A/N: So, this was a fic I made for Heronstairs Day and due to the fact I procrastinate so much, I ended up having to write it in two days to have it up by then on my tumblr. I thought I would post it here as well, so hopefully you all enjoy it!

Warnings: There is one count of swearing + it is hella angsty at the end.

Disclaimer: All rights for The Infernal Devices go to Cassandra Clare

Oh and this whole story is set upon this quote:

"After the first year, even though I still dreaded the day's approach, I began to find that there was something Jem simply had to do every November tenth, some training exercise or some search that would take us to the far end of the city in the cold, wet winter weather. And I would abuse him bitterly for it, of course. Sometimes the damp chill made him ill, or he would forget his drugs and become ill on the day, coughing blood and confined to bed, and that would be a distraction too. And only after it happened three times - for I am very stupid, Cecy, and think only of myself - did I realize that of course he was doing it for me. He had noticed the date and was doing all he could to draw me from my melancholy." - Will Herondale, Clockwork Princess

10th of November, 1873.

It was the rain that had awoken him that day. The heavy thudding against the window that never opened, along with the lighter grey sky that set an ethereal glow to the room he was sleeping in. The curtains were still lying on the floor from when he had accidentally ripped them off last week in a fit of rage.

He should have asked Charlotte or Henry if he could have them replaced because the view of London made his insides twist in discomfort when he saw no greenery, only shades of grey with smoke rising into the ever grey sky. He should have asked them to change it because when the sky lightened it woke him up early and all he wanted to do was to stay in bed and dream - that was if he had managed to fall asleep the night before. He should have asked them, but he didn't want to because then it would show that he needed them, and they would come into his room and they would see the books and clothes all astray on the ground and they might ask him to clean it up as if they were his parents, they might even ask him why the curtains had been ripped off in the first place and he would never admit that it was because they were a colour too reminiscent of his fathers eyes.

So, William Herondale had more than enough time to stay still and safe under the covers of his bed before he could even think about breakfast. Which was annoying, because these days Will never wanted time to think. He wanted to be doing things and setting his mind on something else. Little, uncalloused hands rubbed slowly blinking eyes before reaching down to the side of the bed to grab the book that had been dropped there the night before. Oliver Twist was heavy in his hand, but his fingers nimbly opened the book from where he had turned the corner of a page and began reading.

There was a spell on that morning which made it hard to concentrate. Something was nagging at him from the back of his thoughts, something he needed to remember but he did not know what. When he dressed for the day he accidentally put his trousers on backwards, his shirts buttons were in the wrong holes and he almost put his foot in the wrong shoe. There was more than enough frustrated grunts emitting from behind closed doors before he set off for the dining room.

"Good morning, Will." Each day Charlotte would greet him that way. Each day Will would ignore her before plopping down upon a seat with an angered huff, as if the mere action gave him great strain. He then laid his head to rest on top of the table, hoping that though he had made an appearance, the fact that he would prefer to sleep, would ward off any conversation.

It was the newer voice that he actually wanted to pay attention to.

"Your breakfast may have gone cold," Jem told him. "But there is no reason to put your hair in it."

Will's head went up wearily, only to discover that a breakfast plate with eggs, sausages, bacon and toast had in fact been sitting close to where his head had been upon the table. Unperturbed, the black headed boy lowered his head back into the same position, the edges of his black locks now soaking in the egg yolks on his plate. "Perhaps I wanted my hair in my breakfast. Haven't you heard? Egg yolks produce surprisingly nourished hair. It is in my best intention to have thoroughly nourished hair."

"Is that what you do in your room when you are away? Nourish your hair?" There was sarcasm in the other boys voice but Will could almost hear the infuriatingly amused smile that was sure to be upon his lips.

"What can I say? I do it for the greater good."

And with that, he closed his eyes and attempted to block out all further conversation.

Jem was not too new to the Institute anymore. He had been here for a few months, and within those few months Will had taken a liking to him. At least, he could admit he liked him, after spending many a time pondering over his feelings. His rational mind constantly reprimanded him because of it. All who love you will die. The blue demons words constantly ran through his head. There wasn't a day that those words went through his mind and controlled his actions and had enough effect on him to stop his actions completely. In fact, he had been practicing sword fighting the other week (With longswords, which Will had decided he was quite terrible at.) when the very same words took place in his mind. He had dropped his sword, and he was quite thankful that Jems few years of prior training had granted him quick reflexes before the other boy could have stabbed Will.

But it was only with Jem that Wills insistent need to be disliked became murky. The world was a cruel, cruel place. Will knew that all too well. But with the fact that this kind and caring and utterly deserving boy was going to die because of some stupid demon - Wills view on the world became darker, indeed. But due to his imminent death, there was the prospect of a… technicality, perhaps. If Jem cared for him- would he be destined to die if he was already going to die? Would the fact that he was already dying make him immune to this curse?

Will had no clue and had often procured a headache trying to ponder the idea. In the meantime of reaching his decision, he had spent more time with the dying boy. He had put more effort into communicating. Not much- but a noticeable amount. Will knew what it was like to have all family torn away from him. If this technicality of sorts could allow him to comfort another, he would use it all he could.

With a sigh, he lifted his hair and pulled his plate of food closer to him. Will avoided the eggs as he cut up his sausage.

"Charlotte?" Henry asked, not looking up from the notebook he was writing in. From this distance all Will could see were hurried notes and a drawing of what looked like a plain box.

"Yes, Henry?" The brown haired women responded quickly, a stray piece of hair escaping from her strict bun to land in front of her eye.

There was almost something pitiful inside Will when he watched Henry and Charlotte together. He believed that they both truly cared for one another, but… neither one had ever seemed to notice. It was strange, because his parents had always looked at one another with utmost adoration. A shared love that showed respect and acceptance with one another. When Charlotte looked at Henry in the same way, there was always a need for acknowledgment of some sort. She looked as if she needed to be louder when she gathered his attention. And when Henry looked at Charlotte with adoration and anything like it, she was always looking away. Henry always looked a little lost. Sometimes Will thought they just needed to talk directly to one another. But he never showed any interest in their relationship.

"Do you know what the date today is?"

The newspaper in Charlottes grasp was flipped through until she reached the front again. "The tenth. Why do you need to know?"

Henry hurriedly crossed out the line he was just writing. "I think I might go into town today, the wrench I'm currently using is getting woefully…"

The rambling from the older man went on and on as Will stopped listening.

He had forgotten.

Will had forgotten how long it was since he had left his home.

How could he have not known it was a year since… since his sisters death. A year since he abandoned his entire family. A year since he abandoned his entire past.

The world felt like it was spinning around him and he was vaguely aware of himself pushing away from the table. Not knowing much but knowing he needed to get away. Knowing he needed to get away from the rest of these people who he couldn't let know he was hurting. Even though he felt like a dagger was digging itself into his chest. He rushed from the room, not noticing Charlottes distant sound of shock.

How had it been a year!? How in the world had it been a year since he had seen his parents and his sisters?

He must have been running for he reached the room that was supposed to be his very quickly. The moment he entered the room, it was like everything inside him had been switched on. He pushed the door shut behind him, but didn't even notice that the click had not sounded. He saw the room very clearly, the untucked coverlets, the dirty nightclothes, the piles of books and dirty cups of tea and unwashed plates from the many dinners he had taken to eat in his room. He saw very clearly the view from his window. He saw very clearly the stupid greyness of the outside world. He saw very clearly the stupid rain and the way the grey in the clouds was too dark for it to be even slightly reminiscent of the colour he had grown up with when he looked at the sky. There was no colour in sight. He wanted to put the stupid curtains up but they were still sprawled on the ground, just lying there.

This was the room he had been in for a year. He had chosen it very specifically. It was far away from everything. It was far away from Charlotte and Henry. It was far away from the servants rooms. It was far away from everything, in a side tower of the institute.

Every time he made a sound in this room, no one had heard it. No one would ever hear him when he cried out in his sleep for a home long lost, because he had chosen to take himself away. It was entirely different from the room he had had back in Wales. The room wedged between Ella and Cecily. His room had been the one they all stayed in when it was thundering. His room had been where his mother gathered to tell folk tales. His room had been where his father had checked for monsters under the bed before determining the room safe. His room had had a window that was huge and showed rolling green hills where adventure stories could take place.

He hated London.

He hated this room that could never be his.

He hated being without his family.

He hated his stupid self.

If only you hadn't opened that box.

A leg shot out that sent a pile of books sprawling to the ground. He yanked the covers off his bed and pulled a chair closer to the window. The hooks used for the curtains were thankfully not broken, but he had to be upon the balls of his feet before he threw the sheets up. It took a few tries, but thankfully the view into London was no more. He collapsed back into the chair and looked at the desk. His entire room was a mess, but strangely enough, the desk was clear save a few pieces of parchment, an inkwell and a pen.

He just wanted his Dad and his Mam and his sister. He just wanted his family.

He picked up a pen and began to write.

And write.

And write.

And write.

His only results were a tighter feeling in his chest and mounds of crumpled paper at his feet. He threw the last one over his shoulder and under a desk. He would find the same piece of paper years later.

He felt like he was to scream before he heard a knock on the door.

"Go away."

"It's me, Jem."

Will hesitated. "Go away."

He heard a deep breath on the other side of the door. "I just wanted to know if…" if you were okay. Those were going to be the words. He was just preparing a retort when Jem went on. "If you'd like to help me with archery."

His head swivelled to face the closed door and his blue eyes narrowed. "Can't you already do archery? You can already throw knives."

"Archery is completely different," Came Jems reasoning tone from the corridor. "It is not only the art of aiming, but also gathering the proper strength when pulling back upon the bowstring."

"It seems like you already know the basics. Now, go away." Please, before you end up opening the door.

"I know how to do it in theory, but I'll need your help and you could use the training as well."

"I don't care." Will's response had a childishly superior tone to it.

"Fine." And with his retreating footsteps came a sinking feeling in Will's stomach, as he looked back at the letters he had written. Which was stupid of him because there was no way he could ever send such a letter. Stupid, stupid, stupid. All he was, was stupid and — the sound of Jem's footfalls stopped. "If I accidentally shoot any of my limbs, I'll know who to blame." Jem's voice proclaimed before the walking resumed.

The chair he was sitting on and another stack of books went flying as Will rushed from the room to the retreating figure.

"If you accidentally shoot your foot, I want to be the one to witness it." He breathed out quickly, but he met Jem's eyes (a colour filled with browns, dark browns, darker browns and varying shades of black — his authors mind was well put to use — that seemed to be losing its darkness as each day wore on) and saw a flicker of understanding shoot through them before he nodded briefly and turned to look ahead.

Will was so tired that he fell asleep at dinner (his hair thankfully not soaking in the soup they were served), not having thought of the date ever since he entered the training room.

10th of November, 1874.

This time when the rainy sky lightened, he did not awaken, for he had never slept. He rubbed his eyes because his vision was still unused to the light. He was aware of the date. He had prepared himself the night before. He would not act differently. He would not rush out of any rooms. He would not have to clean his room up the next day. All he simply had to do was slip on a well placed mask. A mask he had been wearing for two years now. There were dark green curtains covering the window, but there was a small enough break between them to give him enough light to change.

His walk to the dining room was brisk. He looked at the carpet as he went. His hands were straight beside him. He knew himself to be early, he had planned it that way. He wanted to be the first one there. An irregular occurrence, but one that would ensure him less reason to produce conversation.

Will was second in the room.

Jem sat near the head of the table, no breakfast in front of him, simply holding a teacup in his hand, not drinking it, but instead looking straight ahead and Will could see from this distance his mind was wondering. His attempts at closing the door silently were challenged by the cringe inducing squeak it let out right before it reached the frame.

The hair on his friends head was not the jet black it had been a little over a year ago. It had taken a dark grey colour. As if it were a black piece of material that had been washed far too many times. But it reminded him of metal in the way it shined when Jems head jerked up to meet his own.

He knew it to be bad to think of Jem as his friend, but he couldn't help but feel any less for him. This stubborn, stubborn boy had wormed his way into Wills good books and he didn't know how to get him out. Perhaps it was the persistence to which he went for Wills company. Perhaps it was the way he smiled- his eyes crinkling at the corners and dimples forming in the middle of his cheeks, as if he put his whole body into such a simple action. Perhaps it was the way that he didn't ask questions, but instead he simply accepted what was. Jem's humour was also the sort that made Will fight a rare grin.

He felt like he was at war with himself. He was Jem's friend - there was no going back on the countless days spent training together, the nights spent in worry and pacing outside his door when he was sick, the nights spend in his room once Jem had finally told Will that he was annoyingly loud in the hallway, all that time spent together when Will could finally feel at peace. Where this technicality of the curse felt truer than ever. It had to be.

"Do you remember last week?" Jem asked as soon as Will sat down across from him, not bothering with tedious greetings. "When Charlotte told us that there had been that murder with the sacrificial looking dead body near Soho. How she was using it as an example for mundanes tampering with the Supernatural, and how Benedict Lightwood and some other members of the Clave were investigating it?"

"I do indeed recall it. Have they made a fool of themselves already?" Will placed his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand. Head tilted in curiosity, he listened on.

"Well," The teacup in Jems hands was placed on the table. "Apparently last night they gave up the job. Decided that a dead mundane with a sacrificial looking murder scene was too insignificant for their attention. They handed the job onto us."

"Us?"

"There was mail and it was for The London Institute. I gave it to Charlotte and I was still outside the door when she was reading it out to Henry. I don't think he was listening, and she said something about postponing any searches because of the other investigation with the Raum Demon infestation near Whitechapel." Jem shrugged but he had a mischievous look on his face. "I don't think she'll mind if we get a head start on it for her."

Will looked at him as if he had gone mad. "We aren't supposed to go on any investigations until we're fourteen…" They had gone out (with Charlotte or Henry) to kill demons before, but executing any investigations was new. "What if Charlotte finds out?"

"She'll only find out if one of us tells her or if we track demon ichor through the house." Jem said. "I'm not going to do either and I doubt you would not be careful. Anyway, I thought you liked breaking rules."

Somehow, even if Will had planned the day out minute by minute, Jem always managed to surprise him. He found himself less affronted then he should have been.

With the quick flash of a grin, they were both rushing from the dining room and down to the front door.

Will hadn't even noticed that the tea Jem was holding had been cold and full.

Weapons were hurriedly put into sheaths and down their shoes, their theory practice on the ways of quick preparation finally coming to hand. Jem had weirdly found a map down there (for Will had not seen him taking it out of his pocket) and then they were out of the front door, the watery sunlight of London placed upon the both of them.

The air was crisp with coldness and Will pulled the coat he was wearing closer to his body. Years helping out with his father out in the paddocks still hadn't helped his growing body and he had always seems just a little too skinny. After a year of Shadowhunter training, it seemed like he had gained a little more muscle. But even with that the cold still got to him. They walked quickly out the gates but the moment they were upon Fleet Street, Will slowed his pace. He didn't want to endanger Jems health by simply going too quickly. Jem didn't seem to mind as he usually did though, but in their normal thoughtful silence, he filled the space with words.

"My dad always said there was something very telling about the first investigation a Shadowhunter went on."

"Did he?" A nonchalant tone along with the kicking of a stray rock seemed to look as if he didn't care. But Jem noticed the way he had gotten closer so that he could hear better.

"That the way they approached questioning, the way they approached logical facts in challenge of illogical was very telling of character." He said it like he was reciting a set of instructions, and it reminded Will how little he knew about Jem's parents. He didn't seem to talk about them a lot. Though, he had been wearing the necklace Will had gotten him quite often. In fact, a day didn't go by when he didn't see the chain poking out of his collar

"And what way did your father tell you to act on an investigation?"

"He said that the more genuine you were, the more it was almost the smartest form of manipulation. That, if there was witnesses to a crime, the more you showed regard for their feelings, the more you showed you cared — the more they would be willing to tell you all information." Jem said. "He told me that kindness had its own cruelty."

The buildings passing past them were getting dirtier and dingier. He knew that wherever they were heading, it didn't seem like a short trip. They passed a few more streets before Will replied.

"Was your father often so cunning?"

"No." The reply was short but it was strong and without hesitation. "Never cunning. He was very observant of others." Jem blinked and then added as an afterthought, "He wrote a lot."

"Stories?"

"I'm not sure. It might have been simple papers for the Clave. I never asked. But he was often sat at his desk writing."

"How long would he sit at the desk?"

"He never ignored me and my mother. But when we were busy, he went to his office and he wrote. I wish I had asked him what."

Jem took a deep breathe after that and walked a bit quicker. Will didn't carry on conversation although he was sure it would be welcomed. It was interesting to hear about Jems past life. He wished he could offer information on his own past back to Jem, so that their sharing on the subject of their past was equal. And yet he did not.

He would have thought into the matter deeper had there not been a horrid scent that filled his nose the moment they went under Whitechapel Gate and into an alleyway for a shortcut.

"Please tell me we haven't found a demon."

"My words won't make a difference to the outcome."

They ended up tracking demon ichor through the house, but when Charlotte followed the trail to Jem's room to reprimand the two boys, she instead saw Will laughing- actual, genuine laughter- with Jem. Charlotte stayed outside the door for a little bit, listening to their conversation (where both of them sounded alive and happy) before she made sure she would reprimand them on the eleventh of November, instead.

10th of November, 1875

"Du'sien demons."

This time when Will woke up, it was not to rain (though the substance was currently making an annoyingly loud pitter-patter against his window) or the lightening sky. It was to his parabatai. The word sent a thrill running through his veins each time he thought it. The word filled him with an overwhelming guilt but also an overwhelming gratefulness. Right now, however, all he could gather in the way of emotions, was annoyance.

"What?" Came his exhausted reply. For some reason he had stayed up later than usual the night before, though so early in the morning he could not remember why.

"Du'sien demons, a whole lot of them reported in the Kew Gardens. They've been stalking around the place even in daytime." Jem spoke as if that explained everything.

Calloused fingers raised to rub at his closed lids. The vision out of his eyes was murky, as if he was looking through a dirty pond. "The place with the flowers?"

"We have both been there before." Jem told him, sitting himself on the edge of the bed. Due to his light weight, the mattress hardly shifted.

Will groaned. "Why do I have to worry about the bloody du'sien demons?"

In the dull lighting that covered the room, light grey hair shone. Well, Will really wouldn't describe it as light grey- it was much closer to silver, especially when noting that the strands of Jem's hair glinted like a star in the tiniest amount of light, but he did not think he could willingly describe his parabatais hair the same way he described the drug that was the cause of it. "Well, you don't have to. In fact, no one else is." Jem said.

"Then why— " Wills own speech was stunted by his sudden realisation. "By the Angel, tell me you are not thinking of going."

He nodded. "I am ready to leave right now if you would like to accompany me."

"Jem." A warning tone.

The boy in question shrugged, nonchalantly. "You don't want to go? That's quite alright. I shall go myself." He said decidedly, before lifting himself to stand.

"Jem." A reprimanding tone.

"My apologies for having woken you." Jem told him in an almost superior way as he started to walk out the door, avoiding the cluttered floor of books and clothing.

"Jem!" He was now wide awake, and he lurched up from where he had been laying down, with widened eyes and furrowed brows. The sheets gathered at his waist and the cold morning air bit at his open collared neck.

"Goodbye." Jem said it in such a lively manner that one might have expected he was off to collect his winnings from an unlikely wager.

"Jem," Will started, pushing his feet out of the bed and onto the floor. "Just, just wait a— oh — fuck."

(He may have forgotten the sheets were still wrapped tightly around him. Jem visibly held back his laughter as he helped his sour-faced parabatai off the floor.)

It was like everything had stopped. The world was still. Even the rain had paused its downfall in way of the motionless pearl coloured sky. The scent in the air was plain besides the decidedly sweet tang left by what had just been forced down a certain someones throat. Everything inside felt as if it were black and white. Everything had lost its vibrance save the bright splatter of blood upon Jem's chin.

"I hate you." Will muttered, just loud enough for the other boy to hear.

"Angel, that sure is going to put a dampening on the whole parabatai relationship." Jem remarked from where he was lying down on . He was quite cheery for someone who had almost fainted.

"How could you just disregard your health like that?" Will raised his voice. "I understand that you were raised like a Shadowhunter — that you were brought up with a zeal for adventure and fighting, but there isn't going to be a parabatai relationship if you continue to be so reckless. Fighting demons in the Kew Gardens when you hadn't even taken— "

Jem interrupted him, his previous peaceful state somewhat broken. "So, I am the only one who is not allowed to be reckless?"

"What are you saying?" Will asked rather indignantly. When he looked at Jem though, the other boys' silver eyes weren't on him, but instead focused on his bedside table at that infernal box.

"You never care." He stated, and Will felt the words go into him like sharpened blades. Thin fingers were clutched into the white bed sheet, scrunching the material, and Will focused his vision on how Jems knuckles matched the shade. "If you hurt yourself— you never care. You act like reckless is an easy trait for you, but it isn't. I know you are always acting, Will. But who is there to fool when you're just in my presence? It is so hypocritical for you to tell me to be more careful, when more often than not, you are the one taking risks. You are usually the one to instigate looking for demons. You are usually the one to throw yourself at some dangerous task without thinking. I am the one who is always watching your back. So the moment I end up getting sick and you tell me to be more careful- that isn't fair, William."

He was struck by Jems outburst. Struck by many things at once. It was so rare that Jem lost this cool, calm and collected outward appearance that seemed so natural to outsiders. It was so rare that Jem ever genuinely talked about the way Will acted. It was so rare for someone to be criticising him for something, and for him to feel the guilt as deep as it felt right now.

Maybe that was what he would blame in the future, when he recalled back to how he - instead of denying Jems words or even apologising for his actions - just rushed out of the room and slammed the door.

The sound left a horrible resounding beat of his own imagination in his ears. Jem had never gotten angry at him before. So, what did he do? He just up and left the room. What sort of sane human being would do that? He asked himself as he strode down the corridors, his mind brewing up a storm of unfurling guilt. Who would leave their friend— their parabatai — just because they had had a bone to pick with him.

He hated himself more and more as time ticked on. He opened his bedroom door so quickly that it created a gust of wind, blowing stray pieces of paper from whatever surface they were on, to the ground. He kicked down another stack of books and some distant part of him was practically cringing at the resounding thud.

He hated constantly having to not care about others too much. With that in mind he always ended caring too much. He hated hurting people. He hated hurting Jem.

Because of this stupid curse that…

The stupid curse.

The curse that made him leave his family three years ago.

The thought almost shattered him further. He picked up a book and through it at the wall.

Later that day Will would come into the room, hand Jem a plate of chocolate tarts that Agatha had so conveniently prepared (thanks to Jems secret instructions the night before.) before plopping down on the side of Jems bed to start a conversation on the topic of their newest arrival, Jesssamine Lovelace. In their shared sniggering on the topic of her many dresses, they would forget about their interaction only an hour or so before. When they later remembered, they would not mention it, knowing it was in the past.

10th of November, 1876

When Will's eyes opened to the sight of his bedroom he would not realise the date. When he rubbed his eyes to clear his vision, he would not notice the calendar on the floor lying next to his bed that had a circle around the tenth. He would only notice the letter on the pillow next to his head.

William

It said not who it was from, but the elegant looping script was familiar to Will. He tore open the letter, curious overriding his normal grogginess that came from waking up.

Get your gear on - Charlotte notified me that there is a beautiful phalanx of Moloch demons waiting for you down on the Thames. I'll be in the dining room.

He grinned, though it was a rainy day he couldn't wait for something to occupy his attention- and what better than a day out killing demons with his parabatai? He quickly got out his worn black trousers and went on changing from there. Even with all the separate buckles and buttons and sheaths needed upon his gear, the idea behind the black ensemble was that it could be moved in freely, so he moved efficiently.

Only when the door was in his strong grasp was when he wondered why Jem had sent a letter to him instead of just telling him once he came to breakfast. He kept on wondering that very same thing as he walked to the dining room. What made today so different? And why would they be looking for demons in daytime.

He was still wondering it when he passed Sophie.

"Sophie!" He called to her outwardly showing no enthusiasm. She looked up from her basket full of clothes, a guarded expression on her face. Her brown hair was pulled back into a strict bun, not unlike the one Charlotte often wore. "What is the date today?"

She seemed a little shocked by such a mundane question, but Will rather hoped that perhaps something in the digits would help him determine why Jem sent the letter instead of just waiting for him as per usual.

"If I recall correctly, Mr Herondale, I would say it to be November the tenth." Sophie told him, her eyebrows furrowed, still.

"Righty-ho then."

And Will passed her without another word. His face was devoid of emotion, but as soon as he walked into the next corridor, the expression slipped off his face like water in his hands.

That was why Jem wanted to hunt Demons. To distract him. Will had figured it out in the past few weeks when he was dreading the fourth anniversary from when he had left Wales. But in those weeks of dread, he was left to ponder why he hadn't spent the last few years without that emotion on that day, and after raking through his memories he found his answer.

It had taken him an absurdly long time to realise that Jem was using the day to distract Will. Archery practice, far off investigations, fighting demons and getting sick. All so that he did not spend the day in turmoil and torture. He was surprised how genuinely touched he felt by Jem's care. At least, that was how he felt until indignation took place. He was so selfish not to see that Jem was doing this for him - finding ways to distract him, potentially harming himself in the process. And Will had decided the night before that he would not let it go on any longer.

He strode to the dining room with purpose in each step. He swung open the door and gathered in the sight before him.

Charlotte was looking at the paper though she looked like she would rather be sleeping, Jessamine was pushing around what looked to be kedgeree with pursed lips, Henry was surveying a cog in great interest and Jem was… Jem wasn't there.

"Hallo, Will."

He almost jumped, but the years of Shadowhunter training allowed him to remain calm as he swivelled around to face Jem.

His pale cheeks had a bright flush to them and his silver iris' looked brighter than before. Will knew enough about Jems appearance that he could spot even the finest changes in them, so he knew that Jem had recently taken the drug. Good, at least he was thinking ahead. Too bad he wouldn't need it.

"Morning, James." His words were equally cheery but his teeth were clenched. "Would you mind coming with me somewhere before we go off?"

Jem nodded though his eyes were narrowed. The two of them set off - Will in the lead with an active pace - and they walked and walked and walked, through hallways and corridors and steps and an assortment of tapestries, they walked until they reached a brown wooden door at the end of a rather plain hallway. He swung it open to reveal the narrow flight of stairs that led straight to the attic. "After you." Will said with mock chivalry.

"Are you alright?" Jem asked. It was the same way someone would ask him if he was alright had he had just hit his forehead on a door frame.

"Quite."

He gestured again to the stairs. The silver haired boy shrugged and walked up them. Will took a deep breath and followed him up.

The attic was filled with cobwebs and he nearly bumped his head on the low-slung rafters. The smell of must covered the room and in the pale light filtering in from the old, old windows, he could see an innumerable amount of little pieces of dust floating in the air.

Jem broke the silence first. "So, you called me here to—"

"It's the tenth of November." Will informed him with a blank expression. They were both standing, eyes on each other. Jem's gaze remained steady. "Don't think I don't know what you are doing." Will told him.

"It took you this long to find out?"

"I— what?"

"Well," Jem said. "I was not exactly being subtle about it."

"That— that is not the point." Will told him, crossing his arms over his chest. "I do not want nor need your pity. I do not want nor need your distractions. I do not want nor need any form of charity from you."

"You think me trying to help you get through a day that causes you pain is pity and charity?" He had an incredulous look on his face, as if Will has just slapped him. "Has it ever occurred to you that that is what friends do for each other? Try to cause the other less pain within their presence. Me trying to help you has nothing to do with pity. Just like when you try to help me after a bout of my illness," He spat out the word as if it were poison on his tongue "Is that not what you assure me is not pity." Jem reckoned.

"This is different! It's simple, Jem - I don't want you to willingly putting yourself at risk for me." He ran a hand through his hair in agitation. Once, his parabatai had mentioned that he had perfect fingers for playing a piano. Will had dismissed him entirely, for he knew himself to be to chaotic and impatient to even think of creating such a lovely thing as music. "I don't deserve that."

The moment the words came tumbling out of his mouth, he saw Jems body freeze. He watched how the fists that had been clenched (turning the already pale skin into white) slowly let go of their tension. Will heard a long breath come out of the other boys mouth, right before he walked to a wall and leaned against it.

"The world is not black and white, William." Jem said. "There are shades of grey in every concept, in every idea, in every person…" He paused, before meeting Wills confused eyes. "What is the first word that would come to mind when someone meets me?"

Without missing a beat, Will replied. "Handsome."

Jem let out a snort but retained his somewhat serious mood. His arm went back to scratch the back of his neck. "Wonderful. But I was more going for words along the lines of weak, foreign, addicted or maybe too silver… Do you think any of those words remain true to my character?"

It was obvious Jem was saying this in the way Charlotte might give an example when she was tutoring the two of them, before telling them the answer to an important question. But Jems expression wavered and he wasn't meeting Wills eyes.

His reply came out stronger than intended. "You cannot put acknowledgement into what labels the Clave wants to root in your mind."

"It is the same with you, Will."

"People see me as handsome when they first meet me? I thought that was a well-known fact."

From the distance, when Jem rolled his eyes, Will could see a strand of hair fell into his eyes. He felt a desire to push it away, which was forgotten when the other boy opened his mouth. Pansy blue eyes focused instead on a metal bucket filled with cobwebs, placed in a far off corner. "They can also see you as rude, arrogant, a bad influence and some other names that don't bear repeating — And I don't know how or why, but for some reason I feel as if you've begun to believe that. Begun to believe you are truly a mean and undeserving person. Yet, Will, you must know that is not true. I know you care about others. I know you must care about me - for what would have made you become my parabatai? And if you care for me then you must at least slightly put warrant in my opinion of wanting to make this day less horrible. Not for pity, not for charity but for the simple reason of not wanting you to be unhappy when I could potentially stop such feelings.

"Charlotte told me after that first year that this might have been the day you left your family. I know better than anyone how hard it is to lose your family, to leave them. Our situations may have been different, Will, but I truly believe at the core, they are the same. And if I can help you feel less horrid on a day that so apparently brings you pain, then I will do that."

"How did you know to distract me on the first year?"

"You didn't shut your door properly."

…

…

"Thank you, then."

An entire phalanx of Moloch demons were killed later that day.

The two boys dripped dirty water from the Thames all through the house.

They were reprimanded straight away.

They didn't mind.

10th of November, 1877

He didn't know what to expect from the day when he woke up. He did remember the date. And he didn't mind that the sound of rain had awoken him so early. He didn't mind that he had accidentally left the window open just a crack - so that while no water was entering the room, the air was crisply cold. He didn't mind that the book he had been reading the night before had left an imprint on his face. William Herondale rubbed his eyes and, after carefully removing the sheets, he stood up. The world tilted around him but he didn't mind. He avoided stepping on the various piles of books around his feet as he searched for some clothing.

He was only just dressed by the time the door opened without warning.

"Thanks for knocking." He told Jem as he attempted to tie his cravat.

"It was my pleasure." He heard careful steps and then saw thin violinist fingers detaching his own away from the midnight blue piece of material. Said fingers then started tying the cravat correctly around his neck. "Since when do you give care for such accessories?"

It was a valid question, for Will normally never bothered with anything past a waistcoat and an open collared shirt. But he couldn't quite process it correctly with Jem standing so close to him. There was always the residing scent of burnt sugar in Jem, and Will knew it to be the intoxicating aroma of yin fen. But due to Shadowhunters increased sense of smell, he could also notice other things about Jem. Like how there was a part of him that smelt of the incense his mother would burn to keep away bad spirits when he was younger and told her he was scared. And the smell that all boys seemed to have, of leather and metal that clung to him like water on a sponge.

"There," Jem said. "All done."

Indeed, the cravat sat comfortably around his neck. "Do I look dashing?"

"From just a glance in your direction, I daresay I feel quite faint."

It was a place that was supposed to look plain and maybe a little bit dirty. It was a place that was supposed to smell like dust and sweat. It was a a place that was used when Shadowhunters were practicing their balance and reflexes.

And somehow it was clean, smelling of soap and chocolate - and in the area with actual floorboards instead of wooden beams, where the roof lowered into a corner and you had to sit if you wanted not to have a concussion, was a rug. And on top of it a plate of chocolate tarts. There was a small circular window that provided just enough light to see clearly.

"Can I kiss you?" Will asked Jem, feeling a little dizzy — which was probably a bad thing considering he was standing on a beam with only a cord tied around his waist as per safety precaution that his parabatai had insisted on.

He heard Jem let out a snort and watched as he stalked calmly to the rug before ducking his head under the lowering ceiling and sat down. His pant legs were pulled from the motion and Will could see that under his dark trousers, he wore grey socks. "I'll allow you to kiss me if I don't accidentally poison you."

"Hold on," Will copied his motions by lowered himself into a sitting position. "Did you make these?"

"Agatha showed me the recipe." Jem told him, scratching the back of his neck. Will could see clearly the veins of his neck and for some reason his pulse was noticeably fast.

He felt as if his own heart expanded from within his chest. He always knew he didn't appreciate his parabatai enough. He wished he could show it more often just how grateful he was. "Thank you." He said in a small voice. Then louder, Will spoke. "You're just going to have to remember the ingredients correctly when the Silent Brothers show up. Brother Enoch hates wasting time when making sure there isn't a funeral in the next week."

He picked up one of the tarts and practically shoved it in his mouth before chewing thoughtfully. The bitter yet sweet taste of chocolate bursted on his tongue like an explosive. "Never let Agatha know your cooking rivals hers — she'll end up stealing you in the dead of night and send you far away to a place like America."

"So you like it?"

He mock coughed and puffed out his chest, adopting a strange accent to his speech as if he were an actor upon a stage. "The taste prickles on my tongue as if the fae folk have found a place to call home. The scent enraptures my mind and makes its thoughts unclear. The entirety of this beautifully presented and perfectly scrumptious tart has my insides practically squirming for another bite. There shall not come a day in the future from which I do not wish for the taste of this chocolate tart on my tongue again."

He looked at Jem to see a knowing grin on his face with raised silver eyebrows. In the dull lighting, only half his face was visible and yet his hair shone as bright as a shilling in the sun. "I'll take that as a yes."

"Tell me a story." Will said after they had just eaten their third helping of chocolate tarts.

Jem looked up at him. "What sort of story?" He asked it carefully, as if afraid of frightening a bird.

"I don't care."

Will saw his parabatai blink and he saw the way his eyes unfocused as his mind was obviously searching for something to say. The very moment he had found it, Will could tell by the small nostalgic expression that flitted across his face. "My mother once told me a story, when I was younger. It was about an invisible string."

Jem scooted to the far edge of the platform, so that his legs were dangling off the edge, between the wooden beams. Will copied his actions and shot a sideways glance at his parabatai as the boy closed his eyes and started recounting the story his mother had told him.

It was about an invisible red string, and how it connected certain people. He found the story similar to the concept of soul-mates. How two people were destined to meet against all odds. Jem had specifically said that in his mother's version of the story, that the two people could be lovers, friends, siblings or just any two with an important relationship.

Will found himself entranced by the legend, but when Jem finished his telling he did not open his eyes. It was only Will who could see, and he felt as if there had been a spell put upon the two of them, persuading them to be silent, to not make fast movements. Will could see very clearly, the thinness of Jems body. How lithe it looked under a simple button up shirt and a waist coat. How his skin that was showing his neck and his face was perhaps pulled too tightly against his skin but still managed to look graceful and handsome. The black haired boys' vision centred on to the silver haired boys' lips. They were shaped as if a talented artist had painted them- with the bottom lip looking alike to a bow. There was a tiny smudge of chocolate on the corner of his mouth.

Perhaps it was the overall feeling of grief that the date provided, or perhaps it was from the numerous amount of sugar that Will had consumed— but whatever he would later blame it on, caused him to slowly reach over in order to wipe away the chocolate from his parabatais lips.

His hand got as far as stretching out before the world tilted upside down.

All he heard was a peeling laughter from above and a voice that meant no harm told him quite loudly:

"I bet your glad I made you consider safety precautions now, báichī."

Even though he didn't quite understand the last word, even though the cord around his waist had absolutely no slack and even though he felt the blood rushing both to his head and his cheeks, Wills's self-deprecating smile was what stood out the most on his features.

10th of November, 1878

The day was all wrong.

And not for the normal reasons.

The sky was sunny.

The bedroom was clean.

His hand stayed by its side in the bandage that had been wrapped around it the night before.

Jem wasn't here to wake him up.

Jem wasn't here to make the day into a distraction.

Jem wasn't here.

Nobody entered the training room that day.

But if one of the Institutes inhabitants were to walk by,

if they strained their ear

they would hear the sound that was made

once an arrow had met its target.

But they wouldn't know

that if they had been walking down the same corridor,

only five years ago

the very same sound

would have been heard.