Chapter Text
Simon was too excited about this.
It wasn’t that Clary was unenthused about the move – it was just that they were doing this to get away from things. So she didn’t love that her best friend was treating this as something they were doing entirely of their volition, that their hand hadn’t been forced.
Even if he didn’t know everything. That was no excuse.
“Clary, look at this!”
“You’re pointing at a TV, Simon,” she sighed.
“Our TV. For the first time there’s no Mom, no Becky, no Joce—” He slammed his mouth shut abruptly. Clary ignored him, critically examining their apartment.
They were lucky this university allowed co-ed flats for undergrads too though it was, of course, partially her father’s money that had gotten them this privilege. “We need to get a coffee machine in here,” she pointed out.
“Or we could just make it the old-fashioned way,” he teased.
“You mean get it from outside?” She laughed. “Si, the last time we tried anything in the kitchen, we exploded raisins everywhere.”
Simon had tripped on one of the burst raisins, falling on his glasses and breaking them. Elaine had rolled her eyes and revealed that she’d already bought an extra because she knew the two of them would do something like this.
“New place, new us, Clary!” He said enthusiastically. Now that was a sentiment Clary could agree with. “We’re in freaking Switzerland – the best college here, at that.”
Because Clary was a legacy, neither of them mentioned.
“So you’re planning on cooking?” She asked dubiously. “Personally, I’d work on other stuff about old you first.”
Simon scoffed. “Like you have room to talk.”
She stuck her tongue out at him and went into her room. The windows were latched shut, thankfully, since it overlooked the dumpster in the next street. It was filled to bursting with a bed, a table and a cupboard. Since the rooms were so small, they’d talked about making one of them a study and pushing both beds together in the other, and that was seeming like a better and better idea.
“Maybe we should—” She started, heading back to the living room when she stopped short, seeing Simon talking to a pretty black girl.
“What’s going on?” She snapped.
“This is Maia, our neighbour,” Simon said gently. “She came over to say hi and that there’s a party tonight.”
Clary pursed her lips. “Right.”
She didn’t greet Maia. She knew she was being paranoid, stupid, rude, but the thought of what had happened the last time Simon had become infatuated with a pretty girl. . . Her grip on the doorway tightened.
“This is Clary,” Simon rushed to fill in the awkwardness. “She’s majoring in Graphical Design. I’m Ethical Hacking and Music. You?”
“Business Management,” was the reply, along with a curious stare in her direction.
Clary’s breath stuttered. Isabelle’s major had been Business and Marketing. Panic threatened to overwhelm her, and she stretched iron control over it, swallowing it back down bit by bit where it simmered in her stomach, waiting for another opportunity.
She couldn’t do this anymore. “I’m sure we’ll see you at the party,” she told Maia, then practically ran back to her room, slamming the door shut and sliding down it to put her head in her knees.
Thanks to the shitty walls though, she could hear everything going on outside.
“She a possessive girlfriend or something?” Maia’s voice had an edge to it, like she had personal business with that.
“No! Clary’s my best friend, and she’s usually really nice—” A snort interrupted him. “Well, okay, but that was bad even for her. . .” She would’ve felt betrayed if he hadn’t sounded worried. “She’s just really overprotective of me – I got into an accident and my memories are still a little blurry.”
“Oh,” Maia’s voice had changed, now sounding more guardedly respectful.
“Yeah, she even switched majors to be closer to me – graphical design instead of drawing and painting.”
Now Clary felt a pang of annoyance, and an even bigger one of worry. Why was he explaining their life story to her? Was he really as gone for Maia as he had been for—
She cut herself off mentally, counting down odd numbers from a hundred in German instead.
Clary survived by compartmentalizing carefully. She didn’t let herself think about all the many triggers she had, or she’d burst right open just like those raisins so long ago.
So she wasn’t going to think about how their new start might be ruined by another pretty girl, or how the new Clary was just as much a failure as the old one.
Maia might have sounded respectful in the afternoon, but the way she treated Clary made it clear she disliked her.
Not that Clary blamed her. She was too wary of Maia to form a friendship with her anyway.
They moved their things in. Clary complained about Simon’s computer. He complained about her easels. Both of them complained about the stupid lumpy sofa they’d have to replace.
“You’re a nerd,” Clary told Simon bitterly when they were still carrying his manga and DVD collection up.
“Like you haven’t read all these too,” he retorted.
“I didn’t buy them or bring them here, did I?” She pointed out.
Maia appeared, looking amused, making Clary stiffen until she showed what was in her hands – coffee.
“Thank God,” she sighed, snatching up one of them and sipping, thankful to find it was her preferred black. “Save me from Simon, please.”
“Should we leave you two alone?” Simon asked sarcastically.
Clary looked at the cup consideringly. “What do you think? Do we need privacy? It’d be better than Simon’s company anyway.”
Simon threw his hands up in defeat, muttering something unflattering to her under his breath. Maia laughed and Clary curled up, looking between the two of them carefully. He hadn’t turned to her at the sound and she doubted he was used to it.
Every time Isabelle had laughed Simon had beamed at her like—
Enough.
“Clary, your cup—” Simon started in concern, and she looked to see it was crumpled. She drank the rest of it hastily, forcing a smile.
“Just imagining it as your neck,” she joked.
Simon gave a dramatic gasp, hands flying to his neck as though checking it was still there and fine, but the considering, worried look in his eyes didn’t fade.
Clary hated it. She hated lying to her best friend, and she hated that she had to because—
Because she couldn’t tell him the truth. She just couldn’t.
She’d begged George – the one person in favour of telling Simon everything – not to. He was right, she knew that, and yet. . .
This was probably what her mother had felt.
She wished she had alcohol. “When and where’s this party?” She asked Maia.
Parties weren’t really her or Simon’s scene, but right now, she made a beeline for the solo cups, grateful that the drinking age in Switzerland wasn’t twenty-one like at home.
Simon had that worried pinch between his eyebrows again. He took the cup out of her hands. “That’s enough.”
“Look who’s controlling,” she muttered sulkily, but didn’t protest.
He blinked. “You heard that?” Running a hand through his hair and sighing: “Look, I just wanted to explain – I didn’t want her to think badly of you—”
“It’s fine,” she assured him, the panic in her abdomen finally gone, replaced by a vague fluttery feeling. “It’s all great!”
“Clary, what is happening?” He asked in frustration. “I don’t understand what’s going on with you—”
“Of course you don’t,” she giggled. “You don’t know anything!”
George had given her a six-month deadline. You’ll tell him by then, or I will, he’d threatened. Personally, she thought the guilt would rip her apart before either could happen.
She still had five months but that deadline pressed against her heart every day, getting closer and closer.
“What don’t I know?” He asked confusedly. Then his tone turned into a demand: “Is it something I’ve forgotten? Tell me, Clary!”
“I can’t,” she whispered. “You’re killing me, Simon.”
Sober enough to know talking any more was a bad idea, she ran unsteadily away. She crashed into a guy, blinking up at him, swaying.
“You okay?” She heard him say through the buzz, his golden hair catching the light.
She giggled again, and this time it felt more like sobbing. “Nope. I’m never okay.”
Then she ran again, wishing she could run away like this from all her problems.
Then her problems materialized in front of her in the form of a single person wearing a short dress with fishnets and heels high and sharp enough to stab, with long black hair, angular features and a ruby pendant dangling from her throat, coyly flirting with a blue-haired boy.
For a minute, Clary thought she was hallucinating, even though she hadn’t drunk that much.
This was just like one of her nightmares.
“Isabelle?”