Chapter Text
It took Raphael an embarrassingly long time to finally figure it out, but he was fairly certain now.
Simon was avoiding him.
It wasn't a baseless accusation, mind you. Anybody with a pair of eyes could see it; see the way Simon always took a sharp turn every time they caught sight of each other in the hallways. The way he stopped hanging out at the Hotel lobby, the libraries, and even the kitchen because that was where Raphael would most likely be. The way he somehow weaseled his way out of all his training sessions—even the compulsory ones—with careful, intricate explanations, like he had spent the whole night trying to come up with excuses.
Like Raphael was the fucking plague.
At least he wasn't the only one in the dark. Nobody else could explain the sudden change that came over Simon. Why Simon holed himself up in his room at night, while he aimlessly wandered around the city all day. Why he only came back when even the last vestiges of daylight faded behind the blinding city lights. Nobody could remember the last time they talked to their fledgling, or the last time he joined them for a game of poker.
It made Raphael's heart ache. He wasn't asking Simon to worship the ground he walked on, but after all that he said and did for the fledgling's sake, after risking almost everything just to keep his sorry ass in one piece, surely it wouldn't hurt to at least acknowledge his presence every once in a while?
Raphael tried to not think of Simon. Unlike a certain fledgling he knew, he didn't have the luxury of pretending to be a lovesick teenager with nothing better to do when his hands were full already, every second of his waking hours spent negotiating with Shadowhunters and writing letters to thousands of other Clan Leaders all over the world.
Respected Miss Humaira al-Loudi, Clan Leader of Umm Al Quwain,
I write to you hoping that this letter finds you in good health. I am well aware of the chaos that my Clan has caused and I—
They had made an honest effort, but they couldn't simply sweep Camille's death under the rug and pretend as if nothing had changed. Killing a vampire as old and powerful as Camille had consequences. The other vampires were anxious and impatient to obtain the exact details regarding Camille's death. They needed to be pacified and reassured. After all, the last thing he wanted was a war in his hands.
—This year had been especially tough. Not just for my Clan, but the entire Shadoworld. First Valentine, and then Camille—
And when he wasn't sweet-talking to the other vampires, he would be busy dealing with the Clave's interrogation; although this time, thankfully, it was Alec Lightwood, and not Victor Aldertree, who took his verdict.
Small victories, he supposed.
He didn't want to be misunderstood. He was glad that Camille was gone, but it irked him to think that even in death, she would continue to be a pain in the ass. All wounds eventually heal, but some left such ugly scars behind.
—On behalf of the entire Manhattan Clan, I would like to extend our most sincere apologies. I am sure you know that we would never resort to such extreme measures had there been another way. Once again, I—
The other day, Raphael had overheard some of the Clan members wondering if Simon was more affected by his Sire's death than he was letting on.
Of course, Raphael knew better. The Sire-fledgling bond was strong and breaking it was fatal, but vampires often exaggerated the exact consequences. After all, killing his Sire was the first thing Raphael did after Turning, and look at him now. He turned out okay in the end.
Mostly okay.
Still. Just to be sure, later that night, with as much subtlety as he could manage, he brought up the topic with Lily; knowing that she was a hundred times more clear-headed and insightful than his whole Clan put together.
However, much to his chagrin, Lily had promptly sided with the rest of the nitwits in his Clan.
"Leave him alone now, you hear me?" Lily had said, chastisingly. As if Raphael was the problem. As if he was the one going around rejecting his own Soulmate. "He's a strong one, for sure. But something like this—you can't expect him to come out unscathed. Even the toughest among us need time and space to heal."
Yeah, bullshit.
Simon may be able to fool the rest of the Clan, but he wasn't fooling Raphael. From what he could see, Simon was doing great. As far as that bitch was concerned.
After what happened at Camille's apartment, they had managed to keep him in bed for a grand total of two days, before the fledgling started whining and grumbling, dropping crude hints here and there and everywhere about wanting to be released from the confines of his 'prison', as he put it.
On the third day, even Magnus had torn his hair out and left the Hotel in a huff, vowing to never waste even a second of his time on ungrateful vampires ever again.
Besides, who in their right mind would mourn the death of a psychotic nightmare like Camille? Simon, like the rest of them, was overjoyed. They even held a party at Magnus' loft to celebrate their victory, which both Simon and Raphael, very conveniently, forgot to attend.
Raphael was a patient man. He had been patient enough to tolerate his younger siblings, because he wanted them to be safe and happy even when his mother was away working hard to make ends meet. He was patient enough to put up with Magnus Bane, despite all the gold and glitter and the atrocious feathers that made up the warlock's personality, because he was desperate to tame the monster within him, and Magnus was the only one willing to teach him. He was patient enough to yield to Camille while he slowly ascended the ranks until he had enough power and influence to take over the Clan.
Raphael knew that good things came to those who waited, but he didn't know if he had enough patience for Simon.
Camille Belcourt was a threat to the Shadoworld, and my Clan. I am aware that there may have been a better way to handle this situation but, you see, my fledgling was in danger, and I—
Raphael swore softly and crossed out what must have been his tenth attempt at writing a letter to Humaira. She was one of their closest allies, one of the few Clan leaders powerful enough to defy Camille and they owed her a proper explanation. But all he could manage was half-baked and repetitive excuses.
His letter wouldn't be half as bad if only his mind wasn't a constant jumble of Simon Simon Simon. But try as he might, he couldn't shake his thoughts off.
Was it the Soulmark forcing him to check on his Soulmate? Or was it his instincts telling him that something was seriously wrong? Would he seem too desperate if he tried to confront the fledgling right now? Hadn't he tried too many times already?
Respected Humaira al-Loudi,
"Raphael?"
He looked up from the letter he had been writing. It was Tori. Earlier, she had taken pity on him and had volunteered to help sort out some of the extra paperwork, whilst the person that was supposed to be dealing with it (see: Lily) was off dilly-dallying with Zeke.
Raphael was beyond grateful. Had he not had a reputation to uphold, he would have promptly burst into tears of joy.
"Yes?"
Tori smiled, "I am done with most of the paperwork concerning the South American Clans, except for some documents that I will have to revise later." She hesitated, glancing at the door. "Is it alright if I leave? Andy is waiting for me, so..."
Raphael was already waving her away before she was even done talking. He hadn't noticed how late it was. He wouldn't have let her stay this long otherwise.
"Goodnight, Raphael," Tori waved, before closing the door softly behind her.
Raphael waited, but despite his heightened vampire hearing, the Hotel was dead quiet. There was no muffled laughter in the common room two floors below his office, or the soft experimental thrumming of guitar strings in the East wing library, or pages being flipped on the couch beside his desk.
It had been a while since Raphael felt this...desolate. There was a time, when he wouldn't have minded it much, would have welcomed it even. But thanks to a certain piece of shit, he had gotten too used to not being desolate, to having his space fill up with puns and laughter and pop culture references that flew right over his head. The idea of sitting all alone in a cold and dark office with nobody to keep him company was no longer as appealing as it used to be.
How pathetic.
He waited a little longer. Waited for hurried footsteps thudding on the floorboards, getting louder the closer they came to his office, for the door to be banged open so forcefully that it nearly ripped off its hinges, for the candy-sweet citrusy scent of his favorite fledgling, for his sleep roughened voice to get on Raphael's nerves. He waited for as long as his heart could bear to wait.
And finally, when he couldn't take it anymore, he took a deep breath, and shot to his feet, his chair toppling backwards. His patience had run dry.
Good things came to those who waited, but Simon wasn't a good thing. He was his eternal damnation.
And if the fledgling was his damnation, then he supposed that he would rather confront it head on. He was done waiting around.
So he slowly began making his way over to Simon's room. It was on the same floor as his office, and his suite. He had to pass it on the way to Simon's. Looking inside, he briefly considered giving up and burrowing under his blankets instead. That way, he wouldn't lose a thing. Ignorance is bliss afterall.
It was tempting, but that would mean having to fight the same battle tomorrow, amd the day after that. He was done waiting around, Raphael reminded himself. Come what may, today was the day. Today, he would finally get an answer out of the fledgling. Today was the day—
Shit, how are we here already?
Raphael stared at the door to Simon's room. Never before had it seemed so daunting, so large and unmovable. He felt as if his hands would simply burn off if he even dared to knock on the door. Once again, he wondered if he should run away. It wasn't too late to turn back. Surely—
But no, he had promised himself. Today was the day. No more waiting around.
And so with baited breath, he knocked twice and pushed the door open, knowing that it would be unlocked. The fledgling was careless like that.
"Raphael?"
How long had it been since he last talked to Simon? Would he be able to come up with full sentences this time? Would he able to keep his temper in check?
Raphael sighed. He was simply going to make a fool out of himself, wasn't he? But it was too late to turn back now.
"Fledgling."
He had been to the younger vampire's room on several occasions by now, but each time felt just as overwhelming as the last.
Raphael always ensured that his room was spotless, and that it left no traces of who he was, of what he liked or disliked. He had taken down his family's pictures in his early years at the hotel when Camille had tried to take advantage one time. His books and records were always arranged in neat orderly piles for easy access. His room was no place for choas or disorder. Raphael made sure of that.
Simon's room was the straight opposite. It screamed of Simon. Loud and unapologetic, wild and unruly. Clothes of every color under the sky lying on the floor, half open comic books piled on the nightstand, action figures and shoes that never quite made it to the closet. Only a few weeks ago, Raphael had had his couch replaced, but the new one was already smothered with dirty laundry and unsightly blood stains.
He wrinkled his nose in distaste and glared at the fledgling, momentarily forgetting why he was here in the first place.
But all words of reproach died in his throat when he saw Simon, who was only an impossibly tiny lump right in the middle of his bed, hordes of blankets and pillows towering over his slight frame. He was surrounded by a circle of scrolls and books half his size. His hair was rough and greasy, sticking out at weird angles.
He didn't look too happy to see Raphael. Which was a shame, because Raphael was tired of compromising.
"I suppose," Raphael began, leaning against the door. It was impossible to enter the room, not unless he was willing to summersault onto Simon's bed; which, to his credit, was relatively cleaner. "It's true what they say. You learn something new every day."
Simon sighed, glancing at the clock. "Oh?"
"Until today," he toed a dirty sock out of his way. Distantly, he wondered if the other pair was anywhere on the surface of this planet. "I wasn't aware of the existence of a pigsty in our Hotel."
Simon blinked owlishly, tilting his head sidewards. "A pigst—Oi!" His already swollen eyes narrowed into slits. "Get out of my room, asshole."
"Impossible," Raphael retorted. He waded over to the bed and lowered himself down next to Simon. "I can't find the door in all this filth."
"Asshole," Simon mumbled under his breath, pushing the books aside to make space for the older vampire. "Who invited you here?"
He glanced at the younger vampire, finally taking his eyes off what used to be top class mahogany furniture but was now destroyed beyond recognition. Now that he wasn't fretting over the catastrophe that was Simon's room, he could see that he was right to worry.
The fledgling wasn't doing quite well. His complexion was pale and waxy, his cheekbones standing out alarmingly, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy; Raphael couldn't tell if it was from lack of sleep or perhaps...
...had Simon been crying?
"You look like shit," Raphael muttered, absently. He resisted the urge to reach out and flatten the fledgling's hair.
Simon scoffed, unamused. He tried to throw a pillow at the older vampire and missed. By a mile.
Raphael frowned. The younger vampire was obviously worn-out. He was many times slower and clumsier than usual.
"No, seriously," Simon mumbled, his voice hoarse. "It's too early for your bullshit."
Raphael shook his head, leaning back against the headboard. "Talk, fledgling."
Simon bit his lips. There was a dejected sort of finality in his voice when he said, "There's nothing to talk about."
"And yet here you are," Raphael gritted out, snatching his wrist; grotesque, inky black veins stark against ivory skin. "Starving yourself, barely sleeping, barely talking to anybody, pretending like the world has come to an end. I am tired of asking, but when's the last time you fed, fledgling?"
"None of your business," Simon wrenched his hands away from his grip. "I won't go on a killing spree and put the Clan in danger, if that's what you are worried about. I have better control than that."
"That's not—," Raphael sighed. How much longer was he going to argue? "Please, Simon."
Simon looked up, eyes wide. Raphael never begged.
"You once told me that you trusted me with your life," Back when life was easier, and there were no letters of gold etched on his skin. "So talk to me."
Simon seemed to study him for a while. Raphael met his gaze straight on, daring him to find an excuse, to try and brush him off now. See if Raphael won't toss him out of the window if he even thought of running away again.
At length, Simon tsked and turned away. "Talking makes it worse."
"Suit yourself, then."
Raphael prayed for a little more patience. The fledgling would talk to him, he just needed time.
"When's the last time you played the guitar?" he asked instead. Perhaps changing the topic would set Simon at ease. Besides, it had been a while since he heard Simon play.
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
He shrugged. "I don't remember."
"Shame," Raphael scoffed. "I was just getting used to your screeching—"
"I went home last week," Simon said suddenly. He was unnecessarily loud in the stillness of the room.
"Oh?" Raphael felt a muscle jump at his cheek. He didn't like being interrupted. He was just about to say so when the full implication of what Simon said hit him. "Oh."
"Yeah."
Raphael gathered one of the scrolls on Simon's bed and started to unfurl it slowly. "Did you go alone?"
"Yes," Simon sounded so far away. "I did tell Lily though. Just in case."
You could have asked me to come along, Rahael almost said out loud. I would have come with you. I could have made it a bit easier. You could have asked me.
"How did it go?" Raphael inquired, though he had a feeling he knew already.
Simon chuckled humorlessly, reaching up to unzip his hoodie and lifting the t-shirt underneath.
Raphael only barely stopped himself from falling off the bed. Because Simon's skin was not smooth and unmarred and perfect the way a vampires should be. It was littered with angry red blisters and a litany of purple, blue, and yellow bruises on his arms and his chest and extending past the waistline of his sweatpants. There was a large scar right over where his heart was.
If this had happened when Simon went to visit his mother last week, then shouldn't he have healed already?
"My mother...didn't believe me at first. She laughed because she thought it was a prank," Simon murmured, zipping up his hoodie. "And then I asked her to feel for my pulse."
"Here, have something to drink first, baby," Elaine fussed, pushing a glass of water into his hands. Simon didn't have the heart to tell her that his body would reject even water. "You should have told me you were coming. I would have made something special for dinner."
"Mom."
"Just a moment, honey!"
"She just...ran away from me. Wouldn't even look at me. Didn't wait to hear a word i said."
"This is impossible. No, this can't be—"
Simon pulled his hand back when he felt his mother's grip tighten around his hand. It was starting to hurt. "It's alright, Mom. I...I am still the same. I won't hurt anybody. I swear."
And then—
"What kind of monster," Elaine screeched, staggering backwards, "doesn't have a pulse? You are not even alive, you are a dead...thing."
"Mom!" Simon croaked. The glass of water he was holding slipped from his hands and shattered into a million different pieces. "Mom, it's still me. I-I am not—I swear, I haven't killed anyone. I will be good. I swear!"
Elaine screamed. Her eyes wide, pupils dilated. She took several steps back, and tripped over a chair.
"Where's Simon?" she demanded, her body shaking like a leaf. "Give me back my son, you heathen. Where's my son?"
"I am your son," Simon said, desperately
He dropped to his knees on the floor, crawling over to where his mother was. He tried to reach for her, to soothe and comfort her. Surely she would understand. She was his mother after all. "It's me, Simon. Mom—"
"Stay away from me," she howled, reaching behind her to grab one of the larger glass shards on the floor, promptly slamming it into Simon's hand.
Simon reeled back. He heard somebody screaming and yelling for help. There was something wet on his cheeks and his throat hurt.
Simon stared at his hand, at the blood running in rivulets down his arm and staining the dark blue jacket his mother had got him for his 17th birthday.
His throat hurt, because he was the one screaming. His cheeks were wet because he was the one crying.
"She called me a monster," Simon chuckled, numbly. He reached up to cover his ears, lips wobbling. "And she started to pray."
"Barukh ata Adonai sho'me' a t'fila..."
Simon turned his palms over, showing Raphael deep and jagged wounds across his palms.
Oh, of course, Raphael thought with a sinking feeling in his stomach. The name of God burns you, and condems you. No wonder Simon was unable to heal.
Simon understood. Of course he did. Wouldn't he have reacted in the same way had their places been switched? He was a monster, wasn't he? He was cursed, wasn't he?
He watched his mother pick herself up and run towards the kitchen. How horrible it must be for his mother. First her husband, and now her son. It would have been better if he had died instead. If Clary had never tried to bring him back.
"I tried to ask for B-Becky," Simon whispered. "Because she's my sister. And she would understand. I am sure."
Simon trudged towards the kitchen, shivering. A part of him knew it was futile but he had to try. He had to reason with his mother. If there was even the smallest chance, then—
"Mom, please."
His mother was crouching by the refrigerator, shaking and sputtering. There were tears streaming down her face, ruining her mascara. Above her were pictures of him and Becky on the refrigerator door, and the corny little fridge magnets they always got each other because they thought it was funny.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"Mom, stop it!" Simon sobbed. He couldn't believe his ears. How could she call the cops on him? He would never hurt anybody. He wouldn't even dream of hurting her.
He took a step forward. His shoes made a squelching sound as he walked over his own blood.
"Get away from me!" Elaine screamed, scrambling towards the kitchen drawers. "Leave me alone, you monster. Leave my family alone."
Simon felt sick. He took another step forward and stopped when he caught a glint of silver whiz past him and hit the wall with a dull thump. Eyes widening, he turned back.
It was a knife. His mother had thrown a knife at him. She had tried to kill him.
Simon shook his head. This wasn't real. It didn't make sense. His mom would never—
"And don't you dare come back."
Simon watched it unfold in slow motion, unable to move, unable to speak. He watched his mother lift her arm and throw another knife. He could tell from her posture, from the angle at which she held the blade. She wouldn't miss. Not this time.
Pain bloomed across his chest, sharp and unforgiving. He heard the sound of flesh tearing, and bones crunching. His hands were wet, his jacket ruined. Distantly, he wondered if this was how he would go. In his childhood home. At the hands of his own mother.
"She threw a knife at my chest, just inches away from my heart," Simon reached up, knotting up his tshirt, where his heart once beat. "It hurt like hell. But when she told me to—to never come back..."
He was crying in earnest now, blood tinged rivulets running down his cheeks. Something twisted in Raphael's heart.
"It was like," Simon choked out, "it was like dying all over again."
They were quiet for a long time after that, save for quiet sniffles from Simon's side. Raphael's eyes burned. Simon had been suffering alone all this time. And he had been too self-centred to see it. He had tried to make it about himself.
He was a horrible person.
"I am sorry," Simon said finally, his voice hoarse.
"What for?"
Simon glanced at him. "I didn't want to drag anybody into my problems. I thought I could fight on my own. But all I did was make everyone worry."
Raphael looked up at him, drinking him in. He really did have such beautiful eyes, and such soft, fluffy hair. There was a faint scar above his eyebrow that only Raphael could see, given the proximity and his heightened vision. It was perhaps an old scar. Maybe he fell off a tree as a child, or tripped over a toy when he wasn't careful. He would have to ask him about it someday.
He leaned in, pleased when Simon didn't pull away, and flicked the younger vampire's forehead.
Simon winced, reaching up to rub his head. But he was smiling. "Not gonna lie, I deserved that."
Raphael nodded. "You did."
He took a deep breath, before continuing, "When you first came to the Hotel, you were starving, and out of control. Your Turning was our fault, partially. But you were also Camille's fledgling. We had no obligation to take you in. We could have tossed you out, or asked the Shadowhunters to drive a stake through your heart."
The smile disappeared off the fledgling's face, but thankfully he let Raphael finish.
"But we didn't"
"Because you pitied me," Simon looked away.
"Absoutely not," Raphel said, his eyes glittering. "We took you in because there was a fire in you, because you are strong and that's what our Clan needed back then. Strength, and faith. You saved us. Not a single Clan member has ever regretted taking you in. Not even once."
"What's your point?"
"The day we took you in," Raphael whispered, taking Simon's hands into his. He turned them over and ran his fingers over all the scars and blisters. He may deny it, but Raphael could tell that they still hurt. Badly. "You made a pact. You accepted the Clan as your family, and you as ours.
Raphael stood up and zoomed to his room. He was back in less than a second, having retrieved what he wanted. A burn salve that Magnus had given him several years ago. He started rubbing the salve onto Simon's hands. Already the redness was starting to fade.
"There are no secrets in a family. It's not right to keep things like this to yourself. You don't have to tell me, you can approach anybody you like. Just—"
He looked up at Simon.
"Lean on us too, sometimes." Lean on me. "Stop drawing all these lines and categorizing everything as 'my problems' and 'your problems'. They can be our problems, you know."
"Hypocrite," Simon sniffled, wiping his nose with his sleeve.
Raphael grimaced. Nasty.
But.
"You are not entirely wrong," he yielded. He remembered his dream. His mother who taught him that people could indeed change. "But you better keep your nose out of trouble, fledgling."
I will do better, Simon, you will see. Better for you.
"The Clan is a family, and family looks out for each other. That's why," he closed his eyes, gathering his courage. Why was he so scared? This was only the first step. "That's why, please don't cry anymore. I-I don't want to see you cry anymore."
The smile Simon gave him was small; barely there. But to Raphael, it was like sunshine in spring. He didn't know if his heart could love him more.
"They are not tears. Just—allergies...or something."
Raphael bit his lips to stop himself from smiling. "Oh, well. My apologies, then."
Simon chuckled, falling back on his bed. He still looked exhausted and as pale as death, but also relieved. Like a huge load had been lifted off his chest. "Raphael?"
"Hm?"
A pause, and then, "Thank you."