Magnus sends him fire messages every day.

“Okay,” Simon says, shoving a shirt back into the overly ornate closet that takes up half his room, “this isn’t a nineties movie. There’s not going to be a shopping montage to indie rock chick music, and even though tiny backpacks are probably cool again, please don’t ever buy one.” Raphael looks at him like he’s a moron. “Do you even understand half the stuff that comes out of your mouth?”

“How is the training going?” Clary asks, and Simon shrugs, resisting the urge to pull a face. “Well, Raphael hasn’t staked me yet, so that’s progress.”