Hello! This is my first Mortal Instruments fanfiction, so I was very excited writing this. I waited until I had finished City of Lost Souls before I wrote anything, just in case I got something completely wrong. However, this is rather terrible (in my opinion) and really I just wanted to post something for TMI... Well, whatever!
My OTP in TMI is Jimon (Jace/Simon; I don't like Clace or Sizzy, sorry!) but I also really like the idea of Simon and Raphael. And thus, this pile of crap was written! This was meant to be a one-shot but it depends on if people like it that I'll finish it... So fingers crossed! :3

Set City of Bones-ish; before Simon becomes a vampire.

Sleeping never came easy to Simon. Ever since he was a child - ever since he met Clary - he found every night he fell asleep was plagued with dreams he didn't want.

At first, the dreams always stayed as that: dreams. They were never twisted or macabre - they never became nightmares. Clary was always present - a wisp of energy cemented in his mind. When he had his first few dreams, he believed Clary was a continuous visitor for the fact she was his only friend - just to be sick to his stomach when he found out it was something more.

The endless torment of days spent lounging in his room with Clary; of long fingers, calloused from the strings of a bass, entwining with tiny, childlike fingers; of a head of coppery curls pressed against his chest... The years he spent secretly pining after Clary were some of the worst dreams he had ever had.

Soon, Simon forgot whether events were factual or imaginary - thinking a brush of his hand against Clary's could mean something much more than an accident - and it led him to a land of false hope. Turns out, the dreams had speared him with a metaphorical dagger, leaving real Clary to twist it in deeper.

That was when the nightmares began: of golden angel boys who beat him to the ground to snicker at his misfortune; of redhead girls who condemned him for wanting to be more than friends; of demons trying to mangle him and rip his heart out of his chest. Simon loathed this world of Shadowhunters. Everything he had lived for was shed away, like a flimsy second skin, unveiling a realm he never wished to be a part of. But this is for Clary. Everything is for Clary.

Simon lay lifelessly on his back, cocooned in a thick, Star Wars quilt. I need to remember to get rid of this... He thought absent-mindedly, picking at the worn, tired pattern of stars littered across the blanket. It was old and clogged with dust – wearing too thin to be of any use. But Simon did't need shelter from the cold any more, and that made him apprehensive. What is wrong with me? The ache in his tear-ducts came but there was no soothing cold tears to ease the pain. Simon felt himself not caring any more. Why is this happening to me? He sighed – which broke off into a croaking sob – and stared up to the ceiling, admiring and counting the bumps that decorated it. Simon was kind of at a loss at how he could see the detail so precisely without his glasses, let alone in the dark, but he wasn't one to complain. At least some good can come of this, in some way.

He threw back his head, colliding with pillows that sent churning clouds of dust up into the shadowy room. He marvelled at the particles - observing the way they tangled and writhed in and out of each other in some kind of dance - before closing his eyes wearily and attempting sleep.

Simon had never been strangled before... Well, if he had, he couldn't recall what deprivation of oxygen was like. The feeling felt so alien to him, so he couldn't exactly determine if it was good or bad.

It was painful, to say the least - the aching in his lungs, contracting and sucking but not getting anything in them; his mind becoming enervated; his throat constricting on air, desperate to swallow anything, anything...

"Are you okay, Hermosa?" sneered the devil – his delicate fingers laced around Simon's neck. They were surprisingly unyielding, for his hands seemed to be so feeble and elegant, like an artist's. Simon gargled, eyes wide: tell-tale sign of his cowardice. The face above him began to blur and fireworks danced across his vision. He tried to claw out in front of him - plead and beg the boy to stop - but his hands couldn't move more than a few inches away from above his head and a echoing rattle resounded in his skull. The sound of metal on metal.

The boy grinned, showing off all of his teeth, and Simon gulped visibly. This boy was going to kill him – he was going to be the death of him. Where was Jace or Isabelle when you needed them? Where was Clary to fight back the nightmares? Didn't anybody care? Of course not, why would they when they're so wrapped up in their exclusive little Shadowhunter club to notice?

"Oh, carino..." the boy purred, one hand uncurling from Simon's neck to rest on his cheek. His fingertips barely kissed his cheekbone, tickling like a feather's touch. He chuckled as Simon squirmed. Nothing was straight for Simon any more – up was down; down was up; dark was now blinding light – and he had a fleeting suspicion to who this boy was. He needed to get away, and he needed to get away now. With a jolt of panicking fervour, Simon thrashed wildly – met only with the dull, decisive clang of handcuffs and bars.

"Struggling will do nothing, Simon." the boy informed him wistfully, the muscles in his fingers fluttering around Simon's pulse. Simon's eyes rolled back into his head languidly and he sighed inwardly, leaning into death's touch. Maybe this is what I've been waiting for – freedom. And, right when Simon felt himself letting go of it all, the pressure stopped.

Nothing. Nothing above him, nothing beneath him... Everything had vanished. Simon couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. He spent all that time convincing himself it was the end, for it to fade away and leave him. No, this isn't happening... He sucked in a large breath, bracing himself, then leant his head away from his body and retched. Horrible, throaty gagging sounds shattered the silence (like a someone filling in the blanks) as he dry-heaved, then collapsed back down, hair glued to his face in spikes with clammy sweat.

What was there left to do but cry? What am I meant to do now? Simon sobbed brokenly and folded his legs back to hug his chest but didn't dare to move his arms. He couldn't bare it. This was unfair; life was unfair; everything was unfair to hi-

"Carino?"
Fuck this. Fuck everything. Stop, mind, stop!
"Carino."
I'm going insane – that must be it! This can't be happening; why, why, why, why?...
"Simon."

Simon opened his eyes and glared. Raphael Santiago – temporary leader of the New York Vampire coven – was lounging in his geeked-out bedroom like it was just another room in Dumort. Simon scowled (how'd he even get in here anyway?) and gritted out a, "Get out."

Raphael's eyes went comically wide and slapped a hand to his chest. "Me? But why?" he asked incredulous, already off to fiddle with an action figure on one of his shelves. Raphael's nonchalance was starting to irritate him. "Stop that!" Simon snapped, which only earned a mischievous grin from the Hispanic vampire. "Okay, okay, I will leave chico," he snickered, before sending the figurine tumbling off of the shelf with a imperceptible flick. "But, before I do, don't you want the handcuffs off?"

Simon's heart went cold. With a few seconds of hesitation to regain his thoughts, he twisted his wrists and pulled. As he feared, the movement was resisted by cool, light metal. How had I not felt them before? Simon tasted the obnoxious, vile taste of bile in his mouth but he didn't feel any nausea. "It wasn't a dream." he rasped out, his mouth surprisingly dry. Raphael just stood there – white shirt; hands stuffed inside trouser pockets; the threat of a gold cross hanging near a marred collarbone – looking very out-of-place amidst dirty clothes, video games and sheet music. "It wasn't a dream." Simon repeated, now with purpose, almost intended as a question.

Raphael shook his head solemnly. With an avertion of eyes, he murmured, "No." And that was all it took for Simon's happy façade to come crumbling down.

Review? Criticism is always welcomed - no, encouraged! :3