A/N: It's been too long since I last updated, and I am so sorry! Thanks again for the lovely reviews :)
Clary struck out cautiously, overly aware of the movements of each muscle group. Jace frowned on, analysing the way in which she kicked the punching bag. He was a good teacher, but he'd started to crack down a little harder, as though he was trying to dig for a hidden treasury of athletic potential within Clary. He'd probably need a professional excavation team for any such discovery, Clary mused, trying to pay attention as Jace outlined the mistakes she was making.
"No, you need to extend that muscle."
Clary liked to pretend she imagined it, but he'd gotten much less hands-on with her since she'd shared her story. He'd sworn he didn't consider her to be damaged goods, but he seemed reluctant to make skin contact with her. It made Clary feel tainted, and she tried to ignore the churning in her stomach as he flinched away from her during their sessions.
"No, the other muscle." Jace insisted as she kicked again.
Clary huffed impatiently, striking the bag again.
Jace sighed, suddenly reaching out to hold her extended leg. Clary wobbled—shocked at the contact and thrown slightly off balance—and she instinctively grabbed for him, catching his thin t-shirt.
Their closeness was heady after Jace's obvious attempts to put distance between them, and Clary felt a shiver of anticipation go through her. But the source of the anticipation was unclear—she felt a certain amount for the boy before her, yet some for the flashbacks that seemed to lay in wait for her, prepped to spring her at her most vulnerable.
But still, Clary's feelings of physical attraction to Jace were entirely palpable, her mind entirely consumed with the thought of grabbing his face roughly, kissing him fiercely. Part of her knew that his mouth would be shamelessly hard, yet ridiculously soft, much like the man himself.
But as Clary felt her eyes drifting—of their own accord—to Jace's mouth, he abruptly released his grip.
Clary had to suppress a groan as she released his shirt, before righting herself. As shame flooded her system, she mentally decided to pretend nothing had happened. She was going to be dignified—
"Why do you keep doing that?" But once more, her mouth didn't receive the memo.
"Correcting your kicking technique?" Jace replied, with a look of feigned ignorance.
Clary felt her face flush the same shade as her hair, but she folded her arms across her chest stubbornly.
"You said you wouldn't treat me like I'm broken." She continued.
"I'm not." He replied instantly, mirroring her stance with much more grace. Clary recalled reading an article in a trashy magazine—probably at a doctor's office—about signs a boy liked you. Apparently mirroring your actions was one of them, and Clary allowed herself this silent victory as she engaged Jace in a stare down.
"You're treating me like I'm in the late stages of syphilis."
A small smile broke Jace's stony expression.
"I'm serious!" Clary insisted, but she felt a giggle rise in her throat.
"I'm sorry." Jace surrendered after a few moments of amused silence, the smile on his face beginning to fade, "I just didn't want to make things physically uncomfortable for you."
Clary felt her stance soften, "Jace. If I ever feel uncomfortable, I'll let you know. Trust me with that?"
Jace nodded, but the tension didn't seem to leave his body.
A fit of impatience seized Clary, and she grabbed both of Jace's hands forcefully, placing them roughly on her—slightly existent—chest. The boy's eyes seemed to bug, Clary noted with some satisfaction.
"Clary…" he began in warning, but he didn't attempt to move his hands.
"Jace, please. Let me set the boundaries. I know myself. But just don't treat me like a broken thing."
Jace—looking a little flustered—opened his mouth to reply, when the door to the gym swung open.
Clary and Jace sprung apart guiltily, turning for entrance.
A nurse—one that Clary wasn't familiar with—gave them a warm smile, before ushering other figures through the door. The others were wearing a type of scrubs, but they were a pale cream as opposed to the green of the nurse's scrubs.
"Jace…" Clary turned to the blonde for an explanation, but to her surprise, he looked relieved.
"I thought it might be someone coming to lock me up for sexually harassing a minor." Jace joked, but then he observed the slightly strained expression on Clary's expression, "Oh, don't worry. They're just other patients in the clinic, probably in a more secure ward than ours. The staff take them here for exercise every few weeks, they don't have the same freedoms as us."
Clary turned back to appraise the other patients, who were slowly filing into the gym. They seemed placid enough, some even nodding in Jace and Clary's directions.
"I think they're a group of the long-term residents. A nice enough bunch," Jace continued, "but often cases nobody managed to intervene before they hurt themselves, or someone else. It could be any of us—all it takes are a few slight chemical mishaps in someone's brain to create a severe mental illness. I bet there's some pretty sad stories there." Jace added, with a hint of sadness in his own tone.
Clary looked up at the boy, studying his model-esque features tugged into an expression of melancholy empathy. But Jace seemed to snap himself out of it, turning to Clary with an entirely unreadable calm on his face,
"Should we head back up?"
Clary nodded, and began to collect her things.
"And for the record," she added waspishly, "It's only eight months until I'm eighteen."
Jace allowed a chuckle.
Maia cruised down her Facebook newsfeed, trying to suppress to flare of jealously she felt as she skimmed past photos of her friends—all smiling broadly into the camera at various parties and functions. Maia knew that she'd been in those photos too, if she was out there in the real world. Maia was popular—or she had been, until she'd tried to throw herself off the top of her apartment building. But now she was here, slowly shrinking off the social radar in this little psych ward, barely a pimple on the ass end of nowhere.
Maia slammed her laptop lid closed a little too forcefully, making Alec across from her lift his head.
"Everything alright?" he asked, resting his pencil on his Sudoku notebook. The light in the rec room was bright as usual, catching Alec's bright blue eyes, making them sparkle prettily. Alec was the kind of boy Maia could trust—not drop dead pretty. He was good-looking in his own way, yet not marble-sculpted, angel faced way that would make Maia shrink in fear. She could trust Alec.
"Just my friends, having the times of their young lives." Maia sighed, tracing patterns across the sleek surface of her laptop.
Alec scratched his chin thoughtfully, closing the notebook on his pencil, as to save his place, Maia supposed, "I tend to think that social media doesn't really paint an accurate picture." He said finally, after a few moments of considered silence, "I think it's more like a highlight reel—everyone is showing all the best bits of their lives. It's not like anyone is going to post photos of themselves lying in bed all day—or cleaning vomit from their hair. You can't judge your lowlights on their highlights."
And with that fairly profound piece of advice, Alec smiled warmly, before turning back to his Sudoku.
"You could write a self help book." Maia going to say, but familiar voices sounded from around the corner. Alec jumped to his feet, streaking from the room like a cat on a hot tin roof. Maia barely had time to be confused before Jace and Clary entered the room, grinning at each other flirtatiously.
Maia was sure she'd never seen Clary so relaxed since the girl had arrived. The usual tension she carried in her shoulders had dissipated, and her face was lit with a genuine smile.
The change was startling—Maia was so used to the closed off, suspiciously quiet girl that often slunk around the corridors of the ward.
But Jace's face slipped into a frown, as he caught Maia's eye, "Was Alec just in here?"
Maia nodded, "He went out the other door."
Jace turned to Clary, "I've just got to talk to Alec. Be back soon, ok?" Then he gave her hand an affection squeeze, before striding determinedly out the other door.
Clary nodded, taking a seat on the armchair closest to Maia, watching the door that Jace had just left through.
"You two seem close." Maia observed, trying to strip her tone of all judgement—yet she still felt her lips purse.
"He's training me in self-defence." Clary explained, the wistful expression leaving her face as she turned to Maia.
Maia mentally scolded herself—insisting that it was none of her business—but the warning came out all the same, "Just be careful."
Clary didn't look angry, simply curious, "What makes you say that?"
Maia truly couldn't help herself, "Pretty boys can be trouble. I learned that from personal experience."
Clary frowned, "Why, what happened?"
Maia felt herself flush, and she found herself stroking patterns over her laptop once more, "I'll keep that to myself, if that's alright."
Clary visibly shrunk, all confidence fleeing her body. Maia silently cursed herself, "Look, no offence intended." She explained, trying to smooth it over, "It's not your fault. It's just kind of… personal. You understand that, right?"
Clary's face turned solemn, "Yeah. I understand. Truly."
Alec raced up the hallway, trying to outrun Jace's insistent footsteps behind him. Curse the stupid boy, and his ridiculous heterosexuality and impertinent need to be right. Alec knew that if he slowed for Jace, the boy would end up talking Alec out his anger. And even though Alec knew he'd been entirely unreasonable with Jace, he wasn't ready to let go of his silly grudge quite yet.
But as Alec rounded another corner, he almost collided with another figure he was keen to avoid.
"I've been looking for you, Alexander." Magnus began, "I wanted to talk to—"
Alec grabbed Magnus by the elbow, steering him rather forcefully for the nearest door, which happened to be—
"Janitor's closets seem to be a running theme with you." Magnus remarked, with a smirk.
Alec huffed, closing the door behind them. He waited with bated breath for Jace's footsteps to pass the door, before pulling Magnus out into the hallway.
"You wanted to talk to me?" Alec prompted, trying to ignore the fluttering in his gut as Magnus' eyes locked with his.
"I wanted to let you know that I'm leaving tomorrow night." Magnus replied, holding Alec's gaze unflinchingly.
Alec's stomach dropped at the words, and he was filled with an emotion that he couldn't quite pinpoint,
"What? Why? You've only got a short amount of time, why not just stay and finish?" Alec noted the whining quality to his voice, and he took a deep breath to quiet it, "I mean, it would look better on your record."
Magnus smiled… sadly? Perhaps Alec was reading it wrong, "I've been offered a manager's position at a new nightclub in town. It's good pay, and there's nothing here for me anymore."
Alec suddenly felt as though someone had wedged a shard of glass between his ribs, "Nothing?" he replied a little breathlessly, trying hard not to let his eyes drop from Magnus'.
"That's up to you Alexander." Magnus replied, his expression ever-unreadable as he suddenly fumbled in the jacket pocket of the glittery coat he was wearing. He produced a small scrap of paper, with a set of numbers in Magnus' flamboyant handwriting decorating it.
"My cellphone number." Magnus explained, and Alec took the scrap from him, slipping it into the top pocket of his scrubs.
"Call me anytime. I'll answer." Magnus added reassuringly, placing a hand on Alec's shoulder. The contact sent a prickle of electricity right down Alec's side, as though Magnus had a special kind of magic in his fingers that only Alec could sense.
"Of course." Alec replied, giving Magnus a firm nod.
Magnus removed his hand, straightening up and tugging the lapels of his coat.
"I have to go pack. But I'll see you and everyone else at dinner this evening." Magnus turned to leave, "Oh, and for God's sake, talk to Jace. I bet whatever you're arguing over is ridiculous."
Alec had nothing to say aside from agreeing, so he shrugged in a defeated way.
Magnus gave him a final smirk, before sauntering up the hallway.
There was only an hour until dinner, but the clinic doctors were always busy. Maia was relieved to finally be buzzed to the infirmary, and she took the stairs two at a time to the first floor. The infirmary was somewhere between a pharmacy and a general practitioners. Many of the patients in the clinic were on some kind of medication, and the clinic had attributed half of the first floor of the manor to organizing this medication, as well as treating any injuries or illnesses that would occur in at Fairchild Clinic. And seeing as they were right in the middle of flu season, the two doctors that worked at the infirmary were relatively rushed. The medical nurse in training—Helen Blackthorn—spied Maia as soon as she entered the small waiting room.
"Maia, over here!" she called, and quickly led Maia down a cramped hallway to a small office. Like most things in the Manor, the infirmary was awkwardly organized around the architecture of the original residence. There was lots of little rooms leading off to other big rooms, and funny little passages that led to nowhere at all.
"Take a seat, Maia." Helen gestured to a squashy chair beside her desk, and Maia eased herself into it carefully.
Helen gave her a warm smile—a professional sort, that all the doctors and nurses seemed to know, before turning for the archaic dinosaur of a computer that was making her desk groan from the weight of it.
Helen made an exasperated sound as the thing wheezed and spluttered to life, its screen flickering weakly before it properly started.
"Is that thing running Windows 95?" Maia asked in surprise, "It could be in a museum. No offence." She added quickly.
Helen just laughed, "I get all the shitty stuff because I'm still in training. It's alright though—I'll graduate next year. Then it's something sleek and super-fast for me."
Helen clicked away for a few minutes, before she seemed to finally bring up the page she wanted.
"Ah, there we go." Then she turned to Maia again, "This is just a general check-up to see how you're feeling on…" she scanned the computer screen, "you're on Atripla?"
Maia chewed her lip, "Yeah, and my anti-depressant, Celexa."
Helen nodded, double-checking on screen.
"You were on… Zoloft, it says here?"
Maia nodded, "But it didn't help with the uh…" Maia felt herself falter, and a blush lit her cheeks, "suicidal thoughts, and stuff."
Helen nodded, "Zoloft can be like that for some people. But the Celexa is good?"
Maia anxiously twirled one of her ringlets around her finger, "It makes me a little drowsy, but it's ok if I take it before bedtime."
Helen's eyes flicked back to the screen, "You've been on Atripla for six months. How's that going?"
Maia chewed the inside her mouth, feeling a flutter of anger warm her chest, "It makes me feel pretty dizzy, and kind of nauseous. But it's either that, or let my HIV kill me, so it's not like I have a choice." Maia's voice was bitterer than she would've liked.
Helen made a sympathetic noise, reaching out and giving Maia's hand a reassuring squeeze.
"It's tough. I know sometimes it feels like you're the only one going through this, but there's many others out there, even people your own age, going through the exact same thing as you. I think we've even got a few people in the clinic who are positive."
Maia nodded firmly, feeling her body freeze up, as it always did when she felt the beginning of tears prickling behind her eyelids.
"It just sucks." She said quietly, "Because I never get a holiday from it. It's always going to have to be on my mind, for the rest of my life. I can't even look at a poster for a blood drive without being reminded. I hate it. And I hate him." She growled, trying hard to blink away the tears. She'd promised herself a hundred times that she'd never cry over him, but she'd broken the promise more than she'd vowed it.
Helen looked at her sadly, giving her hand an even firmer squeeze, "I know. But the best we can do is keep at the Atripla, and hope that we can get your viral load—the amount of virus in your blood—down to undetectable. Just focus on that goal for now."
Maia nodded shortly, clenching her jaw to distract herself from a mind full of him.
"Do you want to do a blood test now?" Helen asked, as she released Maia's hand to type a few notes into the computer.
Maia nodded, "That'd be good."
Helen set Maia up in the next room, prepping the various instruments to take a portion of Maia's blood. Maia tried to look straight ahead, not keen on watching Helen slide the needle into her vein. Maia had never really had many issues with needles or blood tests previously—but that was before she'd been diagnosed as HIV positive. Now Maia felt as though her own blood wasn't hers—like it had been hijacked by an alien bug. Which, Maia supposed, it had. Though it was the normal dark red like everyone else's, only Maia knew the infection that lurked within it, muddying her normal blood. Sometimes, Maia could swear she could feel the little viruses zooming around her bloodstream, slowly growing like a poisonous mould.
Maia inhaled sharply as she felt the needle break the skin, and she stared stubbornly ahead. She often wished there was some way she could send a message to her past self, warning her about him.
Much like the HIV virus could lay dormant for years, making a harmfully ill person seem healthy, past-Maia had been deceived by appearances. If only Maia had known how something ill was lurking under his pretty surface, that some pretty bottles contained a pretty poison.
He'd tried to contact her often, first on Facebook (she'd blocked him), then other social media (also blocked), then he'd found out about the clinic and tried to turn up there too. The guards they kept on the grounds dumped him on his ass outside the gate. Now he just sent letters, wrapped up expensive envelopes. Yet she hadn't opened a single one. She wasn't sure what he had to say to her—the damage was already done. She was infected, and it was his fault.
"You're all done." Helen informed her, "The results should be back in a few days."
Maia nodded, thanked her, and then headed for dinner.