Clary was painting when Jonathan entered her room. She looked at him, curious, and wondered what it might be about, considering she had already fed from him that day - early morning, and Clary had caught up to her mind just as her brother took her shirt off, getting off him and scrambling to her room, where she had been the entire day - as he sat in her bed. He was still walking around shirtless, and on his neck there was starting to grow a small garden of scarred bites. Minimally scarred, of course, but when you fed almost everyday on someone, you ended up giving them a scar necklace.
He looked pretty with it, although, and if Clary took extra care when biting his skin, to make sure every place was even, she was the only one who needed to know.
"Is something wrong?", she asked, frowning, putting the brush behind her ear. Jonathan did not answer, eyes not meeting hers, and Clary frowned. "Jonathan?"
His eyes did not rise to met hers, and Clary already knew what was wrong.
It wasn't his fault. It was their father, and whatever he had done to Jonathan. The details on that were still foggy, at best.
Clary went to his side, sitting by, and carefully put her hand by his, but he didn't take the offer. That just confirmed what he was going through, and Clary stayed quiet.
Jonathan's eyes were unfocused and dark, and Clary waited by his side, patient. Whatever their dad had done, since he never spoke a word about it, had been terrible - terrible enough to make Jonathan dissociate when triggered by something (Clary still didn't know what, which made her a bit frustrated because that was what she had to know, but she didn't.). When he was in that specific state, Jonathan always found Clary, always sat by her side, and stayed silent, until he could find himself through the fog in his mind. Other times, he was still able to function, following her closely, but when asked later, he'd have no memory but vague recollections of Clary, and that would be it. She didn't question him. Ig her presence could somehow help him, then she let it be.
After what seemed hours later, he picked her hand. Clary didn't make a sound, looking at him as he played with the pads of her fingers as if she were a cat.
"Are you alright?", she asked, softly, and Jonathan nodded quietly. "Do you want to talk, Sebastian?"
Jonathan shrugged, eyes focused on her fingers, still playing with her as if she was made of glass, and Clary couldn't help but think about the crack on his bedroom door.
"Not really,", he replied, in the end, and Clary didn't know what that was the answer for. "Could you bite me?"
Clary looked at him, and he rose his eyes, meeting each other.
"Don't you worry about anemia?", she asked, and when Jonathan shook his head, Clary bit her lower lip, cursing the fact that, at the mere suggestion of food, her fangs popped up. "You should."
"Please, Clarissa. Just… Just let me get in that nice haze, it's better than...", he was almost begging, and Clary, with a nod, picked his hand, leaning down to bite his wrist. The blood there had a different quality from the one in his neck, and as she drunk shallowly, hearing him moan slightly, she wondered why. Maybe it was the closeness to the heart?
When she let go, Jonathan's eyes were once more unfocused, but in the lovely way they were after she fed on him. Clary kissed his lips softly, allowing him to taste the sweetness of his own blood - even if for him it tasted like iron - before letting go. He made a move for her shirt, but Clary rose up, instead.
"You're not feeling well, Sebastian", she hummed, licking the last of his blood from her mouth. "Get better first."
Jonathan nodded, quiet, and watched as Clary went back to painting.