"I'm not," Robert insisted.
"You are," Michael said, "and it hurts. And if that hurts me, then I can only imagine--" He stopped, took a deep breath, forced himself on. "I couldn't bear it, if I've been hurting you like that all these years. Even if I didn't realize it. Even if you didn't realize it."
"Michael, you're not making any sense."
They reached a fallen log, thick with moss. Michael sank onto it, looking suddenly weary. Like he'd aged a hundred years in the last minute. Robert dropped beside him and put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "What is it?" He knocked softly at Michael's head, trying to smile, to tell himself this was just Michael being Michael. Weird, but inconsequential. "What's going on in that nuthouse you call a brain?"
Michael lowered his head.
He looked so vulnerable like that, the nape of his neck bare and exposed, Robert couldn't bear it.
"I'm in love," Michael whispered.
Robert burst into laughter, relief gushing through him. "Is that all? Don't you think I figured that out, idiot? I told you, Eliza's great--"
Then Michael said something else.
Something that Robert must have misheard.
"What?" he said, though he didn't want to.
This time, Michael lifted his head, met Robert's eyes, and spoke clearly. "I'm in love with you."
Robert was on his feet before he'd even processed the words.
It seemed suddenly very important to have space between him and Michael. As much space as possible.
"You're what?"
He hadn't meant to shout.
"That's not funny," Robert added, trying to modulate his voice.
"It's not a joke. I'm in--"
"Don't you say that again. You will never say that again."
Michael paled. "I know you probably . . . I know you don't feel the same way, that you couldn't . . ."
All at once, with a force that nearly swept him off his feet, Robert was flooded by a rush of memories: Michael's hand on his shoulder. Michael's arms around him in an embrace. Michael wrestling with him. Michael gently adjusting his grip on a sword. Michael lying in bed a few feet away from him, night after night. Michael stripping down, taking his hand, pulling him into Lake Lyn. Michael, chest bare, hair soaked, eyes shining, lying in the grass beside him.
Robert wanted to throw up.
"Nothing has to change," Michael said, and Robert would have laughed, if it wouldn't so surely have led to puking. "I'm still the same person. I'm not asking anything of you. I'm just being honest. I just needed you to know."
This is what Robert knew: That Michael was the best friend he'd ever had, and probably the purest soul he'd ever know. That he should sit beside Michael, promise him that this was okay, that nothing needed to change, that the oath they'd sworn to each other was true, and forever. That there was nothing to fear in Michael's--Robert's stomach turned at the word--love. That Robert was arrow straight, that it was Maryse's touch that made his body come alive, the memory of Maryse's bare chest that made his pulse race--and that Michael's confession didn't call any of this into doubt. He knew he should say something reassuring to Michael, something like, "I can't love you that way, but I will love you forever."
But he also knew what people would think.
What they would think about Michael . . . what they would assume about Robert.
People would talk, they would gossip, they would suspect things. Parabatai couldn't date each other, of course. And couldn't . . . anything else. But Michael and Robert were so close; Michael and Robert were so in sync; surely people would want to know if Michael and Robert were the same.
Surely people would wonder.
He couldn't take it. He'd worked too hard to become the man he was, the Shadowhunter he was. He couldn't stand to have people looking at him like that again, like he was different.
And he couldn't stand to have Michael looking at him like this.
Because what if he started wondering, too?
"You'll never say that again," Robert said coldly. "And if you insist on it, that will be the last thing you ever say to me. Do you understand me?"
Michael just gaped at him, eyes wide and uncomprehending.
"And you will never speak of it to anyone else, either. I won't have people thinking that about us. About you."
Michael murmured something unintelligible.
"What?" Robert said sharply.
"I said, what will they think?"
"They'll think you're disgusting," Robert said.
"Like you do?"
A voice at the back of Robert's mind said, Stop.
It said, This is your last chance.
But it said so very quietly.
It wasn't sure.
"Yes," Robert said, and he said it firmly enough that there would be no question that he meant it. "I think you're disgusting. I swore an oath to you, and I will honor it. But make no mistake: Nothing between us will ever be the same. In fact, from now on, nothing is between us, period."
Michael didn't argue. He didn't say anything. He simply turned, fled into the trees, and left Robert alone.
What he'd said, what he'd done . . . it was unforgivable. Robert knew that. He told himself: It was Michael's fault, Michael's decision.
He told himself: He was only doing what he needed to do to survive.
But he saw the truth now. Valentine was right. Robert wasn't capable of absolute love or loyalty. He'd thought Michael was the exception, the proof that he could be certain of someone--could be steady, no matter what.
Now that was gone.
Enough, Robert thought. Enough struggling, enough doubting his own choices, enough falling prey to his own weakness and lack of faith. He would accept Valentine's offer. He would let Valentine choose for him, let Valentine believe for him. He would do whatever he needed to hang on to Valentine, and to the Circle, and to its cause.
It was all he had left.
*
Simon ran through the dingy corridors, skidded across slimy floors, and raced down dented stairways, the whole way cursing the Academy for being such a labyrinthine fortress with no cell reception. His feet pounded against worn stone, his lungs heaved, and though the journey seemed endless, only a few minutes passed before he threw himself into Catarina Loss's office.
She was always there, day or night, and that night was no different.
Well, slightly different: That night she wasn't alone.
She stood behind her desk with her arms crossed, flanked by Robert Lightwood and Dean Penhallow, the three of them looking so somber it was almost like they were waiting for him. He didn't let himself hesitate or think of the consequences.
Or think of Izzy.
"There's a group of students trying to raise a demon," Simon panted. "We have to stop them."
No one seemed surprised.
There was a soft throat clearing--Simon turned to discover Julie Beauvale creeping out from behind the door he'd flung open in her face.
"What are you doing here?"
"Same thing you are," Julie said. Then she blushed and gave him an embarrassed little shrug. "I guess you made a good case."
"But how did you get here before me?"
"I took the east stairwell, obviously. Then that corridor behind the weapons room--"
"But doesn't that dead-end at the dining hall?"
"Only if you--"
"Perhaps we can table this fascinating cartographic discussion until later," Catarina Loss said mildly. "I think we have more important business at hand."
"Like teaching your idiot students a lesson," Robert Lightwood growled, and stormed out of the office. Catarina and the dean strode after him.
Simon exchanged a nervous glance with Julie. "You, uh, think we're supposed to follow them?"
"Probably," she said, then sighed. "We might as well let them expel all of us in one shot."
They traipsed after their teachers, letting themselves fall more and more behind.
As they neared Jon's ro
om, Robert's shouts were audible from halfway down the corridor. They couldn't quite make out his words through the thick door, but the volume and cadence made the situation quite clear.