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The music danced through the empty, dark corridors of the Institute, all spinning, dancing vibrancy, the crystalized perfection of the notes matched only by the effortless speed with which they were produced. Each note was an exquisite story in itself, and combined in the majestic whole produced something that all-but shimmered with its own transcendent life, beyond even the boy with the silver hair who played because he could not sleep.
Delicate, thin fingers strummed the bow up and down in an intimate caress unbroken by the gentle intrusion of the soft, silver light of the moon, entering the room by virtue of the large window, of which the curtains had been thrown carelessly aside. It fell on bare feet and tarnished wooden floorboards, on old and tattered nightclothes, on silver hair, on a complexion too pale to be healthy, and on silver eyes that shone with all the power and strength of an avenging angel.
James Carstairs stood straight and strong with the instrument in his hands and the dark marks etched into his skin, defying any perceived weakness with every perfectly formed note.
~
The door opened behind him, moving inward softly on recently oiled hinges. As Jem picked up on the soft sound of booted feet on floorboards, a tread as familiar as his own, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, transforming him from something otherworldly, something unattainable, and irrevocably sad, to just…Jem, Nephilim, shadow hunter and parabatai.
He stopped playing. The last note lingered on the air as if reluctant to be gone, and for one perfect moment, all was still, all was quiet. He let the violin drop from its place under his chin as he turned, fluidly yet slowly, the smile reaching and illuminating his silver eyes.
“Will.”
~
There was only one person who could say his name with such an equal amount of affection and chastisement. William Herondale took another step into the room with an atypical caution, stirring uneasily as silver eyes unerringly tracked his slow progress. His tousled black hair had been further mussed by the double attentions of the gleefully mischievous wind and the ruckus he’d inadvertently walked in on, and blood had fused the careless curls together, mingling oddly with the rain that he’d walked through to create a pink-tinged paste. Blue eyes that were far stormier than any of the seven seas looked out of an uncharacteristically pale face, highlighted further by the dark shadows beneath them. He was dressed simply, yet pulled it off with a natural elegance that could have made a brown sack look the height of fashion, in a long-sleeved white shirt, matched with simple black trousers over scuffed black boots that had seen a lot of action and little aftercare.
But the white shirt was stained with blood and other less easily identifiable substances, clinging to a deceptively muscular chest. And that large, and still growing dull red mark was what Jem’s silver eyes were fixed on.
~
“Jem,” Will muttered tiredly, the usual arrogance gone from his weary expression, “just. Healing runes, please?”
Jem had already moved to the cabinet beside his bed, kneeling momentarily on the floor to retrieve the stele he stored inside there for such purposes. Moving back across the floor to Will, who looked in increasing danger of collapsing, he manhandled him over to his bed, steadfastly ignoring his protests, and with his usual care marred only by his urgency, inscribed the runes onto his skin.
Will’s head tipped back as the pain faded and his various injuries began to heal under Jem’s gentle ministrations. The latter boy’s hands swept across his chest when he’d finished, checking, no doubt, for further injuries. Regaining some of his strength, Will pushed him away with an irritable growl, expressing, as he always did, his severe dislike for any hint of mollycoddling, and Jem turned away for a moment, to toss the stele almost carelessly back into the cabinet.
When he turned back, Will froze, breath catching in his chest at the look of unusually volatile fury in Jem’s silver eyes. He parted full, red lips to speak, to head off some of the anger he knew was about to head in his direction, but was immediately silenced by a thin finger settling against his mouth, pressing his lips closed. The finger remained even when Will subsided, and he merely watched Jem silently, automatically obedient.
~
Jem’s hard gaze softened at Will’s acquiescence to what was in effect an order, and as he gently unbuttoned Will’s shirt to slide it off muscled shoulders, he marveled, as he always did, at how Will became pliant and gentle under his hands, the confidence and arrogance peeling away with each layer of his clothing, the mask laid aside. He would pick it up later, he always would, laughing it off with that easy, casual confidence, but Jem would always know, always remember. They would always have this.
The shirt, still stained with the unholy mixture of blood, sweat and alcohol was tossed carelessly aside: Jem would burn it come morning. He ran delicate fingers that could coax the songs of heaven from his violin and plunge a dagger through the heart of a demon down a chest marred by the evidence of a tough, and usually painful life, scars, cuts and bruises marring tanned, smooth skin. He pressed fingers then his lips to each slight imperfection, dragging a shiver out of Will at every gentle touch.
“James,” Will murmured, as the other boy reached his waistband and began to unbutton his trousers with deft skill. Jem glanced up from his position of kneeling in front of him, and Will caught his breath again with a gasp as moonlight struck Jem’s eyes, setting them aflame with bright, heartrending purity.
“William,” Jem returned, the name emerging as a caress full of an enticing mixture of affection and subtle warning. Will subsided, again, unable, as he always was, to refuse him anything. Not like this. Not ever.
Moving fluidly back to his feet, Jem rested deceptively strong hands on Will’s shoulders and, meeting that dark, stormy gaze, pushed firmly. Will went down flat on the bed slowly, and Jem maintained the contact the entire way, moving to kneel on the bed, straddling the other boy.
Leaning forwards and down, Jem propped himself up with hands either side of Will’s head, bracketing him in as he leaned down, and planted a gentle kiss on Will’s pale, overheated forehead, keeping him in place as he tried to wriggle free. In such a constricting hold, Will couldn’t back off, couldn’t deflect, and couldn’t make some suggestive or sarcastic remark. Held still, he had no choice but to relax back, weary energy seeping from his muscles.
~
Jem pulled slowly away from Will. He pushed him wordlessly back down onto the bed as he made a soft protest, then quick hands moved to his waist, unbuttoning his trousers. Will lifted his hips as Jem slid them off in one fluid movement, letting them pool heedlessly onto the floor.
Will was breathtaking. Sprawled out on Jem’s bed with splayed legs and casually thrown out arms, his dark hair contrasting dramatically with the white of the sheets, and his muscular body, perpetually in motion, lying still and pliant under the wandering hands, clad only in thin underwear that allowed absolute freedom of movement, Jem could barely believe that this was his, irrevocably and unquestionably. Their bond was of blood, ink, and love, and it would not be broken.
His hands moved down slowly from Will’s waist, kneading and caressing the tense muscles under his skin. Will stirred at the first ministration, but subsided automatically with a soft sound of surprised relaxation. As each muscle relaxed minutely under Jem’s hands, he moved further down, ceaseless until he’d reached Will’s still-booted feet, where he quickly unlaced them, slipping them off feet sore from a long night of walking. Jem continued his ministrations until Will had all-but melted into the mattress, breathing that had been worryingly unsteady coming smooth and slow.
~
The seconds ticked away into minutes as Jem watched Will fall asleep, watched the stress and the worry fade from his expression and turn to a contented peacefulness the like of which was never present during his waking hours. Only then did Jem take up a position beside him, close enough that their arms were touching. Half stirring at that, Will muttered something incomprehensible, then wrapped his arms around Jem, dragging the other boy into a quickly reciprocated embrace, a movement that concealed Jem’s motion to press a hand to Will’s forehead. He was still far too warm to be entirely healthy, but Jem knew from experience that that would have passed by morning.
As Jem lay in the protective cocoon of Will’s light embrace, an embrace that would cost him little effort to slip free of, but with no intention to ever do so, Jem’s eyes finally closed.
And stayed that way for the first time that night.