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A small gold clock sits on the bedside table inside Simon’s new room at the Institute. It’s a classic analog clock, ornate despite its size, with carvings that dip around its sides in fine, swirling patterns. The noise from it is a constant echo in the otherwise silent room.
Simon spends most of his days listening to it, watching it. He watches the second hand slide from twelve to six and back to twelve again, tick tick tick, until his lips crack and his eyes are dry enough to shatter. He watches the hour hand drag through the syrupy slowness of the afternoons, waiting for the moment he can slip from the confines of the Institute and taste the fresh air, feel the evening breeze rustle across his skin.
Most days, it’s enough. He may no longer be alive, but he’s alive enough—enough to curl up in the sweet edges of Clary’s smile, to drift along with the swelling sounds of his favorite songs. He’s here, he’s still standing. For without victory, there is no survival. And survival in and of itself is a victory; to keep loving, to keep fighting, to overcome obstacles and ignore pain, is to win.
But there are other days. Harder ones, where everything suddenly feels like nothing instead of nothing feeling like everything. The glass of blood that waits for him in the refrigerator, the hour-long window between the end of his sleep cycle and the beginning of Clary’s, the white smear of the moon in the night sky—sometimes it feels like none of it will ever be enough. On the bad days, Simon watches the hands of the clock spin and swears they’re moving slower than normal, like they’re trying to torture him, to break him even more than the world already has.
Somewhere amidst the aimlessness and solitude, between one click of the clock and the next— that’s when Simon thinks of Raphael.
Never for too long. The thoughts are always fleeting, the second image crushed before the first has even fully formed, but a split second is long enough. Enough, enough, enough. A hollow sentiment, at this point. Was it enough that Raphael had risked his own safety in order to save Simon from Camille? Had it been enough when he’d walked toward a building full of people trained to kill him, just so he could deliver Simon’s dead body to the one person who would care enough to want it? Was it enough that he had taken Simon under his wing, let him into his clan—his home—even after all Simon had ever done was spit accusations in his face and call him a—
A monster?
Simon’s betrayed us. It hadn’t been the words that had knocked the nonexistent air from Simon’s lungs, but the look on Raphael’s face when he’d said them. The pain in his eyes, the vacant space behind his smirk—it had screamed something else altogether. You’ve betrayed me.
In that moment, with a short but impassable number of steps separating them, Simon had felt—for the very first time since he’d turned—truly despicable. Like he was something to fear, to despise.
He was the real monster. Not Raphael.
+
Two weeks and Simon can’t take it anymore. The loneliness. The single glass of blood. The scathing looks the other shadowhunters toss at his back when they think he isn’t looking.
The fucking clock.
It’s turned him into some kind of time bomb, tick tick tick, counting down the seconds until the inevitable moment hits where everything becomes too much. Boom!
The collateral damage will be too great, the casualties too many. Simon knows this. He can sense it in the way his skin crawls whenever he bumps into someone in the hallway, in the venom that prickles on his tongue whenever he hears the voices. He can’t stay here, he’s a downworlder. Why hasn’t he been dealt with yet? Like he’s a thing to be disposed of. Expendable.
So he leaves. Before the moment can sneak up on him, he loads his few belongings into a backpack, waits until it’s late enough that the only sound in the Institute is the whirring of computers, then slips out a back door unnoticed. He has no plan, nowhere to go—just knows that if he spends one more day in that room, one more second, bad things will happen.
+
He ends up at the DuMort—of course he does.
It’s the worst place his subconscious could have picked, too, considering Raphael has a kill order out for him right now. He should turn right back around and leave. Take himself somewhere far, far away, where he can’t hurt the people he loves and other people can’t hurt him—
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Simon blinks, dropping his eyes from the crippled exterior of the hotel to find Lily standing in front of him. Her pretty face is pinched in warning, arms folded across her chest and back ram-rod straight.
She’s not what Simon is expecting.
He’d been prepared for a violent vampire mob, an angry and disbelieving Raphael, a wooden stake sniped into his chest, even—but not this. Not a half-hearted warning, and certainly not one from Raphael’s own second-in-command.
“I—I know,” Simon rushes out. “I just—I couldn’t be there anymore. It was too much. I thought—”
“You thought you could come running back here and Raphael would forgive you like he always does,” Lily says. Her eyes are narrowed, but there’s no spite in her voice. Just…a hint of defeat, like she’s always been expecting this. Like it was never a question.
Simon swallows. “I didn’t think—”
“It doesn’t matter. Raphael isn’t here.”
“What?”
“He’s been gone since the night the alliance broke,” Lily explains. “Said he had some ‘business’ to take care of, then sent us back here on our own.”
The night the alliance broke. That was two weeks ago. Two whole weeks—the entire length of time Simon had been wallowing at the Institute, crawling out of his own skin, ready to self-destruct, and Raphael had been—what? Gone? Missing?
“Has anyone heard from him?” Simon asks.
There’s an edge of panic to the words, one that he doesn’t want to—can’t—think too much about. It’s just a business trip. Raphael can take care of himself, has done so for sixty, almost seventy years; he’s fine, he has to be—
Lily shakes her head.
If Simon still had a working heart, it would have stopped beating; as it is, he can feel his whole body go numb, his limbs all locking uselessly into place. Is this how Clary had felt looking at his dead body, realizing that he wasn’t coming back? Speechless, stunned into stillness, unable to move or think or—feel, even?
“This isn’t like him,” Lily admits. “He usually checks in while he’s away, just to make sure that everything here is running smoothly.”
Simon stays quiet for a long moment.
“…Why are you telling me this?”
“Because it’s your fault.”
“How?” Simon asks in disbelief. “You think I wanted this to happen? That I wanted for Raphael to—disappear, or get kidnapped, or whatever the hell’s happened?”
“You set Camille free,” Lily hisses. She steps forward and jabs a cool finger into Simon’s chest, sharp and accusatory. “You had to know what that would mean for us, what it would mean for Raphael. He was the one to overthrow her, after all.”
The truth behind the words makes Simon feel sick. His empty stomach churns, his hands start to tremble—and the worst part? Deep down, he’d known that freeing Camille would have serious consequences. He’d known, but simply hadn’t cared. Hadn’t cared that his actions would put the clan—put Raphael—at serious risk. The only thing he’d cared about was helping his best friend get her mom back, and in the end that wasn’t even enough—nothing was ever enough—because Clary had lost someone else she loved. She’d lost Jace.
Now Simon has lost someone too, and it’s his own damn fault.
He has his phone out in seconds, clicking Clary’s name before he can think too much about the fact that it’s the middle of the night and Lily looks poised to kill him and Raphael is missing. It rings, and rings, and Lily’s finger is still digging into his chest, ready to slit him open at any time.
(Not that it would do any good).
Finally, the line clicks. Claire’s voice filters through, soft and slurred from sleep. “Simon?”
“Clary,” Simon breathes. He rubs a hand over his face and wills his voice not to shake. “Clary, listen, I—I need your help.
“What?” There’s a shuffling noise, and when Clary speaks again, she sounds significantly more awake. “What’s going on? Are you in trouble?”
“No, it’s—it’s Raphael. We think he’s missing.”
“We?”
“Yeah…I’m kind of at the DuMort right now. Lily’s here,” Simon explains. He glances at the aforementioned vampire, who shoots him an incredibly unimpressed look. Shadowhunters, really? it says, and yeah, this is how they ended up in this mess in the first place, but—
He doesn’t know what else to do.
“And…why do you think Raphael’s missing, exactly?” Clary asks.
“No one’s seen him since the night we let Camille out. I’m—” Simon swallows. “The clan is worried.”
“Okay, hey,” Clary says softly. “Take a deep breath. We’ll find him, okay? I’m sure he’s fine.”
Simon wants nothing more than to believe her. Part of him is still clinging to the tiny sliver of hope that Raphael has just…decided to take an impromptu vacation. That he just got sidetracked, distracted enough that he hasn’t had time to—to call home—
“I can—I’ll go find something of his in the hotel. A jacket, maybe?” Simon scrambles to stop his thoughts from traveling too far. His hands have begun to tremble again, and there’s a knot of worry in his chest, one that’s growing bigger by the second. “Something to use for a tracking spell. I don’t really know what else we could do to—to—”
The rest of the sentence dies in his throat.
His side is—burning.
Swift, sudden, the pain barrels into him, almost like someone has pierced his side with a knife. But there’s no knife—a knife wouldn’t even do anything, he’s a vampire, it’d be useless. So why does it feel like the skin around his hips is being flayed from his bones, like he’s being ripped straight apart—
Simon doubles over, gasping out for air he doesn’t need. The phone slips from his hand and hits the pavement with a sharp crack. He can still vaguely hear Clary, but her voice has become muffled and distant; it’s like he’s underwater, like he’s drowning. His lungs are filling and everything is burning, oh God, it burns.
His knees hit the ground. One hand clutches at his side, but the pain is spreading. He hears screaming—is it his own? It’s impossible to tell. Everything is red like the fire that’s eating right through him. It’s agonizing. More screaming, and that’s definitely Simon this time—he knows it the moment Lily falls in front of him, reaches for him, grasps at his body that won’t stop shaking.
“Simon? Simon!”
Her hands are on his shoulders, trying to hold him together, but Simon is burning, he’s burning he’s burning he’s burning like the wood in a fireplace—
“Stop! Please, just stop —”
And that—
That’s a voice Simon hasn’t heard in weeks.
+
“Why are you doing this?”
Camille tilts her head. The wooden stake in her hand is stained black; she twirls it between her fingers in a way that’s calculating, almost thoughtful.
“You can’t seriously be asking me that,” she scoffs.
Raphael spits out a mouthful of blood. It splatters across the ground in black streaks, matches the dried mess that covers his carved-up chest, his gaunt face.
“You took everything from me. My clan, my power—my fledgling,” Camille says.
“He isn’t yours.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong about that.” Camille crouches in front of him, edging the tip of her stake into the wound on Raphael’s side. He howls, too tired to shove her away, too weak. “It’s my blood that flows through his veins, remember?”
She edges the wood in deeper. Raphael screams, can’t help it. Everything hurts, and he’s just so hungry. Even the pools of his own blood have started to look appealing—anything to quench this—this ceaseless thirst that’s consumed his whole body.
“I’m going to claim what’s rightfully mine while you get to stay here and rot for eternity,” Camille says. “How does that sound for revenge?”
Something dark and possessive twists in Raphael’s stomach as she stands and turns her back to him. The violent struggle leaves his body and is replaced by a calm sort of determination, one that’s almost dangerous. When he speaks next, his voice is quiet, deadly.
“Don’t touch him.”
Camille pauses and slowly faces him again, the same thoughtful expression on her face. A beat passes, and then a smile creeps onto her lips. There’s no mirth to it; instead, she just looks pleased with herself, as though she’s uncovered some kind of mastermind plan.
“You’re in love with him,” she realizes.
“Shut up.”
“Well, this is quite the development,” Camille continues. “Who would have thought? Pobre Rafaelito has a heart after all.”
Raphael grits his teeth, but says nothing.
Camille frowns and makes a soft tutting sound at him. “Still haven’t come to terms with it, I see,” her voice is laced with faux sympathy. “Oh well, there’s no need to, I suppose. You’ll be dead long before he ever finds out about your pathetic little crush.”
With that, she’s on her way to the door, long hair flipping over her shoulder. Raphael can’t do anything but watch her go—it’s like his body has been nailed to the ground with how heavy it feels, how he can’t seem to make any of his limbs work.
For all intents and purposes, he’s already dead.
+
Simon’s eyes fly open. Lily is still kneeling before him, her expression utterly stricken. When their gazes lock, her mouth drops open—to interrogate him, no doubt—but Simon beats her to it.
“I know where to find Raphael,” he croaks.
+
“This is a terrible idea,” Alec says for the hundredth time.
“You didn’t have to come,” Simon snaps.
A second later, he feels a hand on his arm. It’s Clary. She shakes her head at him and mouths: relax.
Simon blows out a shaky breath and tries to convince his tense shoulders to loosen, but it’s impossible. Even with Clary and Lily and Alec and Magnus and Izzy all backing him up, he can’t help but fear that they’re walking straight into a trap. Can’t escape the notion that Raphael might already be gone, and worse, that he’s died thinking Simon never cared about him, which is…
So, so far from the truth.
“We find Camille first. Once she’s out of the way, we grab Raphael,” Clary is explaining.
Everyone nods except for Simon, whose gaze has glued itself to the heavy metal door they’re about to burst through. The logical part of his brain knows they have to get rid of Camille first—she’s far too dangerous to ignore—but it’s hard to worry about her when he can’t stop picturing Raphael’s decaying body, his empty eyes, either bled dry or staked through the heart—
Camille is gone.
Simon chokes out a garbled noise and grasps at his head. The words have already disappeared, almost like they were never there in first place, but he definitely heard them—heard something. He doesn’t know how, or why, but he does know who it came from, which means that Raphael is—that he’s still—
“Simon, are you okay?”
Clary’s hand is on his arm again, her big, concerned eyes searching his.
“Camille’s not here,” he blurts.
Five sets of eyes flit toward him in a mixture of disbelief and confusion.
“How the hell do you know that?” Alec demands.
Simon ducks away from their prying and presses a hand to his forehead, trying to stave off the ache that’s beginning to form there. He focuses on thinking a single word, the letters rising up in his mind and jutting around like marbles ricocheting off the sides of a glass container:
Raphael?
“It’s the same thing that happened to him earlier,” Lily realizes. “It was like he saw something. Didn’t just see it, but—heard it. Felt it.”
I’m here, Raphael’s voice replies.
“Holy shit,” Simon breathes.
The others’s stares only grow heavier.
“I’ve heard of it,” Magnus interjects. “Vampires being able to—communicate telepathically with one another. It’s rare, but it’s possible.”
“What does it mean?” Clary asks.
“No one knows for sure,” says Magnus. “Most think it’s a sign that you’re already…predisposed.”
“To what?”
“…to become bonded.”
Nobody moves. Simon gives himself a few seconds to stomach the words, lets them settle inside of his chest.
He and Raphael. Bonded.
It’s absolutely crazy. Just the possibility of it should terrify him to no end—more importantly, it shouldn’t make any sense, not after he betrayed Raphael and severed any weak ties that may have been binding them to one another—
But it does make sense, in some strange, twisted way.
Simon turns his gaze to Magnus. The warlock has his hand outstretched, poised to break open the building’s entrance, but it’s like he’s waiting for some kind of cue. He meets Simon’s eyes, a series of questions written across his features: are you okay with this? Are you sure?
Simon swallows, then nods.
“Open the door,” he says quietly.
+
The blood—it’s everywhere.
Staining the ground and the walls, painting everything black, permeating the air with its thick scent. Simon falls to his knees right in the thick of it.
“Raphael,” he gasps.
With careful movements, he manages to maneuver both of them so that their weight rests against the wall, his arm keeping Raphael’s crumpled form upright all the while. The other vampire’s skin is pale, far more pale than it should be; his features are drawn and his suit is ripped. There’s even more blood on his chest, most of it clotted around his left side. When Simon presses his palm gently against the wound, it comes away wet—still fresh, still bleeding. He thinks of the burning pain that had ripped through his own side back at the DuMort and wants to scream.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he murmurs. His hands are covered in blood—Raphael’s blood. They won’t stop trembling. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”
The words are more for himself than anyone.
If Raphael would just—open his eyes and say something, whether it be aloud or through their freaky telepathic thing, everything would be fine. He just needs to wake up again, let Simon know that yes, he really is still alive, reassure him that he isn’t cradling a soon-to-be corpse to his chest.
“Is he…?”
Simon’s head jerks up to find Clary and Lily hovering just inside the doorway, watching him. Lily goes to take a stilted step forward, but then stops herself at the last second. Her eyes are wide and horrified. Clary, meanwhile, just looks…stunned, her stele having fallen slack in her hand.
Magnus suddenly appears in the door as well, with Izzy and Alec not far behind. Simon has the insane urge to turn away from them all, to hide Raphael from their prying eyes, even though he knows that they aren’t going to cause him anymore harm—at least not right now. It’s instinct, this incessant need to protect Raphael, to keep him safe.
“Can you guys, uh—” His voice comes out shaky. He wets his tongue across his lips, then says again, quieter: “Can you just—give me a minute?”
Clary moves first, offering him the tiniest of nods before slipping out the door. The rest follow her, one by one. Magnus is the last to go—he pauses on his way out, looking back over his shoulder to hold Simon’s eyes for a long moment.
“He’s alive,” he says. “I can feel his life force. It’s dim, but it’s there.”
And then it’s just Simon and Raphael.
Simon fingers the torn collar of Raphael’s shirt, tries to focus on his face instead of his damaged abdomen. The sharp line of his jaw, the way his ridiculously long eyelashes fan out against his hollowed cheeks; his hair, a sweat-matted mess without the usual gel to rescue it. Simon pushes it away from his forehead, thumb resting momentarily against the edge of his scalp.
“Just wake up, you stupid asshole,” he whispers.
Nothing happens.
Simon drags in a long breath that he doesn't need and continues to watch Raphael’s lax features, waiting. He really is beautiful—it’s something that Simon’s always known, objectively speaking, but that he’s only just now paying attention to. And he looks so young like this, too, the decades of stress and pain and loss no longer visible in the smoothness of his forehead, the soft line of his mouth.
He wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for Simon. All of this—it’s Simon’s fault. No matter how sour the words taste on his tongue, no matter how much it had stung when Lily had shot the accusation at him earlier, Simon can’t deny that it’s true. If he hadn’t been so stupid—so reckless—Raphael never would have had to save him from Camille in the first place. He never would have made himself into her enemy.
I’m sorry, Simon thinks. It’s a blanket apology, one for all of the times he was an idiot, for all of the times he turned his back on Raphael or ignored his advice. It’s an apology for all of the times Raphael offered his help—help that he never even had to give, but offered anyway—and Simon turned it down like the ungrateful asshole he apparently was. It’s an I never wanted this to happen to you. If I could trade places with you, I would—it’d be the least that I deserve.
If Simon hadn’t already been a monster before, then he certainly is one now.
Bloody tears well up in his eyes. He scrubs them away with the heels of his palms, his insides rattling from the force of the violent sob that half-manages to escape him.
I’m so fucking sorry, Raphael.
But then—
Somehow—
As though he’s uttered some sort of magic word—
Raphael’s eyes are open.
“Simon?”
His voice cracks on the word, rough from disuse. It’s still the most wonderful thing Simon’s ever heard—better than any song or prayer could ever be.
“It’s me,” he breathes.
He tightens his arm around Raphael’s waist and helps him sit up slightly. The motion must pull at the wound in his side, though, because he hisses and freezes up a second later.
“Simon,” Raphael repeats. He seems out of it, eyes glassy and bloodshot as they flicker across Simon’s face. His body twitches weakly in his grip. “What—”
Can you hear me? Is this easier for you? Simon asks hurriedly.
Raphael blinks at him, a slow up-and-down of his eyelids. Then—in a motion so small, it’s hardly noticeable—he nods.
Good, Simon says. He lifts the hand that isn’t busy holding Raphael’s body together and presents him with the inside of the wrist. Once you feed, you should start to heal—
“No.”
The word is sharp and pointed, a complete contrast to Raphael’s current state. It echoes within the empty room, leaves Simon reeling from the harshness of it.
“I know how much you like to be stubborn, but now is not the time,” he says aloud. He moves his wrist further into Raphael’s space, watching as hazy eyes track the movement. “Drink.”
He can see Raphael’s throat work, the bob of his Adam’s apple and the hint of his fangs peeking out from between his cracked lips. The fact that he’s protesting at all is a testament to his condition; most starving vampires would have lunged for the first blood source in sight, human, animal, or other. That means Raphael must not be physically capable of doing such a thing—must be too weak.
Two weeks without blood.
That’s a long, long time.
Simon slips his hand out from around Raphael’s waist. Then, without waiting for permission, he moves so that they’re properly facing one another, using his now free right hand to hold the other man’s chin in place. His left wrist is still hovering in the air, an offer on a shining, silver platter.
Simon. Raphael’s thoughts are almost delirious, soaked in desperation. We’ll be—
“Bonded?” Simon offers him a wry smile. “I think it’s a bit too late to be worrying about that.”
Raphael blinks at him for the umpteenth time. I didn’t think you cared.
I did, Simon thinks back. I do.
He presses his thumb harder into Raphael’s chin—not enough to hurt, but just hard enough—and then lines his other wrist up with Raphael’s mouth.
“You’ve saved my life a hundred times,” he says. “Now it’s my turn to save yours.”
Skin against teeth—
Teeth against skin—
Raphael’s mouth finds the spot where Simon’s pulse used to be and bites.
It feels different from how Simon remembers it. With Camille, it had been dizzying, disorienting—the blood fleeing from his veins, leaving him lightheaded, overwhelmed—but this—
This is the opposite. It’s like the world solidifies—becomes more concrete, takes on its proper form—like water hardening into ice, or cement settling into place. Simon feels balanced, stable—alive—for the first time since he crawled out from beneath the Earth, since the breath abandoned his body and a burning thirst took up residence in the back of his throat.
He doesn’t even realize his eyes have fallen shut until the grip on his wrist disappears and a hand brushes his face instead, the touch almost painfully gentle. I’m good, it says, I’m here.
Simon clears his throat. When he finally opens his eyes again, Raphael is watching him, gaze clear as ever. His fingers haven’t moved; they’re still grazing the edge of Simon’s jaw.
“Were you crying?” he asks. There’s no bite to the words, no judgment hidden within them; just an honest question, one that’s punctuated by the drag of Raphael’s fingers across the bloody tear stains on Simon’s cheeks.
“I thought you were dead,” Simon says by way of explanation. “Because of me.”
Raphael’s eyes harden. “This wasn’t your fault,” he says sternly. “Don’t—”
“But it was my fault!” Simon exclaims. “If I hadn’t betrayed the clan—if I hadn’t left—then maybe you wouldn’t have been alone, and then Camille couldn’t have—”
His words come to an abrupt halt. He doesn’t want to—can’t—finish that sentence, can’t think anymore about the fact that there’s a gaping hole in Raphael’s side, one that could have killed him.
“Why don’t you hate me?” he croaks.
It takes Raphael a long moment to answer. When he finally does—brows lowered and mouth pressed into a thin line—it’s not at all the answer Simon is expecting.
You know why.
And—oh.
The memory rises up from the corner of Simons’s mind unbidden. He knows, almost instantly, that Raphael is seeing it too; it’s as though they’re both sitting in front of the same television screen, witnessing the same action, hearing the same dialogue.
“You’re in love with him,” Camille’s voice drawls.
Raphael drops his hands from Simon’s face and turns away.
“Camille is still out there somewhere,” he says quietly. His expression is unreadable, flat as a stone. “We need to…”
His voice dies out the moment Simon’s thumb touches the corner of his mouth, wiping away the smudge of blood that rests there. It happens slowly, slow enough that Raphael could flinch away if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. Doesn’t move, doesn’t protest—he’s like a statue, frozen in place. His eyes are indecipherable, glued to Simon’s face, as though he physically can’t bring himself to look away.
Kiss me, Simon tells him.
What?
“Kiss me,” he repeats, aloud this time. “That’s what people who are in love with each other do, isn’t it?”
“Stop.” Raphael sounds desperate. “You don’t mean that.”
“Do you really think I would have let myself bond with you if I didn’t?” Simon asks, disbelieving.
“I don’t know, you can be pretty stupid sometimes.”
“I’ve been at the Institute for the past two weeks, dying all over again inside because I had betrayed you and I hated myself for it,” Simon says. “And then I could suddenly feel you, like your pain was my pain, and I—I chased you down here, not even caring that I might be walking straight into a trap, because I couldn’t think about anything except you, tortured and dying and thinking that I didn’t care. Does that sound stupid to you?”
By the time his rant is over, his chest is heaving despite the fact that there’s no air rushing through it. His hands—stained black, with blood crusting beneath his fingernails—look almost comical against the stark-white backdrop of Raphael’s cheeks when he grabs onto them. The bite mark on his wrist is already beginning to heal; it matches the shape of Raphael’s mouth, a reality that’s unavoidable when the two are lined up next to one another like this. It’ll stay there, an eternal reminder that they belong to one another. That they’re bonded.
Without waiting for a response from Raphael, Simon surges forward and kisses him.
Simon, he hears in the back of his head, but the word is broken and thin. Raphael’s mouth opens beneath his own and his shaking hands twist in the back of Simon’s shirt and all Simon can think is yes and more and finally. That’s his own blood on Raphael’s tongue, tangy and thick, and it should make him grimace, or at the very least retreat, but Simon only pushes closer. That blood is slithering through Raphael’s body now, tying them together like two knotted strings. It’s not something Simon thought he would ever want, but now that he has it, he can’t fathom untying himself, can’t picture himself standing, living, without this right here, Raphael’s hair between his fingers, mouth sweet and panting beneath his own.
Simon, he hears again, and the world slows. They separate, Raphael’s forehead falling to press against his sternum, Simon’s nose buried in his hair. Time passes, but it’s impossible to tell how much. All Simon knows is that each second is too little, no amount of time spent holding onto Raphael like this will ever be enough—
It’s a good thing they have eternity, he supposes.
+
There are no clocks in the DuMort. There’s no need for there to be. When the light no longer peeks through the cracks between the curtains, under the doors—when the bed shifts and a cold mouth finds Simon’s pulse point, when a hushed good evening tickles at the edges of his mind—that’s how Simon keeps track of time passing, the infinity of it no longer daunting, no longer weighing him down.
Raphael’s fingers around his wrist, his thumb against the imprint of his mouth—that’s the anchor that holds Simon in place now, keeps him from drifting.
For without victory, there is no survival.
Camille is still out there. Jace is still missing. Simon is still making up for his betrayal, still working each day to remind Raphael that this is real, that he’s always cared. It isn’t easy—nothing ever is—but it’s enough. More than enough, even.
Simon isn’t just surviving anymore—now, it feels like he might actually be winning.