#rarepairschallenge

Day 4 of @shadowhunterschallenges RarePair Challenge

Jace/Meliorn, Rated M, 1.4k words, arguably Canon Compliant

Implied Drunk Sex (Dubious Consent there because one’s drunk, one’s sober)

Jace struggles to deal with Clary's loss, and finds himself drinking too much. Drunken steps lead him somewhere he didn't know he needed.

Written for @shadowhunterschallenges, Day 3 of the RarePair Challenge: Jeliorn

Read On AO3

Jace knocked back the end of his whiskey glass. It hit the bar with an empty clink. He waved around at the bartender for another. He didn’t know how many he’d drank anymore.

Nothing made sense. The hole in his heart was too big, and trying to fill it with alcohol didn’t work. His heart was pierced, like the Danaids’ barrel, and he felt useless in trying to fill it back up.

It was Clary, who could fill his heart properly. And she wasn’t there anymore. All he had, was alcohol and the bartender that kept pouring him drinks despite the fact that he shouldn’t be drinking any more.

He didn’t remember the name of this bar, he just thought that the bartender was nice enough to not seem to care about the fact he wouldn’t be able to walk right when he stood back up. His glass was filled again and he slid another bill over the counter. Nothing really mattered and he wanted to get so wasted that he didn’t remember Clary’s absence.

It would hurt so much tomorrow morning, when he would have to wake up for patrol. Good.

He started drinking the rough, amber liquid greedily, not caring very much what he looked like. There was a perimeter of empty chairs around him, where no one had sat in a long time. He guessed that, with the leather jacket and the greasy hair, the dark circles and the breath that smelled too much like alcohol, he didn’t make a very attractive picture.

Fuck. What would Clary think of him if she saw him like this?

He shoved himself off of the stool and almost tumbled to the floor. His vision was so blurry that he barely could see the difference between the brown-painted concrete floor and the wooden counter of the bar.

“Want me to call you a cab, dude?” The bartender called.

Jace replied something he wished resembled “No, it’s fine, I’m just going to walk.”

He stumbled out of the bar through the door. The bell of it chimed distantly and he started walking down the sidewalk. He didn’t know where exactly he was going. He hoped his feet knew the way to the Institute, to his bed.

New York wasn’t really that pretty at night. It had garbage cans overflowing with the day’s trash, the sour smell of urine against the pavement. It had poor, desperate people, masses huddled against walls and inside construction scaffolding, sleeping there. You could never see the stars in the sky, because the lights of the city, of the big squares and the giant screens of adds lit up the sky too brightly to see anything.

Jace walked down the sidewalk and the world around him dissolved into a smudge that should have been darker than it actually was. Many places were still open, actually. Too many.

It was a bit cold but he didn’t do anything to keep himself warm. He just walked, and prayed that his boots would hit the steps of the Institute. His boots pressed into grass instead. He blinked. The vapors of alcohol kept him from seeing any real structure, but he knew there was grass.

He was probably on the lawn in front of the Institute. He sighed softly. Finally he was home. Finally he could sleep the alcohol away, disappear into dark night, and wake up maybe slightly more rested than he usually would.

He wished he could disappear inside the void of sleep and never come back, some days. Most days.

His fingers bumped against a tree, the bark rough against his fingertips and he stopped for a second. He wanted to puke. The world swam around him, and the lights blurring even more into threads of light instead of steady singular points.

Time stopped. His heart beat too loud, too slow. He tasted cheap whiskey on his lips, and sweat too.

He shoved himself onwards, always onwards.

Grass changed into dirt under his feet. That was strange. There was concrete and stone around the Institute, no dirt. He blinked again. It didn’t really help.

There were no buildings around him anymore. There was no one else, either, not even a homeless person. He was inside of a park, or some woods, and he was alone. He checked his phone. It slipped out of his hand, because it could register in his mind that he didn’t have any network.

His knees buckled. He hit the ground hard, wincing, the pain radiating up and down his legs from his kneecaps. The screen of his phone looked shattered, but he didn’t know if he could trust his eyes right now.

Jace sat there, on his knees. He didn’t know how to think.

“I thought I’d heard something.”

The voice was soft and sharp at the same time. Deep, and familiar. Jace tried to look up but his head pounded and swam and he felt pulled down by the alcohol in his veins. He couldn’t deal with this anymore.

“Please make it go away.” A second voice said, blurry and hoarse, words smushed together, barely recognizable. He frowned. Was that his voice?

A person walked up to him. He saw feet first, bare on the ground, skin brown and beautiful. There were small leaves on the tip of the toes. No. That wasn’t right. Nailpolish?

The person crouched down, foreign fingers gently grabbing Jace’s chin to lift it up. He let himself be moved, eyes struggling to see who the person was. Long, wavy black hair that wrapped around a golden brown man with dark eyes and scars like the strong, gnarled roots of big trees like the ones in Brocelind Forest. Was he in Brocelind Forest?

“Oh, Shadowhunter,” the man said, so softly. “I’ve never seen a man in such a pitiful state.”

Meliorn. The voice was so familiar that Jace wanted to cry. Seelie court.

Jace didn’t realize he’d moved until his hands were clutching the man’s tunic, hard. “Please.” He didn’t know what he was asking. “Please make it go away.”

Meliorn didn’t seem to care about how Jace’s grip was threatening to tear apart his clothing. He grabbed him, pulled him to his feet firmly and Jace felt like he was falling.

He was dragged away from the phone that was still on the ground, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered right now. His head was still swimming, swimming in ginger and musk and deep, deep earth. Swimming as his feet hit a ground covered in carpets and fabrics.

“Please,” Jace whispered again, when Meliorn stopped walking. “Please, please, please.”

Meliorn watched him, he could see that, feel that, electrifying his bones. Fingers reached to pull off his jacket. “I’m going to take care of you now,” Meliorn whispered. “Oh, poor young Shadowhunter.”

Jace shook his head, lunging forward, grabbing at the man again with renewed strength. Clumsily, his lips hit the man’s cheek, the corner of Meliorn’s mouth, searched for him. Searched for a kiss.

A force moved Jace’s body without him thinking, an awkward, muted and clumsy assault, and Meliorn chuckled, surprised. He kissed him back, hard, ardent, shoving against his mouth. It had nothing of the pretty elegant way Jace had seen him kiss before. His mind stopped working. Jace breathed in when Meliorn pulled back, deep, clean, and the biggest breath he’d taken in what seemed like years, but was probably just days.

Meliorn looked at him, a sickening fondness in his gaze. “I’m not one to sleep with inebriated people, Shadowhunter-”

“No,” Jace slurred. “Jace. Not Shadowhunter. Jace.”

Meliorn smiled at him, the first smile Jace had ever actually seen on his face. It was blinding, and it was so strange that Jace almost took a step backwards. Meliorn stopped him. A hand in greasy hair that should have been washed days ago, he pulled Jace to him.

“I’m going to make an exception, Jace,” he whispered. “You sound so desperate… And I know you need me.”

Jace nodded, eyelids half closed. Meliorn was so close, not kissing him yet, but just hovering there. He could feel his breath against his lips. “Please,” he whispered again, and he hated and loved how needy he sounded. “Please, make it go away.”

Meliorn’s smile turned a little too sweet, almost pitying, and Jace’s hands pushed him back for that. Meliorn didn’t let him. He pulled him even closer, until Jace couldn’t feel anything but relief and Meliorn’s body against him, lithe, so different from what Jace was used to, in both training and sex.

“I’ve never…” Jace mumbled, gesturing clumsily at Meliorn.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

Day 9 of @shadowhunterschallenges‘ RarePair Challenge: Alec/Jonathan

Luke/Mary, Rated G, 1k words, Post Canon

Luke is on mission in Paris, and Maryse enjoys life there, sitting at the terrace of a café.

Written for @shadowhunterschallenges, Day 5 of the RarePair Challenge: Marcian

Read On AO3

The café stood at the corner of a little square, onto one of the busiest and beautifulest avenues of Paris. The chair seats were made of braided plastic, bright, shiny white, with wooden frames supporting them. They were more comfortable than they originally appeared.

The waiters of the café had not yet pulled the shades to protect the row of seats from the sun, so Maryse enjoyed it fully. It was around 10 in the morning, and it was her 30th day in Paris.

The coffee was stronger than she was used to, and she’d learned that the type she preferred was called café double, and not americano. Ordering americanos in cafés got you strange looks, and a quite disgusting drink.

She was reading a book, in French, of course, working on her old French skills that had been forgotten during the last decades spent in the New York Institute. It was only the end of her first month here, and they would stay for as long as Luke was needed in the Paris Institute. And for now, it seemed like Alec had asked him to stay at least a trimester.

Maryse had her own things to do. She had people to see, she needed to visit a couple of shops held by demons and warlocks alike. The first one had been Mirek’s old shop, that had been taken over by a new one. She’d introduced herself and offered some help with possible translations. That was her job now.

She had those business cards, written with Maryse Lightwood, Antiques Dealer & Shadow World Translator. They seemed a bit strange some days. Like they didn’t really belong to her. But yet, here she was. That was her life now, she collected things, helped translate records and worked on decoding Circle code that seemed to permeate the life of many Downworlder  Antiques Dealers.

Some days she felt terrible about those, about the fact that Circle members had systematically taken from the Downworld, systematically locked away from them. It was their knowledge, their books, their art and tools, but the Circle had taken it and locked it away behind impenetrable code. And Maryse was trying to undo it.

Those were the days where she wanted to apologize to everyone. But apologies didn’t help. She didn’t want to seem like she was asking for pity for this, because she wasn’t. She just wanted to fix what she’d been responsible for, somewhat.

The sun shifted a little and she pulled down her sunglasses on her nose. Over the cream stone of the nearby building, in between old small houses and old municipal buildings, the sun was playing hide and seek. And her coffee was getting cold.

Cold coffee was good, but she liked dunking her croissant in hot one. Dark and delicious and so comforting, with the buttery flackiness of the croissant. Oh, how she could get used to this. To this life, to reading cheap detective stories in French at a café terrasse, waiting for her boyfriend to come back from an early morning check-in at the Institute.

Just as she started thinking about him, she saw him part the crowd of Parisians walking onto the street. He was coming from the Paris Institute, and he was walking, as always. He liked the subway enough but he preferred walking from the Institute to their favorite café, L’Etincelle.

He looked great, his beard grown back now. People turned as he walked, a tall beautiful Black man with a leather jacket and dark eyes fixed on hers. Maryse blushed and went back to pretending that she wasn’t seeing him. Behind her sunglasses, she stole glances at him to see where he was, which way he was coming.

“Excusez moi, mademoiselle,” Luke said, his accent strong under the French words.

Maryse turned to him as he stopped in front of her table. “Qu’y-a-t-il, monsieur?”

She couldn’t help the grin tugging at her lips as he looked at her, leaning a little closer. “I saw you from across the street, and you looked so beautiful that I couldn’t help but come and ask for a drink with you.”

Maryse chuckled. “How about coffee? Right now?” She replied.

“Merci beaucoup,” Luke slid into the chair by her side.

Maryse turned to him, pulling him closer and kissing him softly on the lips. Luke was smiling against her mouth, reaching to hold her as well. Maryse felt like she was floating. Like every time that Luke kissed her like this, like she was precious and good and loved.

She moved back after a moment. French people didn’t seem to care about random French kissing in the streets, but she always felt a little awkward.

“How was your morning?” She asked, as the waiter brought him his usual, coffee and croissant. The waiter had stopped ignoring their existence about a week ago, and that was for the better. Parisians were so difficult.

“Good, good. The changes I’ve been asked to oversee are doing great,” he smiled. “I probably have the rest of the day free, except for a meeting tonight, at around 8. It’ll probably involve a lot of alcohol.”

Maryse laughed. “Do you think I can be invited? Loud drunk French people are my favorites.”

He smiled. “I don’t think anyone would dare to call me off if I bring the Inquisitor’s mother to the party.”

Maryse shook her head. “Ugh. How about you just bring your girlfriend, huh?” She asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

Luke pressed a kiss to her cheek.

They settled back onto the chairs and ate their snack, chuckling and looking at the people who were walking by them.

Maryse looked at him from the corner of her eyes as he closed his eyes and let the sun brush his face. She’d never thought she’d had this. A life outside of the Clave, a life with Luke, and a life… doing something she actually loved doing.

Izzy/Meliorn, Rated M, 1.8k words, Post Canon

Things have changed since the death of the Seelie Queen. Isabelle visits the Seelie Court, her Seelie King.

Written for @shadowhunterschallenges, Day 2 of the RarePair Challenge: Melizzy

Read On AO3

Things have changed since the death of the Seelie Queen.

Isabelle doesn’t walk into the Seelie realm through the back door anymore; she walks into it through the main entrance, the one that leads directly next to the palace. The one she never used to take before.

Leaves, the colors of sunset, gather at the foot of the great arched bridge over which a street has been built. The entrance is underneath the old, cream-colored stone, darkened by age and the constant pollution of the mundane world.

More leaves stick wetly to the lambskin of her thigh-high boots as she walks into the darkness under the bridge. She takes step after step, and every time the cluster of leaves stick further up her body. Soon, her legs are covered by leaves from the tip of her toe to her thigh. She can feel her body half into the Seelie Realm already.

Wind blows more leaves onto her. They stick now to her torso, to the dress she’s wearing and the jacket on top of that. Soon, the first leaf gets onto her cleavage, cold and wet and disgusting. It hasn’t rained in New York in weeks.

Isabelle struggles not to blink away the hand-sized red maple leaf that covers one of her eyes. Her mouth is covered by more of them, keeping her from breathing properly, a barrier from the air. She keeps walking. Once the last inch of her body is covered in leaves, she feels herself pulled into the Seelie Court.

Fingers pry the leaves from her eyes. She blinks open. A Seelie girl, hair braided with flowers, is standing above her. Isabelle doesn’t know how to describe the look in the girl’s eyes. Animosity? Curiosity? A mix of both?

Seelie-Clave relations haven’t gotten much better since Clary’s departure. Though the rest of the Shadow World has settled into a sort of peace, with some distinct improvements when it comes to Downworlder rights all over the world, Seelies have kept their gates closed, even more so than before.

Jonathan was a Shadowhunter, despite the demon blood. And many Seelies are still upset that he killed their Queen. Even if the new Monarch is much more to Isabelle’s liking.

She sits up from where she’s appeared, right before the Seelie Palace’s gate, in the piles of leaves. The Seelie girl stares at her, awaiting something. Maybe a reason why she’s here.

“I’m here to see the Seelie King,” Isabelle says, not without snap in her tone.

The Seelie girl’s lips curl back on themselves to show long, sharp, villiform teeth. Isabelle sighs softly. She’s used to this now. She’s used to what it’s like to visit the King.

“I’m Isabelle Lightwood,” she continues.

The girl freezes and hides away her teeth. Good. Isabelle peels leaves from her long, flowing hair. She’s let it grow a little more now and it reaches down to her lower back. She likes the look it gives her. And the King likes it as well.

“The Queen of the New York Nephili Court,” the girl hisses.

She must be very young, Isabelle realizes. Only the young Seelies call her the Queen of the New York Nephili Court. They haven’t yet been explained that the hierarchy of the Clave is not the hierarchy of the Seelie Realm.

Isabelle hums in reply.

The doors to the Seelie Palace open as Isabelle steps up to them. She smiles. Outside, she forgets what it feels like to be powerful like she is in the Seelie Realm. Now, handmaidens buzz around her to take her jacket and take the leaves off of her clothing. They were wet and that water has seeped into the fabric of her dress, leaving it stained in places, almost see-through in others.

She shoos them away and they disperse like flies. Isabelle can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of her lips.

“Is he holding court?” Isabelle asks the girl that met her at the gate.

The girl nods.

Isabelle starts walking down the corridor of the palace. It’s overgrown by vines and plants, flowers as large as her head blossoming around the pillars that keep the high, vaulted ceilings up. Isabelle doesn’t stop to look at the flowers anymore. She knows this place better than all other Shadowhunters.

She walks into the Seelie Courtroom. There’s a small warlock man, his antlers too heavy for his head, talking to the man that sits on the throne of the Seelie Monarch.

His eyes snap from the warlock to her immediately as she steps through the room. They’re dark, sharp, and they roam over her body, over the whip on her wrist and the seraph blade in her thigh holster. She’s the only Shadowhunter allowed her weapons in the court. Perk of being the King’s Consort, she guesses.

She’s earned that title, been through all of the trials of the Seelie Court, proved her value as his Consort. She’s been chosen by him and she’s been trialed by his people. They don’t really get to complain and demand anything of her, anymore.

The King smiles at her, a secretive smile only for her. Isabelle smiles back at him. The Seelie Crown rests on his head, hair strands wrapped and braided around his face and around the wood of the crown. The blue highlights he’s always worn peek through the darkness of the headdress. He looks beautiful.

The Court falls silent, everyone staring at her. She walks to the throne and stands in front of him. The warlock is entirely forgotten by everyone. He doesn’t dare speak up against her. No one does when they learn who she is.

The King stands from his throne. The robe he wears over his clothing unfolds around him like the leaves that covered her as she walked into the realm. He holds out a hand for her and she takes it. He pulls her to him, her body hitting his hard, his hands already leaving hers to grab at her waist and keep her close.

She tilts her head back. He kisses her. His lips are demanding against her and she lets herself be conquered just for this very public moment. They both know the dynamics aren’t the same once they’re in private. In front of the realm, she’s his Consort and he’s the King. Power is in his hands.

The last time she tried to take power in public, he took her on the throne, in front of every Seelie of the palace. He told her to watch their faces as he showed them, and her, that she was his Consort, not the Queen. She still remembers the stinging humiliation.

When he pulls away from her, she chases after him for more, pliant against him. Only for him. He smiles at her, a promise of later in his eyes.

The faces of the Seelies in his court are all scarred now. Now that he’s King, they have all cut out their plants and vines, sacrificing them and punishing themselves to emulate the way the previous Queen punished him. Isabelle presses a kiss to his cheek.

She sits by his side the rest of the audience, until he decides he’s had enough and he wants private time. She follows him back towards his bedchambers. The door slams shut behind them, and they’re alone.

“Isabelle,” he breathes, and she grins at him.

“Meliorn,” she replies. “That sure was a display of power, out there.”

“Hm,” is all he says, and his hands are already pulling at the zipper of her dress.

She swats his hand away harshly. “The girl at the gate was rude to me,” she continues, unzipping her dress and stepping out of it. She’s in her underwear now and the thigh-high boots that she’s still wearing.

Meliorn presses a kiss against her collarbone and she lets him. “You taste like humus,” he whispers. “As if you’ve slept naked onto the ground of the Wander Woods again.”

Isabelle chuckles. Her fingers untangle his braids and strands from the crown. She makes quick work of the hairstyle that keeps the crown on his head seamlessly.

“I’ll have to renew your connection to the Woods soon,” she hums, finishing to take the crown from him. “It’s fading.”

“Whenever you wish, Isabelle,” he speaks against her skin, kissing and licking patterns onto her cleavage, the swell of her breasts. Her nipples are still covered by her bra. He knows better than to try to take it off when she’s taking power from him.

She tosses away the crown, accentuating her carelessness for the symbol of his power. She knows he loves it.

“Not today,” she shrugs. “I have to go back to the Institute,” she hums. “They do need me to lead them.”

Meliorn smirks at her. “And you lead them so beautifully, my dear.”

Isabelle shrugs off the compliment. She pushes him back towards the bed.

“I’ll make sure no one is ever rude to you again,” he promises. “Unless you want to punish some of them, sometimes.”

Isabelle shakes her head. “I don’t get off on punishing. You do,” she reminds him.

Meliorn grins as he undoes his robe and takes off his clothes. He makes quick work of it, even if there are a bit more layers to his outfits than to hers. Her dress is discarded on the floor and so is his crown, laying sideways onto a bench.

She slides onto the bed, sighing softly. “Do you remember when I came to your home, that small tent at the edge of the wood, and we would fuck for information?” She asks, her fingers tracing patterns onto the sheets of the bed.

“I do,” Meliorn smiles. “It was a lifetime ago.”

She nods. He gets into bed as well, settles close to her. She moves, straddling him now. She can see the scars of his torso and the regrowing vines in his flesh. Sometimes she wonders if they hurt. She’s asked him before and he offered to grow some in her body, to see what it would be like. She refused. She’s not ready to be more of a Seelie.

With every time she renews her connection to the Woods, she becomes a little less of a Shadowhunter, a little more of a Seelie. She’s been told that, one day, she might not be able to use her weapons and stele anymore. One day, she will be too much of a Seelie for the Clave.

She dreads that day. She spaces out her renewals as much as possible and she always makes sure that she’s not fertile when she visits him. A Seelie King doesn’t need an heir and she doesn’t need to be even more of a fey from it.

She looks down at his face again and gently caresses it. Her King.

“I need information again,” she says quietly.

Day 6 of @shadowhunterschallenges ‘s RarePairs Challenge: Clary/Rebecca

Jace/Andrew, Rated T, 1k words, Post Canon

Jace needs a bit more cuddles time in the morning. Andrew is very happy to oblige. Love confessions ensue.

Written for @shadowhunterschallenges, Day 7 of the RarePair Challenge: Heronhill

Read On AO3

The warm weight over Jace’s back shifts cruelly away, leaving him alone in the bed.

That is definitely enough to wake him up. He isn’t a big sleeper. Especially when his boyfriend is leaving the bed way too early.

He pulls the white sheets up a little, eyes fluttering open.

Morning light is streaming in the room, catching on the mirror of the wardrobe. Jace buries his face a little further into the pillows. Unfair. It’s unfair that when he manages to fall asleep, when he manages to sleep through the night, he has to be awakened by the loss of Andrew’s body against his.

Andrew walks away from the bed and towards the bathroom, walking in front of Jace and Jace makes an annoyed groan. He’s so not ready to share Andrew with other people. He’s so not ready to be part of the world again this morning.

He shifts slowly, moving his limbs to wake himself up a little. Everything’s still a bit hazy and heavy, and he wants it to stay like this as long as possible.

"If I say there’s a demon in my bed, are you obligated to check it out?" Jace croaks out. His voice is muddled with sleep and rusty from not using it in the past few hours. He needs a glass of water and a coffee but that will have to wait until later. Until he’s been able to get the rest of his cuddles.

"You’re a good enough Shadowhunter not to need the Head of Security checking for demons in your bed, babe,” Andrew replies. He’s barely even looking at him.

Jace pouts. This is not okay. He groans again. He doesn’t care if he’s ridiculous right now, he just needs more of Andrew this morning. Like all mornings.

“Come on,” he whispers, and finally, Andrew turns towards him. His eyes are blue like the sky in Idris and it makes Jace almost forget what he’s trying to get out of being cute. “You’re basically the boss, and I’ll deal with Izzy if she says anything.”

Andrew looks at him with a soft, fond and slightly annoyed look. Jace tries not to focus too much on the fact Andrew’s shirtless and that his abs are level with Jace’s eyes right now. Not only his abs…  

“I just need a tiny bit more of you this morning. Before I have to share you with the world…”

For now, they just get to be safe, quiet, everything Jace needs these days. He’s doing better than he ever has, and that’s partly thanks to Andrew’s quiet love and patience. Some days are just a little harder than others. And cuddles before he walks out into the noisy, busy world make it a little easier.

He has things to do today, people to train and reports to write. Jace closes his eyes for a moment, pushing his face deeper into the pillow and inhaling. He can already feel the stress building back into his body, like a weight over his chest. So many people, expecting so many things.

The bed creaks slightly as Andrew gets on it. He slides under the sheets again and wraps an arm around Jace’s waist, pulling him to him. Jace exhales when his back hits Andrew’s chest. He’s so thankful for this. For this quiet moment.

Andrew presses a kiss at the tender junction of his neck and his collarbone. “You have an alarm on in case we fall back asleep?” he mutters against Jace’s neck, sending shivers down Jace’s spine.

Jace hums in reply. He always does. Andrew swallows and shifts a little to get more comfortable. His hand reaches up to hold Jace’s. It’s so quiet that Jace feels like he can hear both of their hearts beating. Everything’s so peaceful.

Jace twists his hand to kiss Andrew’s knuckles. “I love you,” he murmurs, so incredibly quiet that he doubts Andrew can even hear the words.

“I love you too, Jace,” Andrew replies. “Every day more than before, I think.”

Jace feels a little choked up. He always is when Andrew says things like that. He’s not used to this, never thought he’d have more than one-night-stands and fleeting connections. He’s not used to the idea of a steady love like the one between the two of them, like the one that makes every day easier to deal with.

He never thought he would be able to love someone like this, to be loved back, and for it not to feel like it was consuming him alive, poisoning him almost. He could stay forever in Andrew’s arms, and in his life.

Maybe some days, for Andrew, it’s a burden to always have Jace need him the way he does. Maybe Jace is the only one that’s really content right now… He tries to shove away the sudden paranoia that threatens the quiet perfection of his moment, but fails.

“I’m sorry you always need to take care of me,” Jace whispers. “I’m sorry you always have to make sure I’m okay.”

Andrew huffs slightly behind him. “I’ve never been trusted with anything half as precious as you before,” he answers, voice firm and full of an emotion Jace has trouble dealing with. “I love caring for you. I love knowing that you trust me enough to let me take care of you. I know it can be hard…”

Jace shakes his head. “Never with you. I trust you with my life.”

Andrew holds him tighter suddenly. “Thank you, Jace,” he whispers. “Thank you for letting me take care of you.”

Jace turns around in his arms, all idea of getting more sleep forgotten. He looks at the man that’s holding him now, the man that he loves more than he can actually say because words are still complicated for him.

Andrew looks a little tired like this, all soft against the pillow. His hair is getting a bit long, he needs a haircut, and the curls roll against Jace’s fingers when he reaches up and brushes his hand over him.

He leans in softly, and kisses him. It’s not a heated kiss, none of them really feel like more right now, more than the quiet of this. Jace kisses him, thanks him, loves him in one breath.