~Clary~

You all know the story.

The unfortunate little girl that still hasn't gone through puberty—or has, just, you know, skipped over that whole getting boobs-thing—whose best friend just happens to be captain of the football team, unbelievably handsome, male-model material, and so popular that his name is an icon at school.

They've known each other their whole lives. He knows her better than anyone else and she knows him better than he knows himself. He's upset, he'll give her a call, or FaceTime or message her over Facebook for hours, be damned if it's a school night or not. He can tell her everything, and so, it's not exactly uncommon for the two to keep each other up into the early hours of the next day.

She's upset, he'll be standing at her bedroom door like a knight in shinning armor, not even ten minutes later, with a bucket of ice cream—always mint chocolate chip—and all of the Red Box that the nearest convenience store has to offer.

Both stubborn as hell, too smart for their own good, and the perfect partners in crime. They aren't Jace...and then Clary. They're Jace and Clary.

Perfect.

But there's a twist, and I'm sure all of you can guess what it is.

Yup, the girl—me—is hopelessly in love with her her best friend, unbeknownst to him, only to have to watch him fall in love with someone else.

I look in the mirror and imagine it shattering. A simple crack at first, and then, once it has fully digested my hapless looks, it just completely goes kaboom. Freckles. They're all over the place. Glasses. The ones my wannabe-hipster dad gave to me once he discovered contacts. Short. Too skinny. No boobs. No butt. The list is as listless as it horrible.

My hair is a tornado of red curls of all different sizes. It's that reason alone that people too unoriginal to come up with a decent nickname, that's also supposed to be as equally insulting, have taken to calling me the princess from Brave, Merida, and find it all too funny to suggest I work at Disney World portraying her for a future career. Really, it's ridiculous because about ninety percent of those who tell me this are self-proclaimed, dignified, popular school-boys too "mature" to play Minecraft. What are they doing spending their free time watching animated movies about princesses?

Yeah, I've tried the Chi, I've even tried to get a blowout, but the wild rats-nest upon my head will always prevail. Trust me; I've tried everything, from natural remedies that claim "smooth, waterfall-resembling locks", to forty-buck rip-offs that promise "no frizz, not fight, no hassle"—only to prove each and every product or supposed solution wrong. I've never gotten my money back, either.

Old ladies absolutely adore my hair. The problem: they're old ladies. And they love all hair because they don't have any. So, the compliment has a defeated purpose and I can't really take anything any from it other than ninety-five-year-olds who spend the majority of their day playing Yahtzee and watching Family Feud want the mop on top of my head. I would love to be like the other girls—kill to be like them, and even go as far to trade my favorite push-up bra to actually pull my hair back into a cute updo from time to time, but my hair is so thick that it just completely snaps any hair tie that I try to tame it with.

My eyes are truly the only redeemable quality about me, and even they are too big for the rest of my body and, not to mention, hidden behind my glasses. They're literally like two moons seen through thermal lighting. I mean, it's like they've been photoshopped onto my face from a bush baby's. And their color doesn't help either. Emerald green. They're super bright—too bright—and stand out like a sore thumb. A lot of people tell me that I should be happy that I wasn't born with the "dreaded" brown eyes—most of them being brown-eyed people themselves—but I know that my eyes aren't as pretty as they are unique, and they only say it to be nice. I'm not exaggerating when I say that no one wants eyes that resemble a highlighter, no matter how outlandish or different they may be.

I've been called a leprechaun too many times in my life, in part because of my hair and eyes, and in whole because of how short I am. Short and scrawny and unshapely and unwomanly and unworthy—and completely drowning in a shirt I'd gotten from the junior's department in the smallest size they had. I guess the style was supposed to be billowy, but it was also supposed to be a shirt, not a dress. To find a happy medium, I paired it with some leggings because I feared that it'd reveal a little too much come some wind, and, of course, my most favorite shoes: a pair of Chuck Taylor's I've had since middle school.

Tap. Ta-ta-tap tap. Tap. Tap.

I jump in surprise and whirl away from my mirror to face the window, which is always left partially-open for my best friend, who might as well have taken permanent residence in my home by now. I've known Jace since the diaper days because our parents were all super close friends during the years they shared together in high school. We didn't really have a choice but to be friends with each other, because, well, we'd shared the same bathtub until we were in kindergarten, and the same bed even now.

To say we were an odd pairing would be a complete understatement. Me, being the short and sweet, little sidekick, and him—currently taking up the whole of my window, resting his hands along the frame and crouching on a tree branch—being huge and brooding, and no body's sidekick but perhaps, I'd like to think, my own. He had the body of Himeros, and the appearance of one to rival a young Brad Pitt. Everything about him was flawless, from his head—where his beautiful gold tendrils curl in an effortlessly tousled style—to his toes. And he has nice toes.

Flushed lips. Bronzed, rubber skin, a smoldering smirk as infuriating as it was devastating, and gold eyes that you can just melt in, like a slowly drizzling chocolate waterfall, with a pool of quicksand at the bottom—that are totally looking at me as if I had grown four heads. "Are you gonna invite me in, or what?" he called. "I've decided to take on a more chivalrous approach this year as I'm now a year's worth more mature."

The blush that taints my cheeks in inevitable and I hastily look down to straighten out my shirt. Which makes no sense at all. "Ah, yes, Jace, come in," I managed, rolling my eyes despite myself.

Jace smiled, slipping under the open part of the window and coming to stand before me after an entire summer long of not being able to see him. "Did you miss me?"

I smile easily. "Certainly, especially when you choose to scare the living bejesus out of me by climbing up a tree to get inside my room. I had an entire summer not having to worry about that happening, so call me spoiled and caught off guard when the first person I see from school is in my window." The lie was easy to pick up on. Knowing Jace was back—finally—the first thing I'd done this morning was open my window. When he wasn't out of town, like I'd said before, I never even bothered with closing it, so it was like a burst of nostalgia being able to keep it open again.

Jace laughs, throwing his head back and all. A beautiful sight. "I thought it'd be like a blast from the past—"

"Or two months ago?"

"Details," he said, shooting me a rare smile. A real one.

I realize that I have crane my neck at a dangerous angle to be able to see his face, which is different from the last time. I mean, I've always been short compared to him, but now I felt downright microscopic. Not only that, but, if at all possible, he looked as if he'd gotten even more muscular, sporting chorded arms and broad, masculine shoulders, and strong-looking, well, everything. It's not like he looked like a wrestler on steroids, no, he was much smaller and had much lither attributes, which, to me, made him all the more endearing.

"You've gotten taller over the summer," I observed.

"Or you've gotten shorter," he challenged playfully, taking a moment to look me up and down. "If you're not gonna admit that you missed all this," he said, gesturing down at his body and waggling his eyebrows, "then I guess I'll save my dignity for another time: I missed you, Clary. Being able to talk to you over the phone for five minutes at a time has nothing over being able to talk to you now, in person."

"And a lot nicer."

He scoffs, smothering me into a giant hug before I have any time to react. My face is pressed into his chest, cutting off my airways, and his hands, nearly the size of my entire torso, don't allow me any leverage or room to pull away. I didn't care though. I wrap my arms around his waist and welcome his embrace.

Then something happens.

I feel his lips press against my forehead.

For a second I am too stunned to even think, but then a warm sensation blossoms in my belly and spreads like a wildfire all throughout my body. I looked up to see Jace looking down at me. "I really did miss you," he whispers.

"I-I, uh, missed you too."

Jace then, unfortunately, ruffled my hair, pulling alway completely with a cheerful, guttural laugh. Clearly the moment was over, and the kiss meant nothing anymore than what it really was. A kiss. Not on the lips, but on the forehead. Like a brother kissing his sister, or a father kissing his daughter. I hated, absolutely hated when Jace did that; when he treated me like his best friend even though I was. Even now, he always loved to ruffle my hair—as if I were one of his buddies from football. An insignificant friend.

I wished that I could say I liked that he felt comfortable enough around me to tell me everything, but when everything meant his latest hookups and what he did with so-and-so in the boy's locker room the other week, I wasn't exactly grateful for the inside scoop. I know he didn't feel like he was hurting my feelings, but when Jace talked about other girls or playfully shoved me into a locker or ruffled my hair, I was only reminded that I was, and would always be his best friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

He made me feel as small as I was, despite how big of a role a best friend played in someone else's life.

Trying to hide my obvious disappointment, I turned around, back towards my vanity. "Before we head to school," I called over my shoulder to him, "I, uh, got you something for your birthday."

"You didn't have to do that, Clary—"

"But I did." I turn my face slightly towards his to see his expression. Hard to read, like always. "It's not much, but...the chain that you keep your family ring on is a piece of yarn," I chuckle, " and I thought that it needed something that would do it justice."

I open the top drawer and pull out a small, blue box. Before I can open it, however, Jace's fingers were plucking it from my grasp. His eyes were wide with interest and, when he finally figures out how to remove the bow on top, he drops the package all together to admire the long, gold chain in his hands.

"Sorry I couldn't get you more—"

"No," he looks at me, "it's perfect. Thank you."

"I thought that you'd like it if it were longer so that you could hide it under your football gear when you play."

He nods and repeats, "It's perfect."

I watch as he removes the thin rope from around his neck and rips it in half to retrieve the gold ring that had been hanging there. Before he undoes the clasp on the back of his present, however, he turns to me, with a hopeful look in his eyes. "My fingers are a too big to get this open. Do you think you could...?"

I gratefully take it and string the ring across the silky, gold chain, holding it out for him. Once it's resting against his shirt, perfectly fitted, Jace holds out his hand for mine and winks. "We don't want to be late on the first day, now do we?"

~Jace~

"Tell me about your little friend Clary," Sebastian says nonchalantly as he slips his jersey off, over his head.

I send him a heated glare, which goes unnoticed as he sits down on the bench, his helmet resting on his lap, his attention on the opposite wall of lockers.

"What's it to you?" I ask, though I had a pretty good idea as to what his answer would be. Sebastian Verlac was a bigger player than myself, which says basically everything you need to know about him; he's a total jerk to guys and girls alike, he's cocky, he's manipulative, and he only thinks with his dick.

I personally hate the guy's guts, but, because he'd made the cut this year, I've been forced to have to tolerate him. Which, so far, hasn't been going too good.

"She's cute."

"She's too good for you," I tell him, without missing a beat. Not Clary. "So don't try anything."

Clary, the most beautiful and wonderful and deserving girl you will ever meet, has hidden behind her wild hair and glasses for years now. But that hasn't stopped guys from asking me about her. Of course my answer would always be the same every time: Don't even think about it, and, because I am who I am, and I have a reputation for breaking some guy's leg in the seventh grade, they've listened and left her alone.

But Sebastian...

He smirks, standing up to face me. "Oh please. I know girls like her. She won't be able to stop smiling for a week if a guy like me talks to her, even if it's just to return her the pencil she dropped. She's pretty but she doesn't know it. She hides behind her dorky glasses. She's naive and easy––"

Before Sebastian can say another word, he's thrown up against my locker. "You don't know anything about her. If you touch her I swear to God I'll kill you. Don't you ever talk about her like that again. Got it asshole?"

The guys surrounding us, having been completely oblivious up until this point, all take several steps back, giving each other high-fives discreetly, watching with excitement, their eyes hungry for a fight.

Sebastian, with the backs of his knees pressed against the bench and the back of his head forced against metal, smiles, causing my arm to automatically push harder against his neck. "She'd be so easy Jace," he spits.

"Take it back!"

"She won't be so innocent when I'm done with her––"

"SHUT UP!"

"WOAH! Come on guys––Herondale, Verlac, break it up!" Coach Johnson, with his clipboard, stalks towards us, throwing me off of Sebastian, but not without a fight. I am maneuvered a safe distance away from the other boy, who's smiling smugly, knowing that I let him get to me, and forced to look in the eyes of our coach. "One more strike Herondale. That's all I'm giving you." Then he turns to Sebastian. "You too, Verlac. Get it together!"

I've never taken Coach's warnings seriously, because he's said the same thing to me about three times this season all ready.

When the door to his office slams shut, Sebastian tilts his head to the left and then to the right, smiling at the popping noise. "I don't get why you care so much anyways," he begins in a low voice. "It's not like you like her––" he cuts himself off abruptly, a sly grin slithering its way onto his pasty face. "Wait, you do! You like her, don't you?"

"No!" I snap. "I don't. But she's my best friend, Sebastian, and I care about her more than anything else in this world. So don't mess with her. Ever. Or you'll be sorry."

He holds up his hands. "Ooh! I'm so scared!"

Refrain. Don't punch him. God. So hard.

"Your threats mean nothing to me, Herondale. I get what I want. And I want her."

I scoff, fighting to keep calm, finding it, in this moment, the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my entire life. "Clary is smart. She won't fall for whatever you have up your sleeve."

"You know," Sebastian drawls out, "knowing that me liking her bugs you this much makes it all the more pleasurable."

"You're such a prick."

"What's her favorite type of flower?"

"Go to Hell," I snarl.

"Color?"

"I'm serious. Stay away from her."

Sebastian pretends to be momentarily dazed, stroking his chin and then smiling as if a glorious reprieve has graced him. "No can do, pal. I'm sitting with her on Wednesday during college algebra...And then I'll 'accidentally' bump into her, win her over with a cheesy pickup line off of Instagram, and write my phone number on her hand. In Sharpie."

"Good luck," I gritted out.

"Thanks, but I don't need it."

"Fuck you."

"Don't you mean Clary?"

His laughter didn't last long, ceasing as soon as he was knocked to the ground by my now throbbing fist.

I know. I'm really stupid for posting this story, but...when you have inspiration you can't let it slip through your fingers. It won't be this fluffy for long. There will be, in my opinion, some very sad scenes.

And this fic also won't be over 30 chapters. I'm thinking of making this more of a three, or four, or even five-shot. Depends on the reviews and response I get.

Hopefully you guys have enjoyed the first chapter.

Until next time, peace.