom. Late seventies décor, awful brown tiles and unflattering neon lighting. Garish. He’d have to get it redone sometime.
Raphael wrapped a towel around his body and grabbed a toothbrush, ridding his mouth of a foul taste that had been lingering since early morning. He popped his fangs and routinely brushed in up-and-down motions.
His mind drifted.
If he were completely honest, he’d say it was a surprise that not more vampires turned out to be sociopaths. How could they come to terms with immortality?
He hadn’t managed yet and he was over seventy years old, but still stuck in this young body. How could he be so tired?
Slowly, after a few decades – sometime in the late sixties – came the first bouts of despondency. Or, that was what he called it. He chose not to get diagnosed with anything, which was probably a monumental mistake. He didn’t like to call it anything.
Looking back, even as a human, it had been there, but it just never had the time to develop.
The question he kept asking himself was, how do not all vampires go insane? How do they not go mad from all these years of stagnation?
With loneliness came bitterness.
But then along came Simon.
It had been over a decade since the New York clan had had any new fledglings, and while time might have been frozen for vampires, it had the nasty habit of turning your soul to stone, of making your spirit go numb.
There were, as always, a few exceptions. That remarkable type of vampire that wasn’t corrupted by greed or power, nor high on arrogance of being immortal – which, to most sounded like some form of divinity, didn’t it –, that remarkable vampire that had actually gained true wisdom, and somehow managed not to turn into a soulless bastard. The kind of vampire that was a prized possession in clans.
They were short on those in the New York clan.
But, regardless of exceptions, it was a lesson every vampire would learn sometime in their very long, long life: fledglings were important. Where humans procreated to keep some part of them alive, taking shape in a continued bloodline, vampires very much abided by the same instinct of rejuvenation. Technically, sure, vampires were forever young. But your mind withered away if you let it.
And with the bitterness came jealousy.
How could any vampire stand to watch that cheerfulness, that carefree attitude? When they knew they were incapable of it themselves? But not everyone thought the way Raphael did. For the rest, when a fledgling came along, everyone tried to ensnare them, attempt to enjoy whatever was left of human hope and naiveté.
But then there was Simon.
And with the jealousy came a terrible sense of tragedy and foreboding.
How long until Simon would become an echo of himself? Someone who was far too cheer—
Raphael shook himself awake, and cursed loudly. Why always Simon? This, this was exactly what would drive him into that spiralling mess of madness. Too much thinking.
The mirror was still damp from his shower, his hair wet and dripping. He wiped away the fog and gave himself a long, hard assessing once-over. Gaunt. Pale. Young. Stern. Handsome.
He rinsed his mouth and dressed automatically, slipping into old silk pyjama’s he’d paid a fortune for.
It was late, nearing seven a.m., and the sun would be up in less than an hour.
There was still some noise in the hotel coming from downstairs, most likely Lily and a few others drinking and playing some card games.
But he was tired. He was so damn tired.
He flipped the light switch, nearly smashing the thing. He padded to the bed, falling in headfirst and succumbing to a dreamless sleep.
Simon
The facts were these:
Simon Lewis, aged nineteen, devoted indie-rock fan and comic book-lover, sunlight aficionado and a devoted lazing-around-till-mid-morning practitioner, was hopelessly inadequate as a vampire.
Like most fledglings, his biorhythm suffered a severe shock. Not that he was particularly unused to staying out all night, but he was usually drunk or in good company. Now, however, he was usually alone and sober. Not that great.
But one of the things that irritated him to no end, was that his admittedly dead body didn’t seem to get the memo that night time was now supposed to be day time.
So he found himself awake, starfished on his bedspread at one p.m. reading The New Deadwardians and bored beyond belief, and battling belligerent drooping eyelids at three a.m.
I can’t even sleep right as a vampire! he thought. Ridiculous!
The facts were these:
Simon Lewis, still not attuned – sensory speaking – to his surroundings like other vampires, did not realize he repeatedly woke his clan leader in the early hours of the morning with his attempt to distract himself from boredom: the guitar.
Simon Lewis, guitarist extraordinaire and recent ex-band member, missed his music.
Simon Lewis, committing yet another blunder at Dumort.
Whoops.
Raphael
Today’s object of aggravation: Simon’s guitar. Especially around four fucking p.m.
It seemed the fledgling hadn’t adapted to the inverted lifestyle of vampires, because Raphael had been rudely awoken in the early hours by that nuisance of a guitar at least six times in the last month.
Fortunately for the others, they didn’t sleep on the second floor like Raphael. And he cursed himself for making that stupid decision: he had meant to keep an eye on Simon, but he was regretting the decision dearly.
And he was so damn tired. He groaned quietly and pulled the covers over his head, smashing his pillow against his ears.
But let it not be said Raphael Santiago wasn’t a vindictive asshole from time to time.
Case in point:
Two forty-seven a.m. Simon had returned from a midnight stroll – Rena reported him to be the most boring vampire on earth who did nothing but wallow and prattle on about comics –an hour ago, and was now steadily snoring.
BOOM BOOM
Raphael pounded on Simon’s door.
Simon didn’t stir.
BOOM BOOM, ‘Despiértate, Simon!’
He heard, ‘Wh— oh, G—,’
‘Rise and shine,’ Raphael called out, leaning against the corridor wall.
‘Raphael! It’s too early!’
‘Au contraire, it is the middle of the day, Simon. Get up. You’ve got training.’
He heard Simon stumble out of his bed and sigh, and mutter angrily, ‘Middle of the damn night.’ A minute or so later, Simon’s bedhead peeped out of the door. ‘You know, the timetable for these training sessions are suspiciously random.’
‘Is that what you’re wearing?’ Raphael eyed him up and down, gesturing at the musty, faded shirt and loose boxers. He didn’t smell too fresh.
‘Uhm, no?’
‘Uhm, no,’ Raphael mocked. ‘Get dressed. Date prisa. Hurry up.’
Simon grimaced and eloquently replied, ‘Ugh.’
‘Move.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Simon turned around and left the door slightly ajar.
Raphael didn’t react to the ridicule. He was angry, he was tired, and he was a vindictive little asshat.
‘Hey, what’s on the menu today?’ Simon asked from inside.
‘Dodging well-aimed blows.’
Raphael listened to Simon move around inside, attempting to ignore what would surely have been a rapidly beating heart once upon a time.
--
So, the facts were these:
Every time Simon woke Raphael up with his guitar, Raphael woke Simon up with the promise of torturous training. An eye for an eye, and all that.
On some level, he was trying to teach him: he’d stop interrupting Simon’s sleep as soon as Simon realized what he was doing each time he lifted his guitar at an ungodly hour in a hotel full of vampires. Fool.
--
Far be it from Raphael to admit this particular truth, but Simon was in fact a talented musician.
Even at – he checked his phone – five sixteen p.m., when the shutters were tightly drawn and Raphael’s head felt a thousand times heavier than it had when he went to bed, Simon was talented.
He didn’t have to see to know Simon’s fingers undoubtedly flittered across the strings with practiced ease, so quickly, it would be hypnotising. He didn’t have to get out of bed and come closer to hear that Simon’s voice rang clear and deep, well-trained.
But.
Raphael listened.
I get the job,
they make it rain,
but now I need your shadow friend,
a pioneer would ask his kid,
are we clowns just running?
Now is it fear?
How does it ring?
How does it teach young birds to sing
and riot through the orchestra?
When is quiet coming?
He listened.
… and the why in the margin is true
please don’t doubt
I will get this and I love you
it’s just the time of the blue
Music had the odd ability to completely nullify reality and impose another one on you, if only for three minutes.
As soon as Simon’s voice died down, the spell was broken and Raphael felt cold frustration return.
Maybe the guitar belonged in the dumpster.