Tightrope

I Want Everything

"This project... makes me want to die," I announced, staring down at my copy of the Crucible in despair.

"It's not that bad," said Jace. "You get to hang out with me, your new best friend."

I smiled slightly. "True."

I kind of meant it, almost for a second. He wasn't awful company.

We were sitting side by side on the beanbags, our faces tilted over Jace's computer screen as we analysed the Google Doc we'd collaborated on overnight. It was surprisingly good. Jace was undeniably talented, unbearably so. And I wasn't half bad myself.

I picked up a carrot and coated the end in the dip. "This platter is literally incredible. Good job, Mr. Gordan Ramsey."

"I am the master of cutting things up and putting them on the plate," said Jace. "My talent is next level. Masterchef, here I come. Who needs Natia?" Jace asked.

"Oh, I do. She's phenomenal. Literally the best, like, Jamie Oliver could never. You should totally try her stir fry." I close my eyes to appreciate the imaginary taste. It was, genuinely, so good. Then I patted Jace on the arm. "Hey, you should stay for dinner, you have to have it. It's literally so good."

I didn't think before I said it. It wasn't an intentional invite, or one made with any consideration. It had just slipped from my mouth, unbidden. But as soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I'd made a misstep.

A strange expression crossed Jace's face. It wasn't one I'd seen before. It was a blend, one part happiness, two parts annoyance. Jace's face had always been expressive, an open book of thoughts. But I didn't understand this one.

"You want me to stay for dinner?" he said, and his voice sounded almost choked.

"You have to," I said carefully. "Natia's stir fry is a religious experience."

Jace shut his laptop. He was quiet. What had I done? Something had shattered the tentative truce of the past day. I had. Jace didn't respond immediately, appearing to consider his words with careful consideration.

What he said was not what I had expected.

"What is this, seriously?" Hartley asked, with an unfamiliar intensity. "A few weeks ago, you trashed my bedroom. You were weirded out that I was pleased to see you weren't dead. I gave you one 'nice to see you didn't die' hug, and you accused me of witchcraft. You've had years to make nice for Daria. Why now?"

"I mean, firstly, it was super weird that you were pleased to see I wasn't dead," I pointed out. "But also, you've started to be nice to me too! That was super weird. You used to complain about my presence, and now you smile at me. So, I could ask you the same question back."

Jace threw his hands up with exasperation.

This was what I was used to. This was the Jace and Lena I knew, the Jace and Lena I was comfortable with. Frustration, annoyance, digs. The back and forth of arguing.

But Jace seemed agitated in a way he never had before.

Sure, he'd argued and sniped. But never with any heat to it. Never showing a sign of a temper, or anything other than good natured back and forth. I hadn't realised it, at the time. Hadn't known he had never really put his back into it, that fire had never forced his tongue.

Because this was Jace angry. This was Jace confused and annoyed. I had never seen him like this. Some part of me liked it. Enjoyed seeing in him the passion, finally, finally, matching me.

"I never wanted you dead," said Jace. He vaulted himself up from the beanbag, so he was standing far, far above me. Looking down on me. He was pacing, expending all of his energy, this pent-up anger, into purposeless but long strides. "Why would you even think that? That's exactly why I was being nice to you; because you were almost dead. Did you think I wanted that? Did you want me dead?"