A/N: For the Wind Blown Dreamer, with the prompts; "I can hear you whisper but you can't even hear me screaming." "I'll escape this world of madness and be free in my dreams." "I wish I had it in me not to care." "Secret smiles and inside jokes, much more of this romantic crap and I'll choke." You might have to stretch yourself to see some of the prompts, because I suck that way.

I absolutely adore SimonXIsabelle. They break me. They work so heart-breakingly well together, but at the same time they're doomed.

Magnificent

january.

"Um, hey," Simon said, his voice a lot less shaky than he expected. His grip tightened on his cellphone, and for a second he wondered if it would snap under the pressure. "Uh, there's a movie I've been planning to see, and Clary said you also want to check it out. So, uh – are you busy this afternoon?"

A faint laugh came from the other end of the line, and Simon wondered what her expression was. "Sure, Simon. That sounds good."

.

february.

Simon loved the sharp winter air, the way it seemed to suck the air right out of his lungs and almost make him feel alive. He also liked the cold because it made the tip of Isabelle's nose go red when the cold breeze whipped past them, fanning her elegant hair all around her.

"When you stare, you could have the decency to at least try to be subtle," Isabelle said, breaking their relative silence as they walked along the street, grinning at Simon. He couldn't help but notice that tiny little dimple at the corner of her mouth.

"You're beautiful," he replied. "It's kind of hard not to stare."

Isabelle acted like she didn't hear the words – and they certainly didn't have an effect on her. She wouldn't have listened even if he yelled them – compliments meant nothing to the Shadowhunter.

.

april.

Sometimes in the early hours of the morning, Simon would look at his ceiling and mutter "This is my girlfriend, Isabelle," under his breath, just so he could know what those words would taste like. He needed to know how that sentence would feel on his lips, even though the words fell onto very deaf air.

Unknown to him, Isabelle did the same thing when night edged into dawn, usually while she scrubbed caked demon blood that had splattered over her skin. Her "No, we're not dating," would slip under the stream of the shower, lost to the same drains that contained demon and angel blood (and some human), all mixed into the same dirty pipe.

.

may.

People give them strange looks when they walk down the street. Usually it's a man, how did you score that? kind of look.

And Simon can only shrug and say, beats me.

.

june.

"Let's go in there," Isabelle said, pointing to a small cafe tucked into a corner.

No matter how many times they went out (or kissed, or ripped off each other's clothes), neither of them had it in them to use words like "relationship", "steady" or "girlfriend". They didn't do dates or romance – they would both choke on that kind of thing. Those types of words were personal, committed terms that would imply that they were more than they actually are.

So instead, one of them would simply send a text on a slow day and the pair would go out to some place, just because company was better than being alone.

She shrugged, setting down her dagger on the table as a waiter took her order of coffee. "Training's been insane," she replied. "Dad...he came to talk to Mom. It was –" she stopped herself, looking down. "It – it wasn't." Her voice was barely audible, but Simon heard it.

"I'm sorry," Simon replied, not knowing what else to say.

Isabelle looked up at him, picking the dagger off the table and setting the point onto the wood, slowly applying pressure. "So am I," she said as the dagger's tip disappeared into the table.

Simon sighed. It didn't matter if he screamed or yelled it at Isabelle, it didn't matter if he gently pushed the words into her consciousness, using a gentle sigh. The words were useless, and Isabelle probably wouldn't even hear them – she never really heard Simon, anyway.

.

july.

"Oh, shit, oh shit, please – never ever do that to me again," Simon said, his voice cracking. "Don't –" he looked down at his hands, not being able to look at Isabelle lying on the bed with bandages wrapped around her torso, bruises still on her face. A healing rune hadn't been enough for the demon poison.

"I'm alive, Simon, I'm okay."

Hot, angry tears threatened to fall from Simon's eyes, and he hastily wiped them away. He still couldn't bring himself to look up at her again. "No, you're not, you're not," his voice was shaky. "Nearly dying is part of your job. And it's going to kill you."

"So?" Isabelle's voice was fierce. "That's what we do, Simon. Live fast, die young. We're not like mundanes; we know we're not going to live forever."

"I'm going to be the one – I'm going to be left alone."

She moved closer to him, gently tilting his head up to look at her. "We can't do anything about it," she said, her voice soft.

"I wish I couldn't care," Simon said. "But I can't stop thinking about how this is going to end so badly."

Of course, she was the one nearing the end of her life far too quickly, while Simon was stuck with much more than one soul could ever want.

.

august.

"Do you love me?"

"Shut up an kiss me, Simon."

.

september.

They were on a hotel bed, tangled and and intertwined and breathing each other in, clawing and hoping when –

"Oh, God," panted Simon into her collarbone.

Isabelle froze and pulled away enough away so that she could see into his dark eyes, looking for a change in him, her own surprise mirrrored in his expression.

.

october.

Isabelle decided that she wanted to go to the nearest beach. It was early evening, meaning that the sand was empty of people and the water freezing. Well, that's what Isabelle's expression said as she waded into it, at least. The memory of the cold had almost left Simon completely.

"Don't look so tense," Isabelle said. "I'm still here." She stepped into the waves just a bit more, so that the higher crests wet the bottom of her jeans, some foam sticking to the denim.

"For how long?"

She gripped his hand and stepped deeper into the water, wading in so that the pair of them were waist-deep into the ocean, standing at the edge of a continent.

The sky was terribly empty.

"We could run." Her voice is just as determined as she was. A few moments later, the water was at her ribcage, soaking both their skin. "We can leave. We'll be free and can go anywhere we want."

Isabelle smiled in the way that only mortals did – the way people who know they're dying and living and breathing, smile at others. She tightened on his hand and pulled him with her under the next wave, ducking under deep enough so the current above them made her hair fan above her. After a few seconds, they bobbed up again, and Isabelle smiled (again with that fucking I'm alive smile) at him.

.

november.

Simon dreamed for the first time since he had become a vampire. He dreamt of eating dinner with Clary, going to school, aging and having kids, being a normal couple with Isabelle.

Part of the vampire curse is to dream of everything you want and can't have, just in case their kind hasn't been smited enough already.

.

december.

"We can't do this anymore, Isabelle."

Isabelle sighed, looking down at her hands. If she was a human, they would eventually wrinkle and her veins would become prominent as the skin sagged. But the only thing visible against the smooth skin was her runes, spiraling and marking her as one who wouldn't live to see herself age.

"I love you," she said, shoving her hands into her trenchcoat, as if they were dirtied with her confession. This time, the air wasn't deaf and there was no stream for the words to fall under. They both heard it, they both felt it and they both wished it wasn't said.

For a moment, Simon felt sick. Love was romantic, and the two of them were anything but. "You know I feel the same," he replied, knowing that if he said anything more, he'd most likely choke on the words – oh, who's he kidding? He'd choke on his fears, his past, his bleakdead future and every glass-shard memory the two of them shared.

Simon wanted to kiss her again, feel her soft lips against his, feel her pulsing humanity and everything that made her so shatteringly alive and everything that made him so wholly notalive.

This is how things change, with people milling around, bumping into them as they walk about on the street. No-one knows that there's a Shadowhunter woman with the immortal boy and nothing will ever work out because he's cursed and she's beautiful and the world doesn't care.

Simon stumbles onto a nearby bench, knowing this is how things end, and for a second his breath is jagged, just like the pair of them. Then it evens out (because Simon doesn't really need air all that much) and Isabelle sits down next to him, and they don't look at each other for hours.

Neither of them can bring themselves to leave, and they can't stay. It's a horrible half-shade and in-between, and both of them are too scared to define this just yet.

And people walk past them and lights flash as it gets dark as New York can, and nothing is magnificent.