Random OneShots

A light trough the fog

By: Whoareyou0000 on Ao3

Saphael

~~~~~

It descends like a cloud of fog.

Simon is sitting in the parlor strumming his guitar when the air thickens. He drags clumsy fingers up the strings, creating one last ominous sound, and places a shaking hand upon his throat. The expected lack of a pulse is, suddenly, unsettling. His nervous eyes slog across the room, past two empty chairs, three former windows now draped in weighty red and black fabrics and a dusty fireplace, and notices only darkness. A, heavy, bulbous, soundless, void.

Without his music, the quiet is deafening.

His enhanced vampire hearing picks up no movement, no response across the hotel.

He is completely and devastatingly alone with his depression.

Simon releases his guitar and it slithers down his trembling legs to the soft rug, giving a groan upon impact. His arms instead embrace his stomach as it ties itself into a tight knot and travels slowly up into his chest. This feeling is distantly familiar, a consequence of a diagnosis long forgotten in the wake of his death. The symptoms return to him like a flipbook created by his childhood self- silent tears, suffocating hopelessness, debilitating fatigue, and sadness that burrows deep into his soul.

It nearly choked the life out of him once.

Pills, he remembers. He took pills for this once when his blood flowed, and his body digested. Not a cure, but a treatment. He fumbles in his pocket, finds his phone, and scrolls through until he lands on Clary's name. It rings, rings some more, and then ceases with a beep. There, he leaves a message about how it's not life or death, but maybe life or torture, and he could use her help, but if not, as the great Goldblum says, life finds a way.

"Why am I like this?" He mumbles and puts the phone back in his pocket. Then he rubs sweaty hands over his face and digs fingers into his eye sockets. "Just be normal. Stop listening to your freakish brain and be happy. It'll pass. It always passes."

No, it won't. No one cares about you. Just end it already, his brain supplies.

Fingers thread up his forehead and into his hairline, scraping aggressively into his scalp. A vice tightens behind his eyes and he screws his lips. Fangs pop, puncturing his bottom lip and releasing a stream of red down his chin.

"Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!"

"Fledgling?"

Simons laps up his own blood and peeks through a curtain of fingers to see Raphael standing in the doorway, a crease forming between his brows. His hair sticks up in certain places and his black, satin pajama pants hang loosely on his hips. A simple gray t-shirt covers his toned chest.

"Who are you talking to, Baby?"

Simon wipes at his mouth, licks his lips, and wills his fangs back into his gums.

"What? Uh, no one. Myself. Its, uh..." He snaps his fingers and blinks away the fog. "Hey, have you heard of chaos theory? Who knows why things happen, butterflies flap and that makes water droplets fall and dinosaurs turn into birds. When you think about it why question anything when it's all anarchy?"

He raises his eyebrows at the end, curious if Goldblum will save him yet again. Raphael barely responds to the rant, obviously far too used to Simon at this point, and strides into the room with his hands nestled in his pockets. His narrow stare never leaves the fledgling until he's about a foot away and glances briefly at the ground.

"Your guitar is on the floor."

"Uh, right." Simon blinks at the discarded instrument and grabs it at once, pulling it onto his lap. "My hands needed a rest."