#taking just for safety as there are some descriptions of maia being weird

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

Doriath’s treaties on shapeshifting

My @officialtolkiensecretsanta gift for @batshape who asked for something with Lúthien and Thuringwethil.

Word count: 2400 words.

Lúthien discovers someone (something?) who might teach her what Melian the Maia will not.

The problem with a half-Maia child –

There are no guards, doors or locks when Lúthien decides to leave – to run, her hollow-boned thrumming to a strange melody she alone hears. Her mother teaches only tricks a girl would benefit from. Sing and dance to dazzle, tie a knot that never will fail for a life that will prevail, coax flowers from hard earth. The rest, she figures out by herself. How to send souls with iron spines to sleep and how to tear through the dark, sleeping forest. Lúthien burns and runs like a shooting star invariably plummeting.

It’s no surprise she walks through the Ered Gorgoroth with her breath held, eyes on the stars that are twice as dim here. Beneath her feet, the soil is cold and lifeless, and Lúthien thinks of flowers but knows none that would daringly bloom here.

(She comes, but not as the nightingale.)

“The Maia Queen’s daughter cometh to me,” the thing in the dark says, voice stretching strangely, vowels damp and odd. Far too gleeful and twisting and else. “Why dost thee walk alone? There would be handsome reward for thy life returned.”

Lúthien scowls, digs her feet in the rocks. “Show yourself.”

One day, this voice might send the King of the World to sleep. It hasn’t yet, it might not, but there is a world where Morgoth will spend the rest of his days wondering and furious at a simple song, a simpler dance. The thing in the dark hisses, a long, slithery sound that makes her ears ring and her skull drum, but it slides from all around her.

It has no shape but three hearts relentlessly beating, cores of molten iron and fire. There are shapes and shadows wrapped around it. Lúthien knows it – her people do not venture here, but they tell tales nonetheless from passing glimpses.

The thing that has no name beats and coils, its lack of a body wrapping up until it passes for a woman, a creature pale like the underbelly of a fish. Grown in the dark, Lúthien thinks, stumbling a step back. White and red-eyed, an albino bat and an elf at once with a snout and a sneer. It laughs, the sound brittle and sharp, a glass shard.

“What is thy name?”

“Maybe,” Lúthien says, languid and deliberate – her mother has taught her how to deal with her kin, if mother even has kin. “Maybe I could give you a name few know, one that was whispered at cradle, for a promise. And you might even give me yours.”

“Thy secrets art not worth my own,” it argues, advancing with joints that move strangely. An unshapely creature who doesn’t understand what it is mimicking.

“Are you even called something?” She challenges.

“Not in any tongue your mouth may form words in without burning.”

(Lie.

Truth: the thing in the dark has no name and didn’t bother to give itself one. It was born with Morgoth’s song deafening and molten in its half-formed core, and the only thing it could mutter was chaos like one mutters for their distant mother. It had a shape that remembered many concepts, many thoughts, but Valarin doesn’t translate well. Once, a Vanya was driven insane trying to make grammar out of feelings.)

Lúthien breaths in the stale, foul air and breaths out. If she ever spins this tale, she’ll remove the fear and focus the eyes on defiance. “I need to call you something.”

It snaps malleable joints, testing its new body. “Call me Horror if thou must.”

Her father has a talent for plucking it out meaning and titles from nothing but speeches and a certain natural creativity. He could weave a name that would echo for centuries, if only because of raw significance and no echoing power of its own. Lúthien has to make do. She will not call anything Horror, not even shapeless creatures digging gnarled roots into land that hates and twists and agonizes. Her idea is uninspired.

“Thuringwethil will have to do.”

From: the women who stalk the halls with blind eyes and soft, amorphous mouths, reaching out for the forests with fingers like poisoned spider-silk. There is already a Thuringwethil, countless of them in her beloved Doriath, a society of its own, but their namesake is going to be more famous – or infamous and terrifying, truly.

“Must I be a woman? Must I be anything at all?” Thuringwethil cocks it head.

Lúthien shrugs. “I had to begin with something.”

“Very well, gray daughter, I suppose I shall hear more.”

It sits, she sits, and they talk.

 Or rather, they don’t talk, and Lúthien tries to pry meaning from antiquated language and limbs that twitch like reality bears down too heavily to stand without scratching at the cage. But she is curious, and Thuringwethil even more. There has never been another of mother’s kin, her kin. Not a single another to teach her what Melian will not, thinking it’d be better for her daughter to be a glimmering girl with gentle touch.

Lúthien dreams of waves and seagulls and children that do not fit her arms comfortably, both dark-haired and gray-eyed and lost. She dreams of kissing a statue on the lips, mistaken for a man she loves and is now given to the land. She dreams of falling on the halls of a palace still building itself anew, a sword stuck in her gut. She dreams of light, mostly – a light that calls to her and shifts beneath her skin, alive alive alive.

Thuringwethil laughs, shrill. It has not remade the bat snout and the fluid spine as it leans into her and twists her face from one side to another. Displeasure does not shine in her expression but leaks into the air. “Thou hast been made too solid.”

Solid?

“What does that even mean?” Lúthien scowls, a whip on herself.

“Once, thou changed at will. Not anymore.”

“Teach me.”

“No,” it says, smiling too wide.

(Too many teeth.)

 “Teach me,” Lúthien insists, not for the first – nor for the second or third or fourth. Everywhere in Doriath, her father’s hunters hound her steps, but she comes still.

They wound deeper and deeper into the Ered Gorgoroth. There are no stars, but a fog that’s cold and clammy and hateful. She has learned how to fend off spiders that have poison dripping from their fangs with fire and begged her mother for a cloak of twilight to thread the path as a shade – Melian must know, because Melian knows everything, but she keeps the secret and Lúthien keeps coming. If she discovers a peculiar trick or two by herself, the Queen certainly can’t be blamed for her strangeness.

Tonight, Thuringwethil has a thick, sneering mouth and no bat snout, though its eyes shine golden and still as death. It has skin brown as damp earth and hands that blur, perhaps three or four of them if Lúthien squints. And it is not prone to kindness.

“No, for mine time is a precious gift, and thy self is hard as stone.”

She twists her hands. “Teach me,” Lúthien commands, Compels, beseeches.

Thuringwethil throws its head back, neck almost snapped, and laughs without a single sound. “Clever, clever tricks, though empty as air here. Unveil your eyes.”

Its hands, its many or few hands, snap as spiders, bones popping and remaking themselves – Lúthien watches, watches, watches until there is a buzz in her ears and tears in her eyes. Her palms sweat but do not imitate, can’t imitate. Thuringwethil has needles now, sharp as polished steel and twice as wicked. They pluck from fabric from the rotten, stale air and twist one, two, three times as they measure the length. A cloak, black as Night itself. The buzz is loud, a living creature festering inside her skull.

Lúthien watches.

“The world is Song, Maia daughter,” Thuringwethil intones. “Song is not stone, is not unchanging. The melody shifts, and there’s creation. The melody shifts, and there’s destruction. Thou art not born from earth. Remember this, and maybe I shall teach you.”

“Why must you be so difficult?” She huffs, kicks a pebble in its direction.

“Why must thee think as some pitiful fool that will wilt in a summer?”

It cuts the final thread and slips the cloak over its full, naked shoulders. A mantle like no other, a mantle like a miracle. Lúthien reins herself back in, the buzz subsiding to a hum. Not black as Night but the proper Night, darkness given a solid body where once was nothing but shapeless ideas. Her fingers twitch. Is it soft to the touch? Cold? Could she… Thuringwethil slips on the hood and stares at her golden, unblinking eyes.

Lúthien stands very, very still as its needle-wicked hand brushes her hair back from her eyes. Its touch is icy, too light. “Nightingale, thine eyes are blind.”

“Then I will make them see.”

Thuringwethil smiles, wide and pleased and sharp. “Aye, you shall.”

 One day, tales of Lúthien’s stubbornness might rewrite fate itself – fall down towers, challenge the King of the World, work a twist around the Doomsman.

Might.

As for now, she sits down where no other light shines and talks with a being pulled in so many directions her eyes sting if she looks too closely. It reeks of old smoke and cold and laughs strangely and doesn’t even try to be an elf most times.

There are indeed worse people to talk to.

And many more boring.

“Gray daughter,” it says, close enough its talons brush against Lúthien’s back, wickedly sharp. “Why dost thou come to me? Dost thou not fear thy death?”

“Fear my death? Will you kill me?”

“Ah, ‘tis but a way of speaking.”

Lúthien does not believe it’s only a way of speaking, just as she doesn’t believe she’ll be killed. Thuringwethil could’ve killed her already or simply let wander around in the Ered Gorgoroth to her untimely doom. As she yet lives, she hums out a laugh and doesn’t turn back to face it. It has its beauty, those lands forsaken by all goodness.

And well, she does favor testing out Thuringwethil’s strange temper.

“Why did you not kill me?” She challenges, imperial.

Thuringwethil hesitates for a suspended moment before her clawed hands rise to rest at the base of Lúthien throat. “I do not desire the Maia Queen’s wrath.”

“Is that all?”

“No.” And nothing else.

Orcs’ flaming shit. Lúthien turns around sharply and goes up, up, up to kiss Thuringwethil on its almost-mouth (not-mouth?). She’s kissed people for less.

It is not bad, but its mouth is spongy and too still, a pale imitation of her own.

She doubts it has ever done so and takes an odd pride at that.

“What hast thou done?” It asks, vexed, lying still as a pray animal caught in the sharp gaze of a hunter. Lúthien smiles – beams up, disproportionately satisfied.

“Kissed you.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Thuringwethil doesn’t even blink, a statue save in the way her flesh seems to move out of her control. Lúthien refuses to her smile waver. “Teach me.”

“No,” it answers, but it is unmoored, curious, lingering.

Lúthien’s mouth tingles.

It’d not be so terrible, she thinks, unbidden, to kiss once more.

 The second time Lúthien kisses Thuringwethil, she’s fluid as water under her wandering hands. She takes a disproportionate pride in making it forget a body entirely, even if she comes back drenched and miserably cold through a forest which shades grow both sharper and darker as the things outside push and hiss and sing in odd tunes.

It becomes a game.

“Close thine eyes,” Thuringwethil says, eyes wide and still and fever bright. She deems it a victory, that twisting madness. “Oh, gray girl, close thine eyes.”

They only kiss when she can’t see it.

A precaution.

Thuringwethil turns from too thin flesh to hard, boiling scales that send Lúthien scrambling back, her hands and her mouth searing with pain and bubbling. I’m not afraid, she tells herself, as the skin peels. I’m not afraid, she swears, oath-solemn in her determination even as there are soft, fine feathers poking at her face and a wiry, sharp fur that reminds her the countless spiders weaving their webs in this dubious peace. It becomes a game to herself, a trick she alone can uncover – how many times more may she kiss it to learn how to trade this elf for something else? She’s is half Maia.

(Underneath it all: how many times more may they kiss without feeling?)

“Dost thou know fear at all?” Thuringwethil asks, curious like an owl, all bizarrely exaggerated expression and gestures. Too thick, too ached eyebrows and mechanic, histrionic confusion. Lúthien wonders from who it is learning its tricks and shows.

“None,” she lies. But does it count as fear if not a single soul can tell?

It laughs, thick and treacherous as the chilly wind blowing through her hair, freezing her skin. “Then close thine eyes, and for I have something else to show thee.”

 In Doriath, whispers run with the wind, as they are prone to do when an uneasy peace lingers – the princess has gone mad, has gone savage, has gone strange.

(Truth be told, only madness may be a recent development.)

Elu Thingol’s hunters return empty-handed, as do his spies.

As for Queen Malia, she remains tight-lipped.

Lúthien lingers where the shadows are too thick and undisturbed, quiet as the tombs. She lies down under starless sky, hard rock on her back and the screech of things unnamable in her eyes. She keeps kissing Thuringwethil – for the hell of it, because it is a surprisingly good kisser with a bit of practice, to discover how to change.

Underneath her hands, there is metal, cold and unfeeling, but the mouth remains warm as embers. Sometimes, there is barely anything, and Lúthien reaches out for air and little else. She doesn’t mind it terribly, even if the scars of the second kiss remain.

And Lúthien is clever.

Thuringwethil, equally.

“Thou knowest how to change thy shape, and yet thou linger and dost not make an escape,” it says, habitual and grotesque confusion twisting its expression into what might pass as those clay masks actors wear. “Thou art a fool, gray daughter.”

“Ah, but do I?” Lúthien grins.

Thuringwethil’s soundless laughter echoes in her chest, warm.

[eversall]

for @sunlewis, who asked for simon + anxiety + movie nights with soft!jace. anne is amazing and lovely and deserves so many good things in this world, so this is for you, darling. title for the fic taken from scars by james bay. 

this fic explicitly talks about anxiety and has a description of a panic attack. 

live through scars this time || jace/simon, 3k+, angst w/happy ending

“You’re fine.” Simon says immediately. “No, no don’t worry - I know you like to beat up every problem you have, but this isn’t - like that.”

“No.” Jace says, and he looks at Simon, his eyes tired. “It’s not. But I’m here for you, you know.”

It starts with tremors. 

His body doesn’t need to shiver anymore, not really, but when it gets like this - the phantom pains kick in, skittering under his skin and sending a full body shudder through him. If it’s a good day, it’ll stop there; he’ll be a little tired, maybe, and it’ll be a day where his smiles don’t come as quickly and his bad jokes are stilted, even for him. 

On worse days, he struggles to keep his eyes open, to put one foot in front of the other, to meet anyone’s gaze because he knows, he knows if he looks he’ll see how much they don’t need him - 

“I thought we agreed.” Jace says when he sees Simon’s gaze focused on the pavement in front of them, the air heavy with the tension that settled over them when Simon snapped it’s not like anyone cares, anyway. “You said you’d tell me if it got bad.” 

“I’m fine, God.” Simon says, his throat working past the tiny burn at the holy word. On bad days the hell in his mind is much worse than the tiny sting of his religion. “It’s not always about that, maybe you’re just being a jackass today, yeah?” He adds, the words harsh and grating in the night air. 

He feels more than he sees Jace’s hurt expression, the way the air suddenly seems colder. He knows that if he looks up right now, Jace’s face will be closed off, his lips pressed in a hard line and his eyes shuttered, void of any emotion; he can’t take that right now, can’t take that he’s the cause of yet another person’s misery, forever fucking up the good things in his life, here’s the abnormality! Here’s the one that doesn’t belong, Simon Lewis - 

We deserves to be there for you, Clary’s voice echoes in his head, you don’t get to make that decision for us.

“It’s not that easy.” Simon adds quietly, eyes still trained on the pavement. Jace grunts, but he gently nudges Simon with his shoulder. It’s warm for a moment, a fleeting, reassuring touch. 

“Magnus’.” Jace announces unnecessarily. As long as Simon is being hunted for his Daylighter status, he’ll be shuffling between Magnus’ loft and the boathouse and the Institute, never staying in one place for too long. No home again, he thinks bitterly. He thought, when he was a vampire, that the lack of sun was what made him different, what made him lonely; he has the sun now, and all the same problems as before. 

“You have patrol?” Simon asks dully, finally looking up, and Jace eyes him critically as he nods. “I’ll see you later.” 

“You will.” Jace says certainly, and then he hesitates. “Simon. Are you sure you don’t - ?”

Simon knows that if he asks, Jace will stay. Jace is a good man, far better than Simon deserves; he’d stay if Simon asked, curl his body protectively into Simon’s if he asked, kiss him if he asked. 

But Simon hasn’t asked. Can’t ask. Doesn’t know how to begin, how to convince himself that he can ask that of Jace. 

“It’s fine.” He says, smiling slightly. The growing anxiety in his chest, the weight of it pressing against the base of his skull, say differently, but he smiles through it. Jace hesitates, uncertain, and he reaches a hand out, fingers outstretched, before he sighs and takes his hand back, running it through his hair instead. 

“See you.” he says, and then he’s gone, fading into the night. 

Simon treks upstairs, every step bringing him closer to throwing himself into the bed in Magnus’ guest room and sleeping all his troubles away. Ideally, he’d like to sleep forever, but even for him that’s a bit depressing. It’s not that he hates where he is in his life, it just - feels like too much at the moment, overwhelming him from every angle, a low buzz under his skin that has him trying to get out of his own body, away from all the hurt pummeling him. 

“Don’t you look...cheerful.” Magnus says idly as Simon comes in, flicking through a book. Simon grunts. 

“’Night Magnus. ‘Night, cats that for whatever reason hate me.” He says, bending down to scratch one of them under the chin. It lets out a loud purr before flouncing off. Simon cracks a smile at that as he moves to the guest bedroom. 

“Simon,” Magnus calls, the sound of his book shutting. “what’s wrong?” 

“Don’t worry about it.” Simon tells him, pulling a smile out of the depths of his despair. Please worry about it, his mind screams, worry about me, I’m miserable and haunted and I don’t know why. “Really, I just need to sleep.” He says. 

“Hm.” Magnus looks unconvinced, but he lets Simon go. “Goodnight, Simon.” 

Simon flees to the bed and crumples on it, not even bothering to take his shoes off before he drops off to sleep, tears inexplicably welling up and falling across his face as he does. 

He feels like he’s barely dropped off when he’s pulled from a haze of dreams, the smell of popcorn and warm blood permeating the air. There’s a low hum of voices rising and falling, a laugh here and there. It sounds comfortable, like home, and Simon frowns in confusion as he sits up, rubbing at his eyes.

“Good, you’re up.” a voice says from the doorway, and Simon looks up to see Alec leaning against the frame. 

“I’m hallucinating, or I hear Maia out there.” Simon mutters. “How long was I asleep?”

“Just an hour.” Alec says, tapping his finger erratically against the doorknob. “You coming?” 

“Coming where?” Simon asks. “You have this tendency to just leave half of the sentence out, did you know that?” Alec gives him a look. 

“You’re insufferable.” Alec says dryly. “Movie night, come on.” 

“Huh.” Simon says. Alec purses his lips, and looks at Simon with a guarded softness in his eyes. 

“You’ll feel a lot better once you eat something and relax with us.” Alec says quietly. “Trust me.” 

“Okay.” Simon says past the lump in his throat. The ever-present pressure in his mind suddenly seems a little more bearable, and he shivers as a confusing mix of safety and fear swirl in him, leaving him a wreck. 

Alec’s trust me echoes in his mind, and he forces himself to stand up because Alec’s never once lied to him or sugar-coated anything. He’s - it’s weird to admit, but when Simon sees the way Alec’s hands shake sometimes he thinks he understands a little better. It’s the little thing about him, similar to how Clary will lash out on adrenaline, or Izzy will put on her heels and dance until her feet bleed, or Magnus drinks with the ghosts of friends long gone. How Maia and Luke transform and let their wolf-sides run themselves ragged, or how Jace will go ten, twenty, thirty rounds with the punching bag until it punches back and he collapses on the ground. 

And Simon, Simon’s thing is that he crumples into a mess of shallow, unnecessary breathing, his fingers trembling uselessly as he freezes up and suffocates under fear and worry, thick in his throat. 

“I see you haven’t taken my advice,” Alec’s voice sounds through Simon’s sudden downward spiral, and Simon turns to him, his mind numb, “but I sort of figured that would happen, so I’m here to help a little.” 

He wants to ask Alec how, but he can barely bring his throat to make the sounds to ask that; Alec moves slowly, minimizing any sudden movement as he places a gentle hand on Simon’s shoulder and pushes him towards the restroom. 

“Can you breathe with me?” Alec asks softly. “Just breathe. Inhale, exhale. There we go.” Simon struggles to focus on the soft sound of Alec’s breaths, his throat working uselessly. Inhale, exhale. 

Inhale - 

He’s so tired, so very tired all the time, but the hum of anxiety under his skin never lets him rest - 

 - exhale.

 And his brain can never work up the courage to put it into words to someone else, to voice these things out loud, because then they become real and real is frightening in it’s enormity - 

Inhale - 

His mind goes in circles, over and over, spinning out of control - 

 - exhale. 

And it suddenly stops. 

He gasps, resurfacing like a drowning man, his hands clutching the edge of Magnus’ magically-reinforced sink, blinking suddenly in the bright light. Alec is standing beside him, his hand still warm on Simon’s shoulder, looking steadily at him. 

“You alright?” He asks, and Simon runs a hand through his hair, finally able to pull a clear thought from the mess his mind’s been all day. 

“Yeah.” He says, his voice hoarse. “I think I will be.” 

.

He showers, letting the hot water burn across his cold skin for a while, before he changes into clean clothes and makes his way into the living room. He feels a little more alive - well, as alive as he’s ever gonna get, anyway - and more clear-headed than he’s been all day. 

“Blood?” Magnus asks, immediately appearing at Simon’s side with a glass. Simon murmurs his thanks as he downs the glass and looks around the room. Maia and Clary are engaged in some sort of intense card game, with Izzy watching avidly; Luke and Alec are discussing something at the table. “I think the planned movie is...something vaguely horror-related with poor animation. The girls chose.” 

“You’re going to love it.” Maia promises without even looking up from her game. Simon smiles faintly and looks at Magnus. 

“You did this.” he says, and Magnus arches an eyebrow. 

“Choose a badly rated movie? No.” He scoffs. “Call everyone together? Yes. We all deserve a night in.” Magnus pauses, and regards Simon fondly. “Especially you, I should think. Don’t run yourself ragged, Simon. You’ve got all of us.” 

“Mm.” Simon says, a lump rising in his throat. “I - thank you.” Magnus smiles at him and moves away, taking his empty mug, and Simon walks over to the empty armchair, sinking gratefully into it as he watches the card game. Izzy hollers something about rules, and he finds himself grinning as Clary splutters angrily about it. 

“Hey, kiddo.” a voice rumbles behind him, and he cranes his neck to see Luke smiling at him. “I just stopped by to say hi, gotta get back to night shift.” 

“Night shift? Who’d you piss off?” Simon asks, and Luke laughs. 

“Captain Raymond Holt.” He says with a straight face, and Simon shakes his head at that. “Anyway, I’m going now, but - you gonna be alright?” He asks, and Simon smiles slightly at that. It helps beyond measure to have Luke’s solid, steady presence, however brief; it’s been there since childhood and Simon doesn’t know what he’d do at this point without it. 

“Yeah.” Simon says simply. Luke smiles again at that, his eyes warm, before he claps a hand on Simon’s shoulder and takes his leave. 

“Movie time.” Izzy announces cheerfully as Magnus and Alec take the loveseat, both holding steaming cups of coffee. “Before Clary and Maia kill each other.” The girls hop up onto the couch, companionably bickering, and Simon yawns and sinks further into the armchair, ready to mindlessly watch shitty horror, when the sound of the door opening echoes. 

“Starting without me?” Jace’s voice calls. “The star of the show himself?” 

“Always have to make an entrance.” Maia snarks, and Jace appears in Simon’s line of sight, tossing his jacket haphazardly over a table as his eyes immediately zero in on Simon. 

“Move over.” He commands easily, shoving at Simon’s shoulder until Simon straightens up from his slouch and throws his legs across the arm of the chair, scooting up so Jace can squeeze in. He’s half across Jace’s chest, his shoulder comfortably lodged over Jace’s heart, but Jace doesn’t seem to mind; he lets his arm fall across Simon’s chest, pulling them closer together as he kicks his feet up on the coffee table and relaxes back into the cushions. 

“Start the movie.” Jace says, staring at everyone as they stare back at Simon and Jace intertwined on the armchair. Simon hums and doesn’t say anything, closing his eyes briefly as he’s surrounded by the comforting feeling of Jace under him and over him, solid and warm. He’s used to Jace being unexpectedly sweet and his easy displays of affection when the mood strikes him, but the others - with the exception of his siblings - don’t always see it. It makes Simon even more grateful that Jace is willing to do this, to offer Simon the kind of comfort he needs without Simon having to ask for it. 

“I’d just like to establish that I don’t endorse this awful movie.” Alec says off-handedly as he drags his eyes away from Simon and Jace and clicks play on the remote. 

“Respect the art.” Izzy scolds. “It’s supposed to be terrible.” 

“We’re not talking about your cooking, Iz.” Jace says easily, and Simon can feel the rumble of Jace’s laughter through his chest. 

“Watch yourself.” Izzy says threateningly, and Maia loudly shushes her as the movie starts, a girl screaming unconvincingly at some flickering lights. Simon snickers at that, his mind drifting off, only tuning back in when Jace suddenly shifts and leans close to Simon. 

“You alright?” He asks Simon softly, breath whispering across the shell of Simon’s ear. The noise of the movie masks Jace’s voice, and Simon looks steadily at a spot on the wall as he thinks. “Don’t lie to me.” Jace adds. 

“I wasn’t going to.” Simon responds just as quietly, his mouth barely moving as he turns his head slightly and meets Jace’s eyes. Jace tightens the grip he has on Simon, pulling him closer by his chest, his gaze softening imperceptibly as he regards Simon. “I think I’ll be okay.” 

“What happened?” Jace asks, no judgement in his voice. He leans closer, tipping his forehead slightly to rest against Simon’s temple. His hair tickles Simon’s cheeks, strands falling softly across his face. Simon inhales shallowly, letting his sense fill with the scent of Jace, his sharp cologne and the faint undertone of cherry blossom from his shampoo. 

“You all went out on patrol, and I was in the boathouse, and I just felt...lonely. Forgotten.” Simon says slowly, the words creeping out to a backdrop of threatening bass as someone unconvincingly dies on screen. 

“Simon.” Jace hisses, his voice tight with worry, and Simon presses harder into Jace, turning so their foreheads are aligned and their noses are almost brushing. He knows, distantly, that the others are watching them with barely concealed interest, but he’s long since stopped noticing them, not when Jace and he are tangled together in their own world, and - he deserves this, doesn’t he? Doesn’t he? 

“I’m fine, it’s fine.” He whispers into the air between them, searching with his fingers until he finds Jace’s thigh and grips it tight, squeezing to convey some form of reassurance. “You have to let me work through this.” 

“I want to be there for you.” Jace says, and he sounds so anguished because they’ve been here before, and Simon - 

Simon loves that all his friends try to make him feel better, that they drop everything and fly over to have a movie night with him, that Magnus can sense his moods and immediately plan something like this. And it’s warm, and safe, and comfortable, and lovely, but - it doesn’t erase those hours where his mind turned on him and sent him somewhere dark and lonely, somewhere where every thought was another knife in his back and he thought he would collapse from the frantic fear skittering across his skin. It doesn’t replace that, and it doesn’t prevent that from happening again. 

“You are.” Simon says firmly, and Jace makes a wounded noise and pushes him away, getting to his feet and striding away with shaking shoulders, disappearing into Simon’s temporary room. Alec and Izzy half-stand, but Simon rolls off the chair and gets up, waving them down. 

“It’s fine.” he mutters, gesturing at the screen and smiling faintly. “Finish the movie, even if it’s painful to watch, Magnus.” Magnus scowls at him before he turns away and follows Jace, pushing open the door of his room to find Jace sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. 

“Jace.” Simon says, and Jace doesn’t look up but his fingers are clenching in his hair. 

“How can I sit by and let you be alone?” Jace asks, and his voice breaks in the middle of the question. “You won’t tell me when it happens, and you don’t let me stay by your side, and you don’t - how unfair is that, Simon?” 

Simon goes and kneels gently before him, suddenly weary and exhausted even as he gently pries Jace’s hands from his hair to reveal his red eyes and flushed cheeks, his chest heaving. 

“It’s not that easy.” he repeats, echoing their conversation from earlier that evening. “I can only come to you when my mind lets me talk about it, and that’s not - not going to always happen.” 

“I’m sorry.” Jace says, and his voice is thick with pent-up emotion. “I’m sorry, I know I’m making it about me and it shouldn’t be, I’m - “

“You’re fine.” Simon says immediately. “No, no don’t worry - I know you like to beat up every problem you have, but this isn’t - like that.” 

“No.” Jace says, and he looks at Simon, his eyes tired. “It’s not. But I’m here for you, you know.” 

“I know.” Simon says, because he does. He knows it deep in his bones, with a certainty, but when anxiety twists its way into him and sinks into his blood, there’s nothing that that knowledge can offer him, and he’s paralyzed with the need to reach out and the simultaneous inability to do so. “I know.” 

They’re looking at each other in the dim moonlight filtering in through the open curtains, Simon kneeling on the ground in front of Jace. Their height difference is more pronounced like this, Simon having to crane his neck upwards to see Jace, and there’s something magnetic about the moment, pulling them closer together. Simon can see every individual dark eyelash framing Jace’s eyes and the line where the brown and blue in his eyes bleed into each other; in the sudden stillness of the room, Jace’s soft breathing sounds like echoing drumbeats, anchoring Simon down. 

Jace’s hands come up slowly to frame Simon’s face, fingers dragging against Simon’s temple and down over his cheeks. Simon’s fingers find purchase in Jace’s knee, gripping tightly to balance himself on one hand as his other comes up to wrap around the curve of Jace’s forearm, his skin warm against Simon’s cold fingertips even through the soft material of Jace’s shirt. He knows this is a monumentally bad idea, even as he bites his lip helplessly and watches as Jace’s eyes track the movement, liquid desire flowing between them as Jace hisses sharply. 

“Simon,” he whispers, and it’s different from before; his voice is low and rough, steady as he looks at Simon like there’s nothing else in the world right now. A car horn blares loudly on the street outside, and Simon presses forward instinctively, closer to Jace, until their mouths are almost brushing together. 

“Simon.” Jace repeats, and the words flow through the centimeters left between them and fall on Simon’s skin, warm and real, and it feels like the edge of a precipice. “You gotta tell me yes. I - you’ve always said no. Say - say yes, give me the word, and I’ll - I need to know you want this - “

Simon thinks about this morning, when he was curled up on his side in the boathouse, staring dumbly at his fingers curling and uncurling, shaking with the force of his anxiety; he thinks about Jace swinging by to pick him up, hours later, his hair outlined in the sunlight like a halo as he’d leaned against the door frame and given Simon an easy, blinding grin; he thinks about dragging his feet as he’d walked behind Jace, his throat thick with all the darkness he can’t seem to unlock from his mind, the things he can’t get out in the open air. 

He thinks about everything that could happen - fights and cruel things, stretches of angry, hurt, silence; coming apart so badly at the seams that Jace can’t stitch him back together, that no one can; one of them, getting up in the night and leaving, walking away from something too difficult to put themselves through, too painful and raw. 

But he can also see flashes of easy smiles, laughter in the morning, miles of warm skin as the sunlight peeks through the window; Jace’s stupid swagger and insatiable need to be the best at everything, his little quirks - he wears oddly colorful socks and eats his cereal dry - the way he loves playing the piano, his anguish at being unable to defeat Simon’s battles for him. His willingness to take a chance on Simon. 

“Yes.” Simon says into the space between them, and Jace lets out a sudden breath as he surges down against Simon, pressing a bruising kiss to his mouth, his lips soft and insistent. His fingers tighten against Simon’s face, and desperation permeates the kiss as Jace tries to pour himself into it entirely; Simon presses back and moves the hand he has on Jace’s knee to the back of Jace’s neck, opening his mouth and letting Jace slide their tongues together, letting him break down and reform in the kiss.

“You,” Jace gasps out, pulling away briefly to suck air back into his lungs, “I thought you would never want this - “

“I always have,” Simon says, and his voice is wrecked too, “but I didn’t want to fuck it up.” 

“You couldn’t.” Jace promises fervently, his hands sliding down to grip Simon’s shirt and haul him up onto the bed, falling backwards and pulling Simon down on top of him. “Promise you’ll say yes to me, to us.” 

“Yes.” Simon agrees, and his voice is stronger this time, and they’re kissing again in the dark, soft and slow; yes, he thinks, and it’s strong enough to silence the buzzing of fear in his head, strong enough to create an island of safety, of home in Jace’s arms. 

For you, yes.