Shadowhunter Songfics

Stone Cold (One sided Wessa version)

Will watched the first thin rays of morning light stream inside his window. He stared at the lighted space for moments, his arms around his knees. At first he felt nothing, but as time passed by his eyes began to hurt, being forced open the whole night and all. But even so, he didn't feel like tearing his gaze off. He didn't feel like standing up off his bed, fearing that the floor will crumble into nothingness and leave him in to his personal oblivion. He didn't feel like lying down on his bed, fearing that the weight of his exhaustion and of his pain would crush him and the bed to powder. He does not want to see his reflection, fearing that he might see himself bathed in his own blood, his heart crushed into fine pieces making its way out of his body. He had to hope that if he would not anchor himself to the reality he is living in, the pain will eventually fade away.

He could always call in sick. Charlotte would understand. He would not even feel the need to press her on allowing him to stay. A few moments ago, he was the brightest thing they saw, now, they would have to see him again hiding behind an already shattered wall. They probably would not notice anything. They'd probably think that he is in his mood swings again, which is how he would exactly want it. He could give in to pleasure and force himself to go with them and watch Benedict Lightwood spew the most flowery words that will ever come out of his mouth for his own cruel amusement, but at what cost? Could the thought of a hypocritical Benedict even drift his mind away from the torture he'll have to suffer inside a carriage where he doesn't belong?

He could go down there and act like he was sane, but she will see how much life is draining out of him. Jem on the other hand is oblivious and he's thankful for that. As long as Jem doesn't know anything, the two of them will be happy. Knowing Jem, he'll probably end up breaking his own engagement for him -- something that he will never even consider accepting.

But what about him?

He could pretend that he's fine, everything is fine. He's sick and tired of doing it, but he will, if it meant preserving the other. He is happy for them, he really is -- but that happiness had a price, and it was his own. In order for the two people he cherishes the most in his life to be happy, he will have to sacrifice his own, no matter how much he deserves it. He deserves every ounce of it. Five years are not that long, but it was long enough to ruin everything for him. He can lie to himself and to them by telling them that he is happy, and he would. He's willing to lose it all for them, even if he is feeling tired of doing the same pointless sacrifice.

He stared at his reflection -- pale face, cold eyes, wet dark locks and wet angles. He saw the Arctic at midnight. He could feel himself drowning to the blue of his eyes, illuminated by the pale of his face, letting himself drown to an endless coldness from the inside. He bit his lip and turned away, too ashamed to look back. People will say that he is strong from his actions, but he knows that what he is doing is a form of weakness. He was never strong enough to express himself out of fear that he'll only make things worse.

Unfortunately, his fear is always right.

He can't cry out. He can't ask for anybody to soothe his pain. He can only bear the pain given by the harsh reality where he exists. He can only feel pain if people will be more honest to him. He wants the truth from her -- if she simply cares for him, or if she does return his feelings, or whatever, but that truth can only cause trouble for him and for her; he'll only find himself wallowing more why she didn't picked him, and she would find herself as conflicted.

No, he does not want that. He'll have to shoe everybody that he is not a coward.

He stared at his reflection as he started doing his buttons. He started feeling the thin layer of skin he'll have to wear again all over his body once more. He allowed himself to be stripped bare in that wretched drawing room, and look where it got him. He imagined his shirt as the mask he will wear once more with the same purpose in mind -- to preserve. As he did his buttons he can see himself again wearing a neutral face everywhere he goes. He'll wear it when they are together to hide his true intentions. His chafe skin does not want it any longer, but he'll have to endure.

He checked at his reflection one more time -- young, wild and free, and nodded in satisfaction. No one will see him wither. No one but himself, in this moments, where she will be having her moments with him while all he could do is reflect by staring aimlessly at his own doppelganger on the other side of the cracked surface.

He landed his gaze on his fireplace as he slowly made his way out of his room. His embers of hope died along with the fire last night when he decided to sleep in his freezing room. So much coldness inside him that it never bothered him. For her, he did his best to rekindle it, now it's dead when she made it very clear that he will never be the one who will provide fire for her. He'll have to start a new fire if he wants to hope again one day, but right now he is too weary and drained to even throw a single driftwood and start a small warm glow, plus he'll be pushing his limits once more.

His hopes of making it out alive is a fruitless wish. He was never alive since that day, five years ago. Then suddenly, he had a reason to escape, but was only dragged deeper.

He really is happy for them. He can always feel the joy, knowing that for once, he did something right. He can always consume that sensation, knowing that he didn't wrecked anybody's lives. But even if he allowed himself to, the joy is simply too weak, especially when compared to the Hell he is in. He never minded the sacrifices -- he'd do anything for Jem or for Tessa -- but everything just feels too much. He is too tired sacrificing everything for the sake of others, but he is too kind to complain. Everybody but him deserves it. He was not the best choice maker in life, but he never thought it would affect him this bad. He did his best to forge Hell to the people around him, but in the end, he ended up forging his own cell, built of guilt, of shame, of sadness and of pain out of pure intentions formed from pure selflessness.

He shrugged his coat to his body, and started descending further into the gates of hell.

Hell is cold.

I'll be the one who judges if it can get any colder.