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Clizzy POV for the writing meme, if you haven't already done it?

so uh. I think this got as long as the thing I was alternate-POVing? Pre-Clizzy, post-canon...

I just have a lot of feels about poor Clary losing everything, even the things she doesn’t remember, on top of the things she does. This is slightly canon-divergent, since she and Jace were close but no longer romantic, and clearly the epilogue is not at all how things are going to happen. (As such, this is absolutely my April canon au for @dailyclizzysource‘s #clizzyyear)

Clary isn’t sure why she walks into this particular club.

To be fair, she’s not sure why she’s still moving around at all, beyond the fact that she’s not sure what else to do. Her family’s mostly dead, she lost months of her life to a coma from smoke inhalation, Luke got her admittance to the Art Academy deferred, so she can still go in the fall, if she wants...

But she doesn’t know how to want much of anything at the moment.

Not anything that’s possible, anyways, and she’s trying to do more with each day than remember the way Simon used to push his glasses up his nose, or the way Dot would lean in and whisper off-color jokes so her moth--

So her mother wouldn’t hear.

She’d give anything to have her mother rolling her eyes at Dot’s inappropriate sense of humor again.

She’d give anything to have her mother...

She keeps having nightmares about a dead bird, and she can’t decide if that’s better than imagining what her family looked like after the fire or not.

But she almost feels like smiling when she sees a sign flicker from DEMON to PANDEMONIUM, and the music spilling out the doors is good, and that’s enough to be a change from everything else. She texts Luke so he knows she won’t be home for awhile yet, and wanders closer. The bouncers let her in without even checking for an ID, which is both terrible of them and deeply appreciated.

She lets herself lean against the wall, and closes her eyes and falls into the music, and when she wanders home a few hours later she manages to sleep for a few hours without nightmares.

She goes back again the next week.

They still don’t card her, not even when she orders the special cocktail of the night, and she hopes Luke doesn’t notice she’s still a little tipsy when she gets home.

She’s not sure how many weeks before she lets herself dance, but that’s even better than hiding in the shadows for turning her thoughts off, for wearing herself out enough she can sleep, and she never misses a weekend again.

It’s never too hot when she’s dancing, nor too cold when she finds a perch along the walls, and it is, somehow, possible to hear the bartender when she leans over to order a drink even though she can still feel the beat from the dance floor humming in her bones.

It’s magic, she thinks, and wants to sob instead of laugh at the joke.

The crowds tend to prettier than your average cross-section of New York, none of them remotely average: too thin or too pale or too dark or too tall or too strong, wearing bright colored clothes and make-up, or dark leather and fancy shoes, all of them with shining hair and flashing eyes and the stamina to dance all night.

It makes her want to paint again, at last, and she signs up for studio time on Mondays so she can lose herself in abstract swirls of color, trying to capture the energy, the power, the beauty of living in the dance at Pandemonium.

Sometimes she paints fire instead, smoke and shadows and blood and a light so bright it blinds, but she destroys those before anyone else can see them.

She starts to recognize some of the other regulars, people she’ll see on the dance floor most weeks, the usual crop of bartenders and bouncers. She admires the man with the impeccable make-up and fashion sense who holds court from the VIP section and dances like a dream. She overhears enough to learn that he’s the owner, so she makes sure to keep her under-age ass out of his way. She can’t resist watching him though, even sketches him sometimes, and the tall man who sometimes lingers by his side, their matching wedding rings catching the rainbow flashes of the strobe lights whenever their bodies sway closer together.

It makes her want to smile, and cry, and she thinks about the way Luke goes off to lunch by himself now and then, coming back with the faint whiff of old books and sweet perfume around him, and Clary wonders about the woman he’s met, and how he can have forgotten her mom so quickly...

Or not forgotten. He’d gotten the few pictures they could salvage from their phones cleaned up and framed and put up on the wall of their new apartment, pictures of dinner with Simon and Becky and Aunt Elaine, of Jocelyn laughing with paint smeared on her cheek, of Dot dancing with Clary in the courtyard behind the shop.

But he’s moved on, Clary thinks, more than she has. She hates him for it, just a little. But then she wonders what it was like for him while she was still in her coma, not knowing if she’d ever wake up, without even their old photos or her mom’s sketchbooks or Clary’s school art project to remember them by, having to say good-bye to the Lewises when Elaine moved to Florida, too hurt to stay in NYC and remember Simon around every corner, ...

Pandemonium distracts Clary.

There’s one other regular in particular, a woman who’s probably only a little older than Clary, a beautiful brunette who wears clothes that cling just so, heels high enough that Clary has no idea how she stays steady on them, who has lush eyelashes and warm dark eyes and curves that make Clary forget to breathe, who always wears a silver snake bracelet that glints even more than the owner’s necklaces and ear cuffs, who sometimes has a ruby necklace that looks like it’s worth more than Clary’s tuition for the next four years.

She dances like sin incarnate, and if Clary had figured out how live in the world again, she’d have asked her out for drinks, or coffee, or breakfast for the rest of their lives... so it’s probably just as well that all she can manage is a smile, sometimes, when their eyes catch across the dance floor.

She sketches her too, though, even more than the handsome owner and his husband.

Sometimes she’s the only thing Clary can sketch, the only thing beyond abstract screams in oil and acrylic, the only vision she can form out of charcoal that isn’t nightmares and monsters.

She’s beautiful, and if the world can have someone like her living in it, maybe some day Clary will figure out how to live again, too.

#clizzyyear #shadowhunters #clary fray #clizzy #glorious-spoon #jilly answers #post-canon #jilly writes #my sh fic #writing memery #epilogue what epilogue #I know that's usually for HP #but it's so relevant!#canon-divergent #pre-relationship

clizzy year

september: autumn and/or shadowhunters clizzy vs. city of bones clizzy Autumn in Faeryland

#shadowhuntersedit #shadowhunters #shedit #clizzy #clizzyedit #clary fray #isabelle lightwood #s1 #s2 #s3 #mine #clizzyyear #200