Summary: They were parabatai. They were brothers in every way but blood.
Notes: Longer than a drabble, but not quite long enough to be a one-shot, either. This is just a small little thing that popped into my head near the end of Clockwork Angel, where it is said that red is the color of mourning. Oh, and one thing about the title. Don't complain to me that the title implies a fun or happy or whatever other adjective you can think of ending, when the story itself is rather depressing. I know this already. I chose the title for that reason specifically, and if you truly cannot put one and one together to get two, and figure out how the title fits in with the story... well. All you really need to know is it is my own personal play on words.
Warnings: One f-word (hence the rating), if that sort of thing bothers you. And yes, this is about the death of a main character. Also, this was written to be slash - easier to spot with your goggles on - and if that sort of thing bothers you as well, my apologies. With that being said, you don't have to read it as slash if you don't want to. Jem and Will are very close in the book, and they are parabatai, after all. Close friendships with blurry - and sometimes invisible - lines are the best.
With Rose-Colored Eyes
Everything was red that day. Red and white. The clothing, the flowers, the whole damned funeral itself seemed to be drenched in the colors. They made Will sick to his stomach. Every red decoration, every red ribbon, all reminded him of the blood dripping from Jem's mouth, of the pool of it beneath the silver-haired boy and how it stained the strands a garish pink, of the blood covering Will's own hands as he desperately drew iratze after iratze onto Jem's Marked and pallid skin. That blood had found its way to his arms, neck, and face, had caked and dried on his skin, had taken hours of furious scrubbing to get rid of. Hours of scrubbing and gin-drinking, hours of cursing, yelling, angry tears.
Will clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, tried to listen to Charlotte speaking at the front of the room, tried to forget the image that felt burned into his mind, failed miserably at both. He opened his eyes and ignored that hot, scratchy feeling in the back of his throat, searched the room for anything else he could stare at, anything at all. But the only other things he could see were the faces of the Nephilim who were looking back at him, all wearing the same fucking expression, the one that read I'm sorry and I know how you must feel on the surface, while the He was a Shadowhunter, he knew how it might end lurked right beneath it. And he was not sure which was worse; the vivid pictures he saw in the colors of the room, or their faces. He wanted to scream at them all, shake them hard by their shoulders, destroy every blasted thing he could in the room to make them realize, make them understand that none of them had any idea how he was feeling or what was going through his head. How could they? Not one person sitting around him knew what it was like to be parabatai. To be friend, brother, confidant and so much more than could be explained all rolled together as one. And then to lose that person, that second half of who you are, that other piece of your soul, and watch it happen? No. None of them could even begin to imagine how much this hurt.
Will scrunched his eyes shut again and tried to picture the bridge and the Thames and that ugly railway which marred an otherwise perfect view. Smiled as he imagined Jem leaned against the railing, grinning back at him, holding out one hand and beckoning for his friend to come closer with the other. Moved closer and grasped Jem's fingers as hard as he could, clutched onto him like he would die if he let go. Reached out with with now trembling fingers to run them through pink-tinged silver hair, and there were so many things he wanted to say, so many things he wanted Jem to know, but when Will opened his mouth, his entire world abruptly shifted. The bridge and the Thames were gone, a floor of cold grey stone in their place. Feeble moonlight illuminated Jem's face, the terrified look in his eyes, the pained smile that ghosted across his lips as Will reached forward to wipe the blood off his mouth. Will's hands shook even more, his fingers at first resting gently against the other boy's cheek, then pressing harder as he tried to explain everything that he couldn't say with a gesture. He pressed harder still, then suddenly, the skin beneath his fingers fell into ash.
Will's eyes jerked open, his mouth slightly ajar in horror, barely aware of the other Nephilim staring at him. He shoved a hand into his pocket and felt the cool, smooth metal of Jem's stele against his palm. He gripped it tightly as he stared forward, watching Charlotte's lips move without hearing the words, wondered how to cope with the gaping hole that burned somewhere deep inside his chest, and wondered if his world would forever be painted in muted tones of red.