Summary: Will, Jem thinks, is like a disease.

Slash, first time, pre-series.

Notes: First off, I do not own the characters mentioned below and/or The Infernal Devices—all belongs to Cassandra Clare. Secondly, the title is taken from Of Monsters and Men's ever wonderful song "King and Lionheart."

R&R, if you please! (:

Though Far Away, We're Still the Same

When they're seventeen and the Institute is without a trace of a girl soon to come, Jem watches Will's fingers glide over the strings of his violin. He doesn't know how to play, of course, but in times like these Jem wants to teach him—wants to teach him how to use his hands and how to turn his fingers just right and how to bring out one of the most beautiful sounds he'll ever hear.

And, in times like these, Jem isn't sure whether he wants to teach Will things about his violin or about his body.

"An inch up."

"Hm?" Will doesn't look away from the violin.

"Move your finger up an inch, and you will have the correct F natural," Jem says but instead of waiting for Will to correct it himself, he reaches over and nudges his finger until it's resting on the right note not even halfway down the wooden fingerboard. Will looks up then, his blue eyes shining throughout the night's darkness that has long since fallen around them. The only light in the room comes from the candle flickering next to the carved box filled with Jem's life force but not his reason to live, and the flame catches in the black of Will's hair, in his smile that's almost there.

"Does it really matter?" he asks, a smirk playing on those lips so red and full and inviting.

Jem shakes his head.

"No, I suppose not," he says. "It's not as if you actually want to play."

"I do," Will replies and his smile grows, "but only for you."

Jem moves in closer to Will, close enough to see the indent of hidden dimples, close enough to see the way Will is looking at him, and says, "But why? I can already play for you, William."

"I want to be able to do something for you."

"You do everything for me, already."

"I want to do something more," Will says and he looks away then, his gaze falling back to the fragile violin held carefully in his hands. He plucks at the D string, the hollow sound ringing as the string vibrates on the bridge. "You have saved my life, James. I need to do something more."

"You are my parabatai," Jem says, "and my closest friend. There is nothing more I could wish for."

Will's hands still their movement on the instrument and he asks, in a quiet voice that suggests far more than Jem's willing to hope for, "Are you sure that is all you wish for?"

"Of course. What else could I?"

"A lot," is Will's faint answer. Then, his eyes meeting Jem's once more, he says, "And I'm willing to give it to you—all of it, anything, everything."

With a small sigh, Jem pats Will's knee.

"I do not think, William," he says as he stands from the bed, his voice hard to hear in the hush surrounding them, "that you know just what you are saying."

Jem doesn't expect him to reply; he expects him to go back to playing with Jem's violin or to walk out the door, to have him act as though this moment didn't happen like they have done twice before, but he does. And he says, "But I do, Jem."

Jem looks down, shakes his head. "You don't, William."

Will, Jem thinks, is like a disease. Whether slow and painful, or quick and peaceful, he works his way into your body and makes you feel as though you are dying—wonderfully, happily drowning in fast-moving water or hellishly burning in flames that are turning your flesh into the liquid pooling around your feet. It's almost addictive, almost fun, like the drug keeping Jem alive.

Jem closes his eyes for a moment, a want he's had for so long ripping through his chest. He feels strong arms wrap around him from behind and it's all he can do to not lean into his touch, comforting and caring and so gentle, so unlike the cover-up Will he's known for years.

"I know what you want," Will murmurs into his ear, his hot breath ruffling Jem's hair, "and I know what I want. And they are the exact same things." He doesn't sound all that confident, though, and it's with a heavy heart and an acidic mind that Jem pushes his arms away from his waist.

"If you're so reluctant to believe me, why don't you kiss me?" Will says and when Jem turns to look at him, his eyes wide and disbelieving and maybe even a bit hurt, he smiles once more.

"How in the world would that help a damn thing, Will?"

"Because at least you'd know I feel the same way."

"I don't understand—"

"Come here," Will says simply, holding out a hand for Jem to take. Jem stares at it for a moment, at the fingers he's dreamt of on him, in him, sucking on, and it's with apprehension that he reaches out for it and lets Will pull him over, closer; he's so close that he can see the dim undertones of his eyes, gray and black and even silver, all hidden away by that beautiful blue Jem knows so well.

"Do you want to kiss me?" Will asks.

Jem swallows, manages to choke out, "Yes."

"Then kiss me."

And he does.

And it's every bit as wonderful as he imagined it to be.

Will's lips are smooth and warm and compliant underneath his, opening at the right time, kissing back with just enough force to make Jem break to pieces in his hands at the precise second he wants them to.

(Jem wants to take this memory and run with it because he knows, sooner or later, it's going to come crashing down to the ground and he won't be able to stop it.)

Will's hand moves into Jem's hair, and there's only the briefest of pauses before he's tugging his head back and breaking the kiss with another one of those devilish, trickster smiles. Jem gasps at the pain, at the pleasure, at the stolen moment all together, and his nails dig into Will's shoulder as his eyes fall shut.

Will tugs again, this time more gently, and when Jem's mouth opens with another gasp, he swallows it down with another kiss. One hand stays in Jem's hair, pulling and pulling and pulling until Jem feels like he's truly unraveling at his seams. The other one has strayed down to his hip and he now plays with the hem of Jem's shirt, running his fingertips over the pale skin exposed beneath.

Against his lips, Will asks, "Do you believe me yet, Jem?"

Jem doesn't even take the time to answer, his hands too busy as they move to Will's shirt, prying open the buttons, too busy with kissing him too fiercely because he wants more, so much more, has wanted more for so many years, and that's an answer enough for Will.

Will lets his shirt fall away, lets Jem run his hands down his chest the way he's wanted to do for so long, lets Jem kiss him until his lips are bruised and abused. And Jem loves him for it, because he knows they're both thinking the same thoughts: there's not much time left. They have to make this quick, quick, before time runs out and Jem's air supply goes dry and they no longer have the chance.

Jem ruts his hips against Will's, desperate for him and the friction and the love they're not allowed to have for each other, and Will replies with a languid roll of his own that nonetheless takes away his breath. Jem very nearly moans, but holds it back. He doesn't want to ruin the silence crowding them in this room, the silence that's only occasionally interrupted by Will's fast breathing and his groans and his sighs that are putting Jem on edge.

"Jem," Will murmurs into his hair, his hands gripping Jem's hips tight as they grind against each other, "Jem, what do you want to do?"

"What do you suppose I want to do?"

Will laughs soundlessly, harshly—breathlessly, beautifully.

"You have to help me here, James. I've only ever been with girls."

"Mm-hm." Jem's only half paying attention, his focus drawn to the way Will says his name and the way Will's holding him and the way Will slides up against him.

"I'm serious, Jem."

Jem sighs against Will's bare shoulder, his lips pressed to the tender skin underneath his collarbone. "I know you are, Will." Then, pulling back, he asks, "What makes you assume I've been with a man?"

Will shrugs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips, and Jem kisses it away until Will's panting for more, too.

"Please, Jem," Will whispers, his breath hitching, his voice wavering. "I need you, James."

"You don't need me," Jem says. But he makes his way down on to his knees, his lips tracing a trail down Will's chest, and Will's hand goes back into Jem's hair, gripping tight in such a painful way that Jem has to bite down on his bottom lip to hold back the moan threatening to escape.

Then Will jerks his head back, until he can look into Jem's eyes, and Jem can't help his moan this time. Will's eyes soften at the sound but when he speaks his voice is still sharpened by lust, dulled by love, "I do. I do need you, James."

Against his hipbone, Jem murmurs, "And I, you."

Will smooths his hair down. He says, "Then, take me. Take everything I have to offer and make it yours."

Jem closes his eyes and presses another kiss into the hollow dip of his hipbone, feather light and searing hot. "Always, as long as you wish me to."

"Forever," Will says, and his voice cracks on that one simple word. And, when Jem looks up, he can see that there's a happiness in Will's eyes that he seldom ever finds. Keeping their eyes carefully locked, waiting for him to object like Jem fears he eventually will, Jem pulls down his trousers until they're pooled around his ankles. Will sighs at the release and steps out of them, still holding on to Jem. But he grabs him by his arms and pulls him up the next second so that they are face to face, lips only inches apart.

He tugs on a silver strand of Jem's hair.

"Get naked," he commands and Jem laughs, bright and loud. But he listens and begins to unbutton his shirt, deliberately slow as he watches Will's eyes trained on him. But when his shirt's off and it has joined Will's on the floor, he wants to snatch it back up and cover himself again.

Will runs his hand down his chest, stops over his heart.

"You're so beautiful," he says.

Jem forces himself to steady his hands as Will's go to his trousers, his fingers hooking in the material and pulling down until they are off too. And Jem wants him, wants him so bad, and by the time they're pressed against each other again he doesn't care where he has him. But Will drags them over to the bed, pulls Jem down on top of him, and kisses Jem so harshly he's surprised they both don't break.

"Spread your legs apart," Jem says against his mouth, nipping gently at his bottom lip, but Will hesitates, pulling away, apprehension drawn deep within his eyes.

"Will, I will try not to hurt you but I—"

"No, that's not it," Will interrupts and he brings his hand up, running his knuckles lightly across Jem's cheekbone. "I'm worried about you."

"Worried about me?"

"Yes."

"But why?"

"Have you… have you had any recently?" Will asks and Jem follows his gaze to the carved box full of yin fen, his small smile failing.

"Will—"

"I want you to be okay."

Will looks at him with such fierce, hope-filled eyes that it's almost hard to tell him his next words, even though they both know it to be undeniably true. But he says regardless, "We both know that I will never be okay."

Will looks away, yet he slowly rubs his hand up and down Jem's arm, causing Jem's skin to prickle like he's out in the early morning in the dead of winter. He moves his hand down to Jem's and presses a kiss to the sensitive inside of Jem's wrist, his lips soft and private.

With his mouth still pressed to his skin, Jem's veins running with quickened blood underneath, he says, "I want you to be."

"I want to be, too. But I can't be, William, I never can be."

Will closes his eyes, lays his cheek against Jem's wrist.

"I love my name when it comes from your lips," he notes faintly and Jem almost smiles, but now the drug is there in the back of his mind and he can feel all of Will pressed against him, the desire burning ever hotter.

Just as Jem is thinking the thought, Will opens his legs. He still has his eyes shut tight, but there's a blush rising to his cheeks (Will never blushes) and his grip on Jem is worried, prepared, and hard to resist. Jem leans down, brushes his lips over Will's.

"I have to ready you," Jem says and Will nods, his eyes staying closed.

Jem places his lips on the inside of his thigh, his tongue darting out just long enough to work an almost inaudible moan from those addictive ones of Will's. He trails his lips over to the crook between Will's thigh and hip, and only breaks away to wet two of his fingers.

Will makes a soft sound in the back of his throat that sounds a lot like "More." Without a word and only a small amount of hesitation, he slides one finger into Will. Will gasps brokenly, beautifully, as he's spread apart and Jem slips in his second finger. His fingernails dig into Jem, creating craters of crescents along his pale skin.

"How are you doing, Will?" Jem asks and he doesn't move his fingers, doesn't move his eyes from Will's closed ones, until he can be sure that this is what he really wants.

"I-I'm fine," he replies, but he sounds breathless—and not in a good way. He sounds breathless like he does once a demon's poison is coursing fast through his veins, or when he is forced to vomit up blood and holy water.

"I can stop," Jem says. "We don't have to continue this, Will."

"But I want to."

"It is going to hurt even greater."

"I can handle it if it is with you, James."

"Will—"

"It's okay," Will interrupts, and he runs his hand along the top of Jem's spine, his touch light. "It's going to be okay, Jem. I can handle it. After all, I am a Herondale, am I not?"

Jem laughs. "You are an ass, that's what you are."

"Mm." Then, opening his eyes to meet Jem's, he says, "Take me, James. I'm already yours."

"Don't be so hasty," Jem chides, but he leans back in to kiss Will, their lips sliding over one another's in a harshly wonderful way.

A/N: Don't ask me when or where or with who Jem's had sex with before, because I have no idea. (; It's not like I can say Shanghai, since he was very young when he moved to London.

Now, tell me what you think? (I'm sorry, I'm still so new to writing smut.)