you’re nine the first time it happens. correction: you’re nine the first time you notice; it could have been happening all along. probably was happening all along, actually, but you don’t have the gumption to mull that thought over for very long. it’s all too confusing as it is.
posters litter the walls of your dark red bedroom, tokens from your bouts around the city with aline. she’s pretty much the only girl you know, though how well can you know someone who visits new york maybe once or twice a year? regardless, those trips through new york have taught you one thing: this is what girls your age do. they plaster their bedrooms with posters of mundie singers, with their platinum blonde-tipped hair and suspiciously orange-hued tans. they bow their heads together and giggle, the sound practically foreign to your isolated ears. there isn’t room for giggling in the hollowed halls of the institute; only grunts of pain and groans of frustration as you train & train & train.
but some part of you longs for that sense of normalcy, for a female friend to giggle with about the pretty boys on ridiculously oversized posters. so you hang them, paste them all over your bedroom, brows furrowed in concentration --- they must be hung perfectly, of course, because that’s the only way. (nevermind the fact the chances of anyone seeing these is slim-to-none).
expect, someone does see them: first, your mom, who doesn’t seem too impressed by the mundies donning her daughter’s bedroom. ❛ honestly, isabelle, couldn’t you find anything else with which to decorate your bedroom? ❜ ( the one female in your life and she can’t even pretend to think these boys are cute. it’s positively rude, really ). then, your brother. your big brother, with all of his self-possession and furrowed looks, who you can only assume will think the posters are stupid.
( spoiler alert: he doesn’t think they’re stupid ).
the first time he comes into your room, he looks... confused. almost like he’s stepped into some sort of weird other-world in which his little sister is some mundie obsessed with crappy mundie music. ( honestly, those are probably his exact thoughts ). but then he comes back. and then back again. and the fourth time he comes back, you aren’t even in your room. you’re in the training room, twisting your body this way and that, already learning how to throw punches and land blows at the tender age of eight.
you find him there, when you return to your room. sweat glistens on your warm skin as you stand, blinking, in your bedroom doorway. he doesn’t notice you at first ( you’re very good at sneaking ), giving you a few, drawn-out seconds to watch him watch.... the walls? dark eyes dart around the room, trying to figure out what he’s even looking at, before it hits you: your posters. he’s looking at the boys in your posters.
why would your big brother want to look at your posters?
you might’ve watched him longer, brows furrowed as a certain feeling of unease begins to burrow itself in your stomach. the look in his eyes is familiar, and you don’t know what to think. is he considering bleaching the tips of his hair? ( by the angel, that would look terrible, alec, so don’t even ---- ) is he interested in picking up music as a side hobby? ( but that might take away from training, and shadowhunters don’t --- ) is he...
❛ isabelle! i told you to ---- ❜ your mother appears, suddenly and without warning ( guess you know where you get your sneaking skills, huh? ). you start, and so does he. his blue eyes dart towards your mother, color already beginning to creep up his neck and along his cheeks. he looks.... angry? embarrassed? scared? it’s a look you’ve never seen on him before, and that unease in the pit of your stomach gives away to panic. pure, unending panic, a fierce protectiveness over your big brother suddenly rocketing through you.
faintly, you hear your mother question what he’s doing. you hear her ask why he'd even be in your room right now, and you see the way his color deepens. without hesitation, you spin on your heel, expression schooling into careful innocence. ❛ i told alec to wait here for me, mom. i wanted to show him what i learned in training today. ❜
she doesn’t look entirely convinced, the discoloring of alec’s face probably enough to make her question, but you don’t budge. you’d go to your grave with this lie, you realize, if it’ll keep alec from looking like that ever again. over your shoulder, you hear him agree. weakly? maybe, but something about it convinces your mother to believe. ( or maybe she just wants to believe, because that’d be easier than this uneasy, uncertain, afraid-for-alec feeling you’re experiencing right now ). after one more reminder for you to change, she takes off down the hall, her shoes clicking on the floor.
you expect him to be grateful, to sag with relief when you turn back to face him. whatever this was, you saved him from your mother’s prying eye. you helped him out, like any good little sister would.
but he doesn’t thank you. doesn’t even look at you. instead, without a word, your big brother brushes past you and heads in the direction of his room, leaving you even more confused & uncertain than ever.
