Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

 "For it is with your heart that you believe and are justified,

and it is with your mouth that you profess your faith and are saved."

-   Romans 10:10

There are voices outside of his door.

Two of them, battling for dominance, each one getting louder and louder until the words are indistinguishable to the roar of loudscaryloud that echoes through the wood as if it were made of tissue paper, as if there was no door there whatsoever and the voices are hovering over his bed, claws raised and set to take him apart.

Magnus is six years old. He stuffs his face under a well-worn pillow and squeezes his eyes shut, terror coursing through him with the knowledge of what’s about to come. He pretends for a moment that hiding here will keep him safe, that the voices will fade and he’ll be able to fall back asleep, left to a dream world where no one needs to shout and the monsters are stuck behind a closed closet door. One that’s made of solid metal and has a bunch of locks. Maybe things will be different tomorrow morning, Mama won’t cry so much and Papa will talk in a nice, soft voice—

The door hits the wall with a thunderous bang. It rings in his ears like a gunshot. Magnus whimpers and burrows further into the mattress as the footsteps get closer, the voices even louder as the shadows dance around the edges of his bed…

And he prays. He’s not sure if anyone’s listening…but all the same, Magnus prays.

//

To say Magnus Bane is having a bad day would be the understatement of the century.

No, he’s having the worst day—from finding out he had to switch schools during what was supposed to be his senior year, to some idiot spilling coffee all over his Vivienne Westwood top as he boarded the D train this morning, he’s truly ready for this heinous day to be done and spoken for. He’d thought that it couldn’t get any worse as the hours went on, but apparently, his streak of terrible luck continues. Here he is at Pandemonium, dressed to the nines and standing at the front of the line. It had taken forever to get here after missing his train from Brooklyn but he’d made it before the club reached capacity, and now it was almost time to go in and drink away every bad thing this day did to him.

Magnus pulls out his wallet as the bass from the club bleeds out into the night air and into his bones, painted fingers skimming the edges of plastic cards in the near darkness for his fake ID…only to find that it’s mysteriously disappeared from its’ usual slot. A second, more thorough inspection reveals that it’s nowhere to be found, leaving him with nothing but a high school ID, a crumpled mess of twenties, and one massive problem.

Distantly, he wonders how much bad karma he’s racked up in the past few weeks to be punished like this.

But there’s no time to dwell on that thought as the girls in front of him move past the velvet ropes and into the cool blue light spilling from the half-open doorway. Luckily Magnus is excellent at thinking on his feet. With his wallet still in hand, he approaches the bouncer and flashes a smile, shifting his weight back onto the balls of his feet in an attempt to look more confident than he feels.

The bouncer takes one look at Magnus and pulls out a small metal flashlight, clicking it on with a stern expression.

“ID out, kid.”

Magnus goes through the motions, flipping through his wallet theatrically for a measured moment. His face pinches with despair as he looks up at the bouncer.

“This isn’t happening—ugh, the stupid guy at the bar must’ve kept my ID last night without me realizing. It isn’t where I put it last…god, this day cannot get any worse.”

The bouncer huffs loudly and half grimaces at Magnus, something between disbelief and annoyance.

“Right, okay—listen, kid—”

“I’m really, really sorry about this,” Magnus says, forking through the wallet again as his voice pitches lower. As quickly as possible he slips out a twenty, making sure the man is watching as he folds it into his palm. “Any chance you’ll feel sorry enough to let me in without it?”

Magnus watches the older man’s eyes roll in the darkness, and he bites back the smile that threatens to appear: I’m in. His hand reaches out to take the bill hidden in Magnus’s sleeve. The bouncer pockets it quickly and slips the flashlight back into his pocket, unclipping the velvet rope from the post and gesturing Magnus through the double doors without so much as a second glance.

It’s only once he steps through the doors at Pandemonium, enveloped in the steady thrum of too-loud bass and some DJ that he’s never heard of (who, quite frankly, isn’t very good) that he’s finally able to relax. He loves it, loves being a nameless face in the crowd with no obligation to do anything but dance and drink. It’s so easy for him to get swept up in it all, and for as long as Magnus can remember (in recent months, anyway), this club has been his safe place. It’s a place he craves and a loss of control that has become the closest thing to a constant that he has.

He takes a deep breath, carefully adjusting a strap on his shirt before stepping into the main room of the club, eyes already slipping closed as he settles into the music. Despite all of the people surrounding him it’s easy for Magnus to find a place on the dance floor, and as soon as he has a drink in his hand (and a few shots of vodka coursing through his system) he makes his way through the crowd, body moving before he’s even aware of it.

It’s been a long day, truthfully, and he just wants to forget.

//

The night comes and goes in a blur of drinks and confetti, tossed around by some girls at a bachelorette party who bought Magnus a round of shots after he scared away some creepy dude who kept making eyes at the bride’s sister. While he typically likes to keep himself away from the overaggressive hypermasculinity guys play up in places like this, Magnus has zero tolerance for assholes that get too handsy—and with his stature, it’s easy enough to scare them off. His height and the breadth of his shoulders make him one hell of a sight regardless of the makeup on his face or the polish on his nails. Thankfully it hadn’t taken too much ‘talking’ to make the guys back off tonight—and to show her gratitude, Mindy (who was getting married this weekend to a man named Carson) invited him to dance and join her and the other girls at the bar.

The girls had gone home a little while ago, but Magnus is still here—now, he’s pressed against a tall blond guy, his back to the man’s front as large hands brush against his exposed hipbones every time they move. He’d ditched his blazer a while back, burning up from the heat of so many bodies pressed so closely together, so he’s left in a strappy crop top and the tight pleather-coated pants he knows do wonders for his legs. He’s drunk and he knows it, despite not being able to put a number to the drink’s he’s had. But he doesn’t feel sick…in fact, he feels really nice, a steady warmth flowing through his veins that has him feeling lighter than air.

Magnus is distracted by the music—he’s so swept up in the song that he almost misses it…there’s a strange vibration coming from his back pocket. Curiously, he pokes at it through the material of his painted-on jeans. The buzzing continues and Magnus frowns, smacking his leg a bit harder.

The deep rumble of a voice in his ear is enough to jolt Magnus out of his momentary stupor, hot breath curling against his skin in a way that sends shivers up his spine.

“You gonna get that, Maxwell?”

“Actually, it’s Magnus,” he replies, spinning to get a better look at the man. He moves too fast and the room spins with him, the man’s hands moving out to steady Magnus when he sways on his feet.

Briefly, Magnus wonders if the guy—Jordan? Derek, maybe—wants to kiss him. He certainly wouldn’t complain if he did. He’s not bad looking, from what Magnus can discern, although his features keep sliding around on his face like he’s in some sort of funhouse. He blinks a few times, thinking it’s a trick of the light, but his vision blurs more each time his eyes open, making the guy in front of him look less human and more…sinister, somehow. Magnus frowns at the sight. Maybe he’s had more to drink than he thought.

His leg vibrates again, dragging him out of his assessment of Dave and back into reality—a reality where his leg won’t stop buzzing and he suddenly feels like he might throw up. The guy in front of him is talking but Magnus pays him no mind, shoving out of his grip and forcing himself into the swarm of bodies to his right. He stumbles his way through the crowd without so much as an apology until he spots what he’s looking for. There in the corner, a glowing green ‘Exit’ sign floats in midair, promising fresh air and a chance to investigate this strange problem with his leg.

Magnus makes his way to it and pushes it open without a second thought, stepping into the musty darkness of an alleyway.

It smells disgusting and he’s pretty sure that shadow by the dumpster is, in fact, a massive rat, rather than the small stray dog Magnus first thought it to be. But at least he has some room to breathe out here. Plus, if he throws up, no one will yell at him. It suddenly occurs to him that he has no idea what time it is, so he reaches in his pocket, thankful to find his phone still there (and in one piece.)

13 missed calls, 4 voicemails. Huh. Well, that explains the weird vibrations in his leg. A quick glance at the clock at the top of his lockscreen – 2:41 am, and he’s got a pretty good idea who his mystery caller was. His stomach sinks at the realization…he hadn’t meant to stay out quite so late.

Magnus groans, squeezing the phone in his fist as the screen lights up with an incoming call. He answers it without looking. There’s no real way to avoid the situation now.

“Ragnor, what a lovely surprise. Shouldn’t you be asleep at this foolish hour?”

There’s a string of expletives from the other end of the phone—he winces and holds it away from his ear.

“ASLEEP? Magnus Bane, for the love of god, if your arse isn’t on my doorstep in less than five minutes, I will—”

“It’s not like I left without saying anything. You knew where to find me.” Magnus says, eyes rolling. The action brings on a wave of nausea so intense that he staggers back, a hand clamping over his mouth to quiet the retching. His bare shoulder makes contact with a jagged brick edge, forcing Magnus to bite back a pained cry.  He’s pretty sure it worked since Ragnor is still yelling at him.

“…and to think, I decided to let you have a modicum of freedom—daft as I was, thinking this was all in the past. You must know that after this there will be stricter restrictions in place, and I will not be so easil—hey, are you even listening?”

Magnus becomes aware of things in stages: the world tilting on its’ axis, a weird sort of gurgling, and oh—apparently he had been the one to make that sound. Something doesn’t feel right about this.

“Ragnor,” Magnus manages, his face paling as he feels the ground coming out from under him. His eyes slip closed as he sinks to the dirty cobblestone, narrowly avoiding a puddle of murky water. “Don’tfeelsogood.”

A curse, low and mumbled, and the sound of keys. “You’ve got me worried—I’m coming to get you. Where…?”

It’s a valid question, one Magnus doesn’t have an answer for. He knows he has to come up with one though. Magnus forces his eyes open, blinking past the spots dancing at the edges of his vision for any clues. Fuck, his head hurts.

“A c-club. In the city, um, 23^rd and Lafayette.”

“Hang tight, cupcake. I’m on the way.”

Magnus nods, grip white-knuckled on the phone as his eyes flutter shut. He can hear Ragnor talking, asking him to stay on the line, maybe—but he’s unable to come up with the proper words in time to respond. Instead he focuses on the low, gentle tone Ragnor is using; accent rolling effortlessly as he mumbles about clubs and drinking laws and stupidly charming teenage boys. He lets the words wash over him like the heavy thud of a bassline. Even though it’s August he’s freezing cold, and the stones he’s curled up on are sapping what’s left of his body heat straight into the ground. He pulls his knees closer to his chest and tries to breathe.

When did it get this cold outside?  Magnus really regrets taking off his jacket.

His sense of awareness is starting to slip, but with that comes relief from the steady throbbing in his head, so Magnus takes it willingly, shuddering as a wave of white and static crashes over him—it drowns out the rush of traffic, the thudding bass, and the sound of Ragnor’s frantic voice entirely, leaving him in a world with almost no sound at all.

He’s drowning. He’s floating. He’s utterly and inescapably alone.

The last thing Magnus registers before passing out is a brush of rough fabric against the bare skin of his arm. There’s something touching his neck, a sharp pressure that almost hurts, and he wants to open his eyes to see what’s going on—but his eyelids are leaden and sticky, a cool wetness gluing his lashes to his cheek. It all feels important, but he can’t quite remember why.

Magnus decides to ignore it, embracing the quiet instead.

//

The next time Magnus opens his eyes, he’s greeted by the same wash of white light and rushing static that swept over him as he drifted under. His head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton and he’s unable to turn his neck, laying stiffly on the pillows instead as he tries to figure out what’s happening. He blinks—once, twice, and bites back a whimper at the nausea coiled tightly in his stomach. His eyes shut against the blinding brightness, heart racing in time with his thoughts.

Magnus is dead. He’s not sure how it happened, but there’s no other explanation that makes sense right now. Sure, he’s had hangovers before, but this? This is no hangover. Had he been so drunk last night that he’d stumbled onto the tracks of the D train while trying to get back home? It certainly would explain the pain coursing through his body…and it would corroborate his running death-and-dying theory as well.

Briefly, he contemplates the thought of Heaven. Magnus has never considered himself to be very devout in any religion, but he’s also never shied away from the possibility of something more…and here he is, now, face to face with it. Sure, he’s not deluded enough to believe he’s meant to end up there—what, with all he’s done…but as he opens his eyes to another wave of painful white light, he’s left with the thought regardless.

Heaven? No, there’s no way. But this place doesn’t fit the bill for Hell, either.

Magnus has read some Dante, enough to know that what he’s looking at now is decidedly lacking in the ‘fire and brimstone’ category. There’s no iron archways, no demons; no masses of sinners or burning pillars to indicate eternal damnation. In addition, that white feels way too sterile. Not at all what Magnus envisioned Hell to be. Blues and blacks and grays, maybe, painting the walls like a giant bruise that never seems to heal—but not the white that’s currently making him squint up at the ceiling.

Ceiling. He forces himself to open his eyes and see, wincing at the resulting ache. He’s still unable to turn his head or look around, but he doesn’t need to anymore. Magnus knows exactly where he is.

Not Heaven, then. Magnus recognizes the room he’s in as his own. His hand reaches out to slide against the smooth satin sheets he’d forced Ragnor to buy before agreeing to move in (as though he had a choice, as if the sheets even mattered in the long-term.) The cool fabric feels nice against his overheated skin and he sighs, relishing in the feeling for a few moments. Magnus is alive. So much for that D train.

“Oh, Magnus,” a voice coos, pity clear and familiar.

“Cat,” he moans, reaching for her blindly. A hand finds his own and squeezes. Catarina’s thumb soothes over his skin in soft sweeping motions. “Catarina, I think I might be dying.”

The bed dips to his left as she pulls her hand from his, leaning over his body instead to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. She smells like calla lily and sage. It’s a comforting scent he’s long associated with warmth, and the frown she wears as she patches him up from whatever trouble he’s found himself in that day.

He can hear that frown in her voice now. It’s bad. Worse than normal, even—Magnus knows this without having to look; feels it in the aches and pains that have him immobile on the mattress. He’s sort of wishing the train thing had turned out to be the truth after all.

“You’re not dying, Magnus. You’ve just…well. How much do you remember?”

Magnus frowns, trying to think. He’d gone to Pandemonium, lost his ID and his jacket, and…gone home, afterwards? Had one too many mixed drinks? Truthfully, he’s not sure. It’s an answer that’ll earn him a loaded lecture, so Magnus opts for silence instead.

Carefully, Magnus tries to turn his head. When he’s able to move without the room melting around him, he tilts his cheek into the pillow, seeking out Catarina to his left.

The expression she’s sporting is—not what he was expecting. It’s caring and cool and so soft, as though Magnus were falling to pieces right in front of her eyes. It lacks all of the usual heat and scorn that typically comes complimentary with one of these little house-calls of hers. For some reason, his stomach swoops uncomfortably with the absence.

“Magnus, you were…when Ragnor found you, you were half awake in an alleyway. You didn’t even remember your own name. He called me as soon as he brought you home, and I came straight over.”

Cat pauses, then, her voice a bit more businesslike as she delves into the clinical portion of the retelling. Detached, almost—just like she would be if Magnus were sitting in her ER, waiting to be triaged. He relaxes a bit into the mattress at the shift in her tone. Now there’s the Cat he knows and loves.

“By the time I got here, you were already unconscious and vomiting. It was all Ragnor and I could do to keep you from choking. So I ran some bloodwork back at the hospital, and came across a few questions. Here’s to hoping you can clear those up for us?”

Something sparks in his gut at that, sharp and defensive. Magnus knows Cat means well. He can feel the worry in her gaze despite her best efforts to hide it. Even so, he can’t keep himself from tapping into that nervous energy.

“I’d love to help, doll,” Magnus croaks, wincing at the rasp in his voice. “But my memory’s a bit foggy. And as cute as your confidence in my medical knowledge is, I’m afraid my Gray’s Anatomy marathon has taken a bit of a backseat as of late—The Bachelor starts next week, so I’ve been re-watching last season’s Bachelorette. I’m sure you understand.”

He tries to sit for a moment, cursing the weakness in his arms. Cat helps him get more comfortable against the pillows before passing him a bottle of water, cap already off. Magnus downs half of it in one go.

“That’s a shame,” she tuts, taking the bottle from him and setting it carefully on the nightstand. “Because I’m a bit more…studied, in the realm of toxicology workups. I was hoping you could tell me who might’ve sold you the pills last night.”

Magnus curses, soft and low, mind already reeling as he tries to remember all the faces he’d gotten close enough to see. Between the shots and the cocktails, he can’t recall taking any sort of pill, but his memory is less than reliable right now, so there’s no point in pretending otherwise. As stubborn as Magnus can be…he knows when to fold. Cat is watching him with an unreadable expression.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, my dear. While I can admit to a bit of a history with—off-the-books dosing, let’s say, even I know better than to mix partying with drinking.” He pauses, mostly sure he’s telling the truth. “I didn’t take any pills last night.”

Her voice is blunt, words cutting Magnus to the quick.

“You were drugged, then, Magnus. The tests don’t lie. I’m guessing someone slipped it into your drink.”

Holy shit.

Magnus knows what usually happens to people who get drugged at clubs. Why someone would want to roofie his drink in the first place. The question has his stomach sinking straight to the bottom of the floorboards, dread dragging tar-heavy down the back of his throat. As sick as it makes him, he knows that he has to ask it, has to know if someone—

“Catarina…”

She reaches out to take his hand from where he’s nearly ripped a hole in his sheets. His fingers unwind and wrap around hers, catching on the cool edge of a simple silver band.

He’d gotten it for her for her birthday last year. She’s worn it every day since.

“It’s okay, Magnus. Ragnor got to you before anyone else did.”

White hot relief crashes through his veins. He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding, feeling a bit lightheaded with the news.

“Ever my hero,” he drawls, desperate to shake off the residual traces of panic.

Of course, Ragnor chooses that moment to walk into the room. He doesn’t knock—never does, just shoulders through the half-open door until he’s standing in front of Magnus’s bed with his arms crossed tightly in front of his chest.

There are dark circles under his eyes, and he looks like shit. Magnus tells him as much, hoping to lighten the mood.

Never one to be put down without a fight, Ragnor is quick to fire back.

“Yes, well, sweetheart, you’re looking quite stunning yourself this morning. That vomit on your top is doing wonders for your complexion.”

Magnus whips the shirt off with a noise of disgust. The quick movement sends him reeling back against the pile of pillows, momentarily dizzy, and he hears Cat mumbling curses at Ragnor, low and hissed.

God, Ragnor probably hates him by now. Magnus knows how reckless he’s been, particularly these past few weeks. He’s made Ragnor’s life nothing short of a living hell with all the lying, the sneaking out and drinking and dalliances with people who don’t give a damn about him only adding to the ever-present fire burning at their backs. It would make sense if Ragnor hated him. Magnus almost wishes it were that easy.

How hard Ragnor had fought to even bring him here in the first place. Eight months of court dates; of volleying with social workers and home inspections and ‘questionable kinship claims’ but finally, Ragnor had managed to convince the judge that at 25, he was financially and mentally prepared to become Magnus’s temporary guardian.

And now, two years later, here they are. Magnus appreciates Ragnor. Hell, he cares about Ragnor—although he’s ill-equipped to put it in words. As terrifying as it feels…Magnus can almost picture himself staying here.

Too bad it won’t last. It never does. His behavior will only serve to bolster any doubts his social worker already has about Magnus’s current placement. 

The knowledge isn’t enough of a reason for Magnus to change course, though. If anything, he almost wants to push it more. See how much it takes to break the dam completely, and then stand by while the flood comes rushing in.

The dam will always break, after all. It’s only a matter of timing.

//

“Oh come on, Magnus,” Ragnor says, “it really isn’t that bad.”

It’s not—and Ragnor is absolutely right. In theory, Magnus knows this.

As far as school uniforms go…this one isn’t terrible.

He glares at his reflection in the mirror, analyzing the black trousers and navy button down with an overly critical eye. While Magnus has been known to rock a shade of navy every now and then (his nautical phase a year ago was particularly notable) it’s not the most exciting color by any means. And the trousers could do with a bit more tailoring, to show off the lean length of his legs and the rest of his…assets, so to speak. This was an easy enough fix. He doubts the school would even notice if he swapped them for another pair in the same color.

The uniform could be a lot worse. There’s no plaid to be seen—that’s almost enough to have Magnus believing in God right then and there.

But the pants and shirt combo coupled with the navy blue school jumper he’s supposed to wear, and the skinny gray tie? He’s bored. He looks boring. This outfit is practically screaming for some sort of accent piece; a sparkly brooch adorned with Swarovski crystals or a sheer long-sleeved top to layer a tangle of necklaces with…

He groans in response to Ragnor, looking at his reflection in the mirror once again. Plain. He’ll be wearing the same thing as every other boy in that school, and isn’t that a wonderful thought? Magnus’s stomach turns over as unease works its’ way up his spine like the crawl of a thousand spiders.

It’s so easy these days to be forgotten, reduced to nothing more than a number in the system. A cog in the machine that’s constantly beating people like himself down. And Magnus wants to be remembered more than he wants most things these days.

The clothes, makeup, and louder-than-life personality ensure that he makes a memorable impression. Magnus also likes to dress up. It’s a winning combination, so he’s stuck with it ever since he learned how to contour and wing his eyeliner at the age of 13.

Part of him wants to explain this to Ragnor. Maybe if he makes him understand that losing this little piece of individuality makes Magnus feel like he’s being held underwater all over again; less and less himself with each passing second, Ragnor will call this new school and have him transferred back to Fort Hamilton. Sure, Magnus thought it was sort of a dump, but at least all of his friends will be there.

What Magnus says instead is, “Of course you don’t understand—navy is your signature color. Mine is red, Ragnor. There is no way to work red into this disaster!”

Ragnor shakes his head and smiles, reaching out to touch the gray silk of Magnus’s uniform tie. 

When Ragnor pulls his hand back, there’s a glint of gold that catches the light. Magnus’s heart pounds long before he’s able to look down.

“I knew you’d hate it, crumpet. So I picked you up a little gift to make it better.”

Another glance in the mirror—and there, pinned about a quarter of the way down his tie, sits a little gold pin. Magnus touches it as though it might shatter under his fingertips, careful and reverent with hands that tremble imperceptibly in the dim lighting of his walk-in closet.

It’s relatively simple, with three little heart charms that dangle from a dainty gold bar. The middle charm has the tiniest red crystal in the center, just enough to catch the light a bit and hold attention. Magnus loves it.

He looks up at Ragnor and damn it, he is not going to cry over a tie pin. He’s just not, okay?

If he notices the way Magnus’s eyes shine, Ragnor doesn’t mention it. Instead, he reaches out and grips his shoulder, squeezing gently as he studies the racks and racks of clothing lining the walls of Magnus’s closet, the shelves of shoes and bags and a rotating belt hanger he’d picked up in Chinatown for forty dollars last summer—anywhere but Magnus himself, essentially. He’s muttering about ‘the amount of money this all cost you, Magnus, could’ve paid your way through university three times over,’ but Magnus knows the words lack ire. This gift is demonstrative of that. Ragnor just gets it, gets Magnus, without having to be told.

He gives Magnus a minute to compose himself. Waits patiently for him to be ready.

And Magnus takes it, swallowing around the lump in his throat and the overwhelming feeling of being cared for in order to force the words out. They’re important, and he knows that—so he has to say them, even if they’re frightening and leaden on his tongue. Even if it means admitting that maybe, just maybe, he’s chosen to let Ragnor in. Given him the power to hurt him, to up and leave if he wants without a single explanation as to why he wasn’t enough to stick around for.

Waiting for the dam to break.

“Thank you,” he manages, proud of the steadiness in the words. “It’s perfect, Ragnor.”

Ragnor nods in response before turning and leaving him alone in the closet, off to do god knows what in his office for the rest of the day. Magnus sighs as he leaves, casting one last longing look at the clothes hanging carefully on the racks all around him, a sea of colors and materials that make him feel invincible. His clothes, his very own battle armor…none of which will be seeing the light of day for the next year, save for the rare dress-down days he’s heard about. Because he has to wear this stupid uniform to go to this stupid Catholic school.

He takes a deep breath, turning to face the mirror once again.

There, against his chest, sits a subtle flash of gold. Individuality. Magnus smiles at his own reflection, feeling more like himself than he has in days.

//

St. Joseph’s Institute of Academic Excellence was not what he had in mind for his senior year. And now that he’s standing in the hallway, schedule clutched tightly in one hand while the other fiddles with the strap of his Ferragamo messenger bag, Magnus is even more convinced that this is going to suck.

Okay, to be fair, it’s not ALL bad. The school is co-ed, at least, so there are boys and girls milling about, chatting loudly as they file into open doorways with stacks of textbooks in their hands. Magnus wouldn’t mind an all-boys school, can even see the advantages of such a thing…but variety is the spice of life, right? Having girls here doubles his chances of running into someone interesting. Unfortunately, the plaid that was (thankfully) absent from the boys’ uniforms is ever-present in the girls’. The swish of their skirts as they walk hurts his eyes a bit, and he feels sorry for them, having to wear such a thing day in and day out.

A group of guys nearly runs him over, too absorbed in the cellphone one of them is blaring music from. None of them bother to apologize. Magnus rolls his eyes at their blazer-clad backs. He promised Ragnor that he’d give it a chance, but damn it, that was before he left the safety of the car.

This place is as stuffy and oppressive as he thought it would be. It seems like everywhere he turns, there’s some sort of religious symbol plastered to the walls—a painting of Mary, a massive iron crucifix, a Bible verse hand-lettered on the brick wall of a hallway serving as a cheery mural…

Magnus has never felt more out of place in his life. It’s been a grand total of ten minutes since Ragnor dropped him off, but he’s already wishing for spontaneous combustion. Maybe a bolt of heavenly fire will strike him down as penance for his many ‘sins’. He’d go out flaming, a burst of bright light in the dull monotony of the earthy paneled hallway, uniformed students clambering over each other to get out of his way, and wouldn’t that be fitting? Surely God has a sense of humor.

He groans quietly, glancing down at the schedule. Magnus’s first class of the day is AP Chemistry in room 202. There’s a set of double doors labelled ‘Stairway’ at the end of the hall, so he figures that’s as good of a place as any to start.

//

Magnus’s classes are straightforward, with content that’s familiar enough to recognize while still presenting a challenge. At least he won’t have to sleep through his lectures.

Despite his affinity for activities that are decidedly less academic in nature, Magnus has never been one to slack off in school. He knows it’s important for him to get a good education—even if he doesn’t go to college (a point of contention between he and Ragnor at the moment), at the very least, he needs a high school diploma. He knows this, accepts this, and fully intends to do the best he can.

Occasionally he gets asked to introduce himself to the class—Magnus smiles and stands at the front of the room, head held high as he grins out at the sea of bored looking faces. Some of them glare at him, probably off-put by the carefully smudged kohl lining his eyes or the clear gloss on his lips. Magnus doesn’t care one bit—hell, he even enjoys it, standing up straighter to show them that he’s unaffected.

“Hello, I’m Magnus. I’m a senior, and I transferred from Fort Hamilton over the summer. My hobbies include dancing, fashion design, and marathoning RuPaul’s Drag Race. I’m sure we’ll all get along swimmingly.”

Confusion is the typical response. Sometimes, it’s a bit more interesting.

A few people whisper, eyes looking anywhere but the makeup on his face or the light dusting of glitter in his hair. He settles back in his seat as the teacher regains control of the room, and the rest of his morning passes in a comfortable silence. For the most part no one bothers to talk to him, but Magnus doesn’t mind it much. It gives him time to sort the classes out; see who he might have things in common with and who would rather see him answer for his ‘lifestyle.’ 

There’s a pretty redhead in his mixed level drawing class who invites him to sit with her at their art table the next day. Clary—she’s friendly, has good taste in perfume, and enjoys Say Yes to the Dress. Magnus likes the way she uses her hands when she talks.

Sadly, Clary is three years younger than him, so they only have one class together.

But Magnus doesn’t have long to mourn the loss of his new friend, because right after lunch, he has biology.

And from what he can see from his position by the door, his lab partner in biology is…exactly the type of interesting Ragnor warned him not to pursue.

He’s got his back turned, but Magnus can see that he’s wearing all black, which catches his eye immediately—since coming here this morning, his eyes have been assaulted by a sea of navy and plaid: sure, there’s variety in it, in that some are wearing blazers or jumpers or unbuttoned cardigans with the school crest emblazoned on the pocket…but really, it’s a lot of monotony that has Magnus bored to tears. Evidently, the dress code is heavily enforced at the Institute. But unless there’s a black version of their school jumper that Magnus has yet to see, this boy seems to be in direct violation of the carefully upheld Code of Conduct. And no one is giving him as much as a second glance for it.

Huh.

He has to admit, there’s something wonderfully utilitarian about the outfit. Sure, the boy could benefit from a statement piece, maybe a nice maroon pocket square or a bright royal blue tie to play off the warm tones in his skin…but the monochromatic thing isn’t half bad. Magnus sets his books on the table next to the boy, ready to open his mouth and tell him as much—

He stops. Now that he’s a bit closer, Magnus can see the boy’s face. And there’s something oddly familiar about him, a sense of deja-vu that catches him off guard. Magnus tilts his head, considering.

“Are you going to stare at me all day, then?” The boy snaps, bringing Magnus’s focus back to the present.

“Well,” Magnus says, smiling at the other boy. “It wouldn’t be a bad sight—”

“Class, please take your seats. Welcome to AP Biology. My name is Mr. Victor Aldertree, and I’ll be your interim instructor while Ms. Blackthorn is out on maternity leave. I’ll begin by taking roll.”

The class quiets instantly, papers shuffling around on desks and backpacks being unzipped the only sound. Magnus takes his seat, only half-listening to the teacher reading off the roster.

“Magnus? Magnus Bane?”

Magnus blinks, turning in his seat. While he’d been expecting the sound of his own name, the voice that says it manages to catch him off guard. It’s his seatmate that speaks, tone rising and catching on the last syllable like he’s not sure if it’s real. The boy looks…shocked, to say the least, all wide eyes and gaping mouth. Magnus frowns, confused.

“The one and only. Why, do I—”

“Raphael Santiago?” Mr. Aldertree asks.

And that is enough to shut him up. Magnus doesn’t hear Raphael’s response, but he must make some sort of affirmative gesture, because as quickly as he’d begun Mr. Aldertree is moving on, a marker squeaking against the white board as he covers it in tilted penmanship. Magnus’s jaw closes with an audible click, mind racing a million miles a minute in time with his pounding heart.

He should’ve known, should’ve put the pieces together as soon as he saw him. True, it’s been ten years since he last saw Raphael, but now that he has a name, Magnus can’t believe that he didn’t work it out sooner.

//

A three-bedroom apartment, fifteenth floor in Queens; too small for a family of five, much too small for a ‘family’ of seven. His own room with the blue striped curtains and the wood-framed bed, shared with three other boys, all around his age, his foster brothers. Jordan, Zach, and—

Raphael. No toys on the floor, no toys anywhere. The door didn’t lock, as much as Magnus wishes it did. At least there was still a door to be spoken of.

Raphael didn’t speak much, and when he did, most of it was in Spanish. He was quiet, and from what Magnus could tell, well-behaved. He ate all of his food, vegetables included, and took his dishes straight to the sink to wash them up, standing on the step-stool on his tiptoes rather than asking one of the bigger kids for help. When they weren’t being home-schooled, Raphael would stay in their room, staring at a wall or scribbling in a little black journal. Magnus had asked him about it once, but he hadn’t gotten an answer. Raphael was just like that, he figured. One of those kids that kept to themselves.

Magnus was the complete opposite. At seven, he was wild, rambunctious, and so, so angry. He was finally starting to understand that this would be his life. Shuttled off from place to place, Bane-comma-Magnus, #18962. Nothing was ever his to have, not really. So he lashed out. He screamed, yelled, and cried, not that it accomplished anything or made him feel any better. Truth be told, this foster home wasn’t the worst one he’s ever been in…he might even be able to see himself staying here, if that was a privilege someone like him had. The power to decide where he wanted to be, who he wanted to be with. To be more than a file and a case number.

Mr. Morgenstern was less violent with Magnus than most foster fathers he’d lived with. Sure, he got drunk a lot, and sometimes, he’d come up the stairs smelling like cheap beer and shove Jordan’s face in the pillow when he woke up crying from one of his nightmares. But for some reason he left Magnus alone—save for the one time he’d locked him in a dark closet for a few hours because Magnus had stolen 20 dollars from his foster mother’s purse.

Magnus was a handful to deal with, so it would’ve made sense if Mr. Morgenstern had been more liberal with his punishments. What didn’t make sense, however, was how he seemed to have it out for Raphael.

No matter what the boy did or didn’t do Mr. Morgenstern got angry. And unlike with Magnus, he had absolutely no problem throwing blows when it came to Raphael. He’d hit him, again and again, until he was more of a bruise than a seven-year-old kid, a canvas of blues and purples and greens that never seemed to heal. And Raphael just sat there and took it, head bowed with clasped hands that held steady in his lap; no tremors, no tears. He never fought back, never looked up, never even whimpered—that is, not while Mr. Morgenstern was around. Magnus didn’t understand it. He could never stay quiet like that, knew he couldn’t keep himself together the way Raphael did, stoic and cold and all-out wrong on a kid his age.

The second the door to their little blue bedroom slammed shut, Raphael broke. Watching it happen was like night and day. There was Raphael, bent in half and collapsed on the floor, crying and murmuring to himself in a language Magnus didn’t fully understand, while Magnus stood by and watched, almost paralyzed with horror at the scene.

At first Magnus didn’t intervene. After a while, though, the pieces of Raphael scattered on the floor of the bedroom became too much for him to see.

So he’d patch him up as well as he could. It became a thing for the two of them, Magnus and Raphael. Magnus used the little bit of money he’d managed to scrounge up without anyone noticing to buy a Batman first aid kit from the corner store, and once the door was shut, Magnus would step in and mop up the blood from a split lip with a tiny, shaking hand, pushing back Raphael’s hair with the other and covering his face in plasters. And Raphael?

He’d let Magnus do it. He’d sit up straighter and close his eyes, calm his breathing enough so that Magnus could work on him without too much trouble. He never said anything, didn’t offer up a ‘thank you’, at least not with words. But Magnus didn’t mind. He knew Raphael was grateful even if he didn’t say it. He could see it in the way the tension melted from his shoulders, the little half-smiles and grimaces and eye rolls Magnus was able to coax out of him. Once he was done he’d reach forward and kiss Raphael square on the nose, followed by a chirpy little, ‘All better!’ It was something he’d seen in a movie once so Magnus figured it must help a little. Raphael would scrunch up his face and pout, but truthfully, Magnus didn’t think he minded all that much.

They weren’t friends, weren’t quite family, but…they were something. In a world that was constantly shifting beneath them, it was enough for them to just be.

In the end, Magnus only got to live with Mr. Morgenstern for eight months. The call came late one night and before he had time to process it, what little clothing he owned was shoved into a trash bag, waiting next to him on the stoop for his case worker to show up, armed with pictures of the ‘lovely new family’ he’d be heading to next.

His goodbye with Raphael was rushed, Magnus’s lip wobbling with fear at the thought of leaving him behind. Alone in the house, with no one to look after him, no one who knew about the comics Raphael drew in that little black journal, stories about two superheroes saving the world together…

Raphael doesn’t cry. Of course he doesn’t. He just stares at Magnus stoically, mumbling a soft, ‘thank you’ before Magnus is being carted away, a firm hand on his shoulder guiding him into the back of a car. As the driver pulls away from the curb Magnus lets the tears fall, scrubbing furiously at his cheeks. His social worker doesn’t notice. She keeps prattling on about Mrs. Penhallow and how much he’ll love his new school—

“…and Magnus, there’s a yard! Real grass in New York, who’d’ve thought, huh? Guess that’s what you get with these rich types. Bet they’ve got a swing set, wouldn’t that be fun…”

A few families later, Magnus asks his social worker about Raphael, only to get the sort of vague non-answers adults segue to when they don’t want to discuss something. He’d expected as much, but it hurts all the same.

Magnus doesn’t see Raphael after that. 

//

“Holy shit,” Magnus manages, eyes wide and glassy. No, no no, it can’t be—

“Please turn to page 57 in your textbooks and complete exercises 13-27 with the person sitting next to you. The two of you will be lab partners for the rest of the school year, so feel free to spend any free time after the assignment getting to know one another.”

“Right,” Raphael says, staring at Magnus. He turns, and without another word, pulls out his book. Magnus is hyperaware of the sound his pen makes as it drags across the paper and the way Raphael doesn’t look at him again after that, too focused on whatever work they’ve been assigned for the day.

Magnus is frozen, eyes wide, unable to think or speak or do anything to calm the staccato pounding of his heart.

Raphael hates him. He hates Magnus, blames him for leaving him there alone with Morgenstern. Magnus understands his anger, but god, they were so young—he would’ve done anything to stay there, and he doesn’t think Raphael knows that. Even if it meant Morgenstern turned on him too. At least then Raphael wouldn’t be taking all the heat.

The decision wasn’t his to make, though. It never is. And now, Raphael hates him. He can’t even bring himself to look Magnus’s way.

The two of them stay like this, Raphael working (and steadfastly ignoring Magnus) and Magnus gaping, until they’re interrupted by the ding of the bell that signals the end of the block.

Raphael stands immediately, gathering his books and shoving them into a black canvas backpack. Mr. Aldertree is saying something over the clamor of chairs scraping against linoleum and bags being zipped, and truthfully, Magnus knows he should try to listen, but he can’t. He’s too distracted by the sight of Raphael’s back as he walks out of the classroom with a bowed head and an easy stagger.

His heart sinks as the other boy walks away, mind racing with all the things he should have said.

I hope things weren’t too bad for you after I left. I never wanted to leave you all alone in the first place.

We were so young and I wish I could’ve saved you from it all.

Please don’t blame me for abandoning you. I had no choice.

You were the closest thing to family that I’ve ever had.

I never stopped asking for you, but no one would give me any answers.

And instead? Magnus had opted for, ‘holy shit.’ And a whole lot of silence. That’s just wonderful. No wonder Raphael couldn’t stand the sight of him.

He groans to himself and starts to gather his things, too, but as he’s slamming his textbook shut a sheet of paper flutters from atop Raphael’s empty desk, landing on the floor to the right of Magnus’s feet. Curious, he picks it up, biting back a tiny smile at the sight of the elegant cursive.

It’s their classwork assignment for that day, neatly numbered and worked out on a sheet of loose-leaf. Biology isn’t Magnus’s strongest subject but from what he can discern all the solutions look correct. Raphael must’ve forgotten to turn it in to Mr. Aldertree in his hurry to get the hell away from Magnus. He sighs softly and moves to hand it in for him when something at the top of the page catches his eye.

Raphael Santiago, it reads, and there’s nothing unusual about Raphael writing his own name on his classwork, but just underneath of that there’s another name written: Magnus Bane. Magnus has to read it a second—and then a third time, before he’s able to recognize those words as his own name on the page.

Raphael had written both of their names on their classwork, despite Magnus’s continued silence and lack of participation. He’d thought about it—thought about Magnus—however briefly, and decided he deserved to get credit for an assignment he hadn’t even helped with. Fuck.

Magnus’s heart pounds for the millionth time that day, and if his hands shake as he gives the paper over to Aldertree, no one has to know. Suddenly, it means more than anything to him that he finds Raphael before the day is over and lets him know how much that small act of kindness meant. How long he’d searched for him, wondered where he was and if he’d been adopted by some nice family, one where his comics about two superheroes were rooted solely in fiction and not the tragic realities of two young boys.

They need to talk, that much is certain. As he moves into the hallway in search of his next class, Magnus vows to make it happen.

//

As it turns out, Raphael finds him first.

Magnus is leaving his last class of the day—gym—and it’s because of this class alone that he’s ready to chalk up this day as a loss, fingers combing uselessly through his now ruined hair as though it stands any chance of being salvaged. He whirls around at the sound of someone calling his name, eyes scanning the crowded hallway with an aggravated look on his face.

It’s bad enough that he’d forgotten his makeup bag on his vanity this morning. Now someone is going to have to see him like this? All sweaty and disheveled, and not in an attractive, ‘I just spent quality time with someone really hot’ sort of way? And who even bothered to learn his name in the first place? It’s only his first day here…he groans, not really in the mood to socialize.

All that anger vanishes, however, when he spots Raphael, who is looking right at him, straight-faced as he’s ever known him to be. Raphael, who is walking his way, head cocked to the side like he’s seeing him for the first time.

Magnus’s stomach twists, anxiety flooding his system as he stands up a little straighter. This time, he’s going to make sure to not leave anything unsaid. He opens his mouth as Raphael approaches, ready to unleash the torrent of apologies and questions—

“Magnus,” Raphael says, his voice steady and sure, “I am…very sorry, about earlier. For leaving the way I did.”

“Sorry?” Magnus echoes, because—what? What on earth would Raphael have to apologize for?

“Yes,” Raphael says. “It was not right of me. Initially I thought it might be you, but what are the odds of that after all this time? And then Aldertree said your name, and I knew. I was shocked, and I reacted poorly. For that I am sorry.”

For a moment, Magnus wants to echo the sentiment: “Well, I’m sorry for leaving the way I did too.” He quickly decides against it, not wanting to scare him off by acknowledging the elephant in the room so early in their conversation.

 “You don’t—you don’t need to apologize, Raphael, god, I wasn’t upset.” Magnus says, noting Raphael’s scowl at his casual blasphemy. “And I was shocked too. To put it mildly.”

He smiles, and Raphael doesn’t frown outright. It might just be wishful thinking, but Magnus swears he can see his lips twitching upwards. Some of the anxiety bubbling in his stomach ebbs away.

So far, so good.

“Raphael, I know it’s been—”

“Listen, Magnus, we—”

Magnus freezes. Raphael does the same, shoulders held ramrod straight, and after a few moments of awkward silence Magnus chuckles softly to dispel the tension.

It works. Raphael’s posture loosens up just a bit, tension melting from his back as he shifts his weight, fingers toying with the strap of his bag like he’s unsure what to do with his hands. Magnus knows the feeling; is still sort of caught in a state of disbelief himself…ten years of wondering, fearing the absolute worst, and now he’s got an answer. It’s a half-answer, solely built on the sight of Raphael standing in front of him, physically whole and without any visible bruising, but an answer nonetheless. And Magnus knows better than anyone that looks can be deceiving, that there’s a litany of scars that cannot be seen and a million terrible things that could’ve happened in the span of ten years, but for now? Raphael is here, and he’s real, and god, Magnus is so deliriously happy to see him again. He wants more than anything to reach out and pull him into a hug, to ground himself in the idea that this is real and he’s not dreaming Raphael up out of some desperation for a familiar face…but somehow, he knows it wouldn’t be appreciated. They’re practically strangers, after all.

Strangers with a history, sure, but strangers all the same. Instead, he looks at the now empty hallway, nodding his head at it as Raphael’s eyes track the movement.

“We should go for coffee. Do you like coffee?” Magnus asks, unwilling to let the other boy out of his sight for even a moment. Raphael snorts in response to that, eyes rolling, and Magnus chooses to take this in the affirmative.

“Are you free anytime soon? Say, right now? I know this great little café at 66^th and York and we could sit down—”

“Yes,” Raphael responds, “I suppose we have some catching up to do, don’t we?”

Pleased, Magnus grins, his earlier worries about his floppy hair and smudged makeup entirely forgotten. He doesn’t fret when Raphael merely shrugs in response to his enthusiasm, moving down the hallway with the same easy stride from earlier. In fact, Magnus doesn’t think there’s a single thing that can bring him down right now. He’s…floating, caught in what has to be the strangest first day of school he’s ever had, but it’s not an unwelcome feeling. It’s a good sort of strange, the same type of unfamiliarity he gets in a new club or at a party where no one knows him and he knows no one.

He’ll have to get Ragnor a nice thank you gift. As much as Magnus loathes to admit it perhaps he had the right idea when it came to sending Magnus to this school. The uniforms are still horrendous, so he’s not entirely off the hook—but still. Finding Raphael again after ten years apart, after no one would tell him a thing about where he might be…Magnus is grateful for the opportunity.

Ragnor has no clue who Raphael is. Magnus has been too scared to mention him, unwilling to jinx it and unsure if his past even matters to Ragnor anyway. But he thinks that if he did know about Raphael…he’d be happy for Magnus to have a chance to reconnect.

Magnus is a million miles away, caught in a daydream. He’s content for the first time in a long time, and he’s seriously starting to wonder if anything could ever bring him back down to earth.

Until their shoulders brush, an accidental point of contact that Magnus would think nothing of, were it not for Raphael’s instant and unexpected reaction.

The other boy flinches, jumping back as though he’s been burned, eyes wide with surprise. Magnus goes still, mouth dropping open a bit at the sharp breath Raphael sucks in, chest heaving as he grips the strap of his bag like it’s a weapon he can use to defend himself from whatever version of reality he’s currently stuck in. His eyes are darting around, from Magnus to the wall, and back to Magnus, but he’s not saying anything, mouth opening and closing around words that never form.

Magnus doesn’t move. He barely breathes, unsure what went wrong or how to proceed—but Raphael manages to collect himself, shaking his head slightly and continuing his trek down the hallway like nothing was ever amiss.

He pauses after a few more steps when he realizes Magnus isn’t following him—and this time, Raphael does look back, one brow raised curiously. “Well, are you coming?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Magnus replies, catching up to him in three long strides. Raphael keeps walking, and for now, Magnus realizes he has no choice but to let it go.

//

“So, let me get this straight,” Raphael says, deadpan, “you agreed to go back to her house even after bearing witness to all of that?”

Magnus groans and buries his face in his folded arms, head hitting the table with a dull thunk. Camille wasn’t one of his finest moments…and he’s not proud to admit that the ‘moment’ lasted nearly eight months.

“I was drunk, but yes, I went home with her. We didn’t even have to sneak in. Her mother was passed out on the couch, so we just—” he whistles, sweeping his hand through the air in a vague gesture to avoid having to put it in words. Raphael responds by rolling his eyes, and Magnus barely stops himself from making a snarky Ragnor-like comment about hoping they get stuck that way. 

They’ve been talking for a few hours now and Magnus is happy to report that things are going well between them. At first, they’d danced around the subject, Magnus unusually mum about broaching a topic as heavy as their shared past and the pieces of their lives that happened after they were forced apart. But they’d eventually gotten the conversation going, and in the space of that, Magnus has learned…a lot, to put it simply. Like how Raphael doesn’t enjoy being touched without warning because it reminds him of a time where the touches weren’t always friendly (or, in some cases, overly ‘friendly’—Magnus had cringed at that part, barely able to listen without melting from the white-hot rage coursing through him.)

He also learns that, thankfully, he was right about one thing all these years: Raphael DID find a nice family, and eventually, he was adopted. He’s been living with the same people for 4 years now, and he’s happy with the way things worked out. Magnus is beyond happy for him. If anyone deserves to find a family and get the chance to stay, become something permanent…it’s Raphael.

Kind, gentle, goodhearted Raphael, who would crawl into Magnus’s bed after he’d had a nightmare and speak to him in Spanish, tiny hand stroking his hair even though it was sweaty and knotted. Even though Magnus didn’t understand a word, even if they’d both be punished if Mr. Morgenstern found them awake at this hour.

After that, their conversation started drifting into more lighthearted territory, stories about relationships and friends and the best and worst teachers at the Institute. They’ve got an easy banter going now; a sarcastic, edgy dynamic Magnus is more than comfortable with because of how natural it all feels to be sitting across from Raphael.

Raphael, who openly scowls at him and glares as Magnus shares his nightclub stories and the adventures he’s had in the past few years. Raphael, who is not afraid to judge him, calling Magnus out on his bullshit in a way that’s honestly sort of refreshing.

Although he has to admit…Camille has always been a bit of a sore subject.

“I was 15!” Magnus cries, nearly knocking over their empty coffee cups in his moment of passion. “I was 15, and she was a vision, Raphael, I swear to you—had you seen Camille Belcourt that night in Pandemonium, you wouldn’t be blaming me right now. Seriously. She looked stunning beyond measure.” He sighs wistfully for a moment, eyes distant as he lets himself indulge in a rare-but-pleasant memory of their time together before speaking again. “And she was more than that too, so clever and…alive? I was addicted to her, and to the way she made me feel like I could move mountains. At times, I truly thought she was the one for me. I guess I held onto the hope that one day, she’d wake up and feel that way about me, too. That Camille was capable of change. We could’ve been so good together if she’d just…” he pauses, toying with a torn up straw wrapper, “I don’t know—tried a little harder to love me.”

Raphael makes a face at that, a beautiful twist of disgust and annoyance. “I most certainly would be. From what you’ve said, I’ve known many people like her—and they are all the same. They will not change, Magnus, because they are not capable. No matter how hard you love them, that’s just who they are. A río revuelto, ganancia de pescadores. It’s instinct for them to seek out such instability. And that is likely what she saw in you.”

He’s right. Magnus knows he’s right—but that doesn’t make it any easier to acquiesce to. In fact, it might even be more annoying than Ragnor being right about something. He sighs dramatically before crossing one leg over the other.

“Yes, well. She’s no more than a memory, now.” At Raphael’s troubled look, he quickly amends. “No, no, nothing like that—I just haven’t seen her since our metaphorical last supper. And besides, it’s not like I’ll ever see her again. We run on completely different circuits thanks to my clever avoidance of all her favorite clubs.”

Raphael smirks at that, eyes alight as though he’s in on a joke Magnus isn’t privy to. He doesn’t have to wonder for long, though, because Raphael is speaking, his voice a low rumble that reminds Magnus of laughter.

“You’d be surprised at how small this city is. Almost 9 million people, and yet…just when you think you’ll never see someone again…”

“…there they are,” Magnus finishes, adopting the same grin. “I guess I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

//

By Magnus’s third day of school, he and Raphael have fallen into a routine; a series of easy, natural conversations that lead into one another, whispered between worksheets and labs in bio and spoken in too-loud voices as they walk down the halls together. Although biology is the only class they have in common due to Raphael being in all AP courses, they do share a lunch block—something that thrills Magnus, who refuses to eat at a table by himself. Raphael even managed to convince Magnus to attend their optional Wednesday mass with him. Ordinarily, Magnus wouldn’t bother, but it means more time with Raphael…so Magnus agrees to go.  

The alternative involves Magnus heading to class 30 minutes early. It’s not a difficult choice to make. Magnus only hopes mass isn’t as boring as he’s expecting it to be.  

//

“Looks like a sold-out affair,” Magnus comments, eyes scanning the full pews with something akin to surprise. Raphael’s head bows as they move through the doors, his hand dipping into a wide-brimmed goblet as they pass it by. “Should I do that as well?”

“You don’t have to,” Raphael says. He leads them to a pew close to the front—Magnus’s ass starts to hurt the second they sit down against the creaking wood back. “Everything is optional, Magnus. It is perfectly acceptable to sit and watch, as long as you’re not texting.”

“So, no adding that hot guy in your Spanish class on Facebook, then? Noted.”

Raphael’s expression turns deadly in the space of a second. It’s hard to be certain in the dim cathedral lighting, but Magnus swears he sees a blush tinting the tips of his ears.

His mouth opens, probably about to give Magnus a piece of his mind, when he’s interrupted by the loud trill of an organ from somewhere in the rafters. Silence falls over the room as a group of four make their way to the sanctuary, led by a boy no older than ten.

Mass starts soon after that. Magnus tries to keep up at first, despite not being religiously inclined—but he’s quick to tune out during the call-and-response portion of the sermon. 

//

The service itself is shorter than Magnus anticipated. It’s as boring as he thought it would be, though. Raphael wastes no time in picking up where their conversation left off, going on a tirade about the boy he most certainly does not have feelings for, Magnus.

 “—not to mention his constant chatter. Being a native speaker does have certain advantages, but respect is still a requirement, regardless of proficiency level, and Simon Lewis lacks—”

Magnus stops in his tracks, eyes locked on a far corner of the room.

//

| R.S |

“Wait,” Magnus hisses. Raphael sours at the interruption but follows Magnus’s line of sight anyway, trying to figure out what’s going on.

“What is wrong wi—”

“Who,” Magnus starts, pointing accusingly across the room, “is that?”

Raphael frowns, standing on his tiptoes as he squints and tries to see. His gaze lands on a tall boy with dark brown hair, arms folded defensively across his chest as he listens to the girl in front of him. Her hair matches his although it’s longer, sweeping down her back in a perfectly tamed cascade of curls. He thinks they might be arguing, he and the girl. She’s gesticulating wildly as the boy looks on, face coolly impassive despite the scene in front of him.

Raphael turns away from the scene and faces Magnus, smirk firmly in place. He always has been able to read Magnus like a book. Unfortunately for Magnus, today seems to be no exception. The only part Raphael hasn’t worked out yet is which of the Lightwood siblings managed to catch Magnus’s eye.

“You mean those two over there?” he drawls, feigning disinterest as he stares at a crucifix mounted on the wall above their heads. At Magnus’s frantic nod he continues, sounding bored. “Oh, they’re nobody worth knowing. Just the Lightwoods. Why do you ask?”

“Why do I ask?” Magnus says, incredulous. “Have you SEEN that guy? Hello, arms I could fall into forever and not have a single complaint about the trajectory of my life. He’s gorgeous!”

Alec, then. Ugh. Leave it to Magnus to swoon over the bigger of two evils.

“Sure, whatever. But I meant it when I said they aren’t worth knowing.”

“And why, pray tell, is that?” Magnus pauses, eyes widening in horror. He holds up a hand, purple nail polish glittering in the soft morning sunlight. “Wait, don’t tell me. He’s straight, isn’t he? And cruelly homophobic? He and his girlfriend are co-heads of the school’s chastity club and they’ve been sporting the same promise rings since they were ten?”

Raphael laughs in spite of himself. Sometimes he wonders if Magnus exists permanently in a state of half-inebriation. The things he comes up with are beyond wild.

“No, what—okay, first of all, Isabelle is his sister. They are definitely not dating.”

“Isabelle,” Magnus says thoughtfully, tongue darting out to lick his lips. “And her brother’s name is?”

“Alec. But seriously, Magnus. Don’t bother with them. He’s every bit his mother’s son, far too good to talk to any of us heathens. She’s a bit less of a prude but she’s still a Lightwood—our Father, what in the world are you doing? MAGNUS.”

But Magnus is already gone. He’s walking across the cathedral with a bounce in his step, making his way over to Alec and Isabelle with a fierce look of determination sparking in his eyes.

Raphael’s own eyes roll at the sight and he sits down with a sigh, not wanting to see Magnus get shot down. He’d tried to warn him, so really, it has nothing to do with him anymore. Despite their budding friendship and all the history, the two of them are essentially strangers…Raphael shouldn’t care as much as he does.

But he does care, even if it makes no sense. And so, as Magnus stalks across the room, head held proudly with a confidence Raphael wishes he could bottle and sell, he bows his head, hands folding primly in his lap as his eyes slide closed. Raphael prays—for Magnus; for the Lightwoods to be kind, and for himself. At this rate, he’s going to need a lot more patience to get through this school year with Magnus (and his appetite for risk-taking) without succumbing to the stress that comes with it. God, grant him the serenity…

When he opens his eyes again and looks back up, the three of them are laughing—the loudest of them all is Magnus, one hand resting on Alec’s forearm as Isabelle watches on fondly. It feels like a private moment, even though they’re surrounded by people, and Raphael looks away quickly, not wanting to intrude. As he stares down at the floor in front of him Raphael allows himself a small, quiet smile.

Magnus truly is something else. Only he could manage to charm the stuck-up Lightwoods in the space of a few seconds. He sends a quick thank you up to God for listening to his prayers before focusing on his morning offerings, and for once, Raphael is happy to have been so mistaken.

Maybe this year won’t be so difficult after all.

// 

| M.B |

“—realistically, Iz, it’s not a smart idea. How do you plan on explaining this to our mother? When she catches wind of it I know she’ll—”

“Excuse me,” Magnus says, slightly out of breath from his brisk trot over to them. The boy—Alec, his mind supplies helpfully—whirls to face him, frown already in place. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was hoping to chat with you for a second. Alec, right?” He pauses and tries to figure out where he’s going with this…he hadn’t had time to think of a plan. “Is that short for Alexander?”

“Um,” the boy replies, looking at his sister with wide hazel eyes. She offers him nothing, a brow raising delicately as her eyes flit between him and Magnus.

She’s pretty, Magnus thinks, with curves that most girls would kill for and strong features that match her brother’s. Although she’s shorter than Alec by a good few inches (Alec, who is somehow an inch or two taller than Magnus himself, and really, who had given him the right to be so tall?) she almost seems to take up more room, confidence evident in the way she squares her shoulders and faces Magnus directly, head tilted to one side. Her eyes are a shade darker than Alec’s greenish-brown and she’s studying Magnus with obvious interest, no doubt fixated on the glitter in his hair and the purple shadow smudged around his eyes. He stands up a bit straighter and preens under her watchful eye, flourishing under the attention.

But if Magnus thought the other boy was stunning from afar, it’s nothing compared to what he’s faced with now. He is exactly Magnus’s type, yanked straight from the fantasies he’s been having since he turned thirteen and saw the allure of men as well as women. His arms are still crossed over his chest and Magnus can see the definition there, the sleeves of his white uniform shirt stretched taut across biceps and broad shoulders in a way that has his mouth watering. The rest of his uniform is sinfully tight as well, almost as if Alec had hit a growth spurt during the summer and not bothered to get a new uniform to accommodate…not that Magnus is complaining. Nope. Certainly no problems on his end.

As Alec shifts on his feet and moves back a bit—wanting to put some space between himself and Magnus, probably, given how close they were standing—a flash of something catches his eye, shining dully in the fragmented sunlight.

Magnus’s eyes sweep up to Alec’s chest, stopping just at his collarbone. There, resting in a spot he really wants to bite at, sits a simple golden cross, hanging from a glittering chain fastened around his neck. It’s unadorned and no bigger than a quarter, but Magnus is absolutely fascinated by it; can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the small pendant as his mind races at the sight.

Despite knowing nothing about Alec save for his name, Magnus can’t help but feel that the simplicity of the necklace suits him, bringing out the warmth in his skin and the flecks of gold in his eyes. He likes it, enjoys the flash of it against Alec’s collarbone, nestled there so delicately that Magnus cannot picture him without it on.

Even so, there’s a sinking feeling in his stomach, a cloying sort of worry, all brought on by the implications of the cross hung so proudly on Alec’s neck. If he were the religious type (as Alec so clearly is) Magnus might’ve even started praying.

Prayers for Alec to be kind. For Raphael to have been wrong about him, for Alec to be good, and understanding, and cognizant. Cognizant of the fact that it’s 2017, and it’s perfectly valid for everyone to love whoever the hell they want, and express themselves however the hell they want.

Magnus would also pray for Alec to be gay (or bi, or pan, even demi) but he fears that might be asking too much from a God that probably doesn’t exist in the first place.

Someone coughs. The sudden sound pulls Magnus’s attention away from the way Alec’s long fingers are toying with a loose thread at his collar and back to the two people in front of him. He smiles and looks up at Alec with as much innocence as he can muster.

Alec is staring at him with an unreadable expression, his dark hair swept across his face messily. His cheeks are slightly flushed, like he’d just come from gym. Or maybe he’d caught Magnus checking him out? It’s not like he was being subtle, after all.

Wait a second. Does this mean Alec might actually be…interested?

And that…Magnus is very interested in that thought. He stands up a bit straighter, eyeing Alec carefully, searching for any sort of tell.

Alec’s blush deepens, but other than that, his expression gives nothing away. Still. Magnus has always been a risk-taker. And the way Alec is looking at him makes Magnus want to do something—any number of dangerous, foolish things; hope beating like the wings of a million butterflies just below his ribcage.

Consequences be damned, Magnus decides to jump. He lets his eyes sweep down the length of Alec again, open and intentional. Slowly, from the broad stretch of shoulder, all the way down to his immaculately shined dress shoes, and back up again, until warm brown settles on golden hazel. The dreamy sigh that follows is a bit dramatic, sure, but Magnus wants to be sure his message is received, loud and clear. Yeah. Magnus definitely loves what he sees.

And Alec smiles. It’s not a subtle, tiny turn of the lips, either—it’s broad and intentional, rosy lips and flushed cheeks and the tiniest hint of teeth. The butterflies in Magnus’s stomach explode. This day just keeps getting better.

“I’m Magnus Bane,” he says, offering his hand to the girl first. He gets the feeling that Alec is a traditional guy, and hopes the courtesy will be appreciated. She shakes it with a firm grip and a steady “Isabelle,” before letting go as Magnus turns to face Alec. He just stands there, staring at him with that huge smile on his face. Magnus offers his hand more clearly, and Alec continues to stare, unmoving in front of him.

Isabelle hums, a soft, polite sound. “Not to be rude, Magnus. Is there something you wanted?”

“Right, yeah,” Magnus says, still facing Alec. He drops the hand he hadn’t realized he was still holding out before smiling at Alec. Thankfully the words come without too much trouble.

“Actually, I was looking for Alexander. I was told you’re the man to talk to if I’m interested in getting involved on campus. You see, I just moved here…and as a senior, I was hoping to make a few memories before I graduate. I don’t really know anyone but I was assured that you are very connected with the student body.” He grins at Alec, whose earlier stunned silence has morphed into something more like confusion. His smile shifts too, into something more pinched. Subdued. Alec looks like he’s in pain, which would worry Magnus a bit if not for Isabelle’s knowing, easy smirk.

Isabelle snorts, stifling a laugh behind her hand as she mumbles something about Magnus’s apparent interest in ‘one student body in particular.’

Of course she’d caught him checking out her brother less than three minutes prior. Well, Magnus isn’t about to deny it, although he should probably think twice about shouting it in the halls the way he wants to—he hasn’t had enough time to feel out the school yet. He doesn’t know if it’s one of those types of places where he’ll end up with a black eye for saying the wrong thing or letting his eyes wander in the wrong direction.

Magnus is out, and he’s proud, and he’s unapologetic about who he is and who he’s attracted to, romantically or otherwise. But he also wants to stay at this school until he graduates—he promised Ragnor effort, after all. Which means he has to be careful…at least until he’s made some friends and figured out how conservative the Institute really is.

Not that Isabelle and her brother have given him the impression that he needs to worry. But still. Magnus remembers Raphael’s earlier warnings…and he winks at Isabelle in lieu of another flirty comment, fiddling with the cuff on his ear as he dares a glance at Alec.

The glare Alec shoots her is nothing short of impressive. Magnus offers her a bright smile and a coy wink in response.

“Oh, Alec is very well connected. He’s actually the senior class president. I’m sure he can help you make all kinds of interesting memories, Magnus.” Isabelle smirks, dragging her gaze between Alec and Magnus in a movement far too slow to be anything but deliberate.

Jackpot. This whole thing is going much better than Magnus anticipated. He smiles, grin slow and lazy. Alec looks like he’s a step away from passing out.

“Izzy,” Alec hisses, elbowing her sharply. She darts out of the way before his blow can make contact, winking at him as soon as she’s out of arm’s reach.

The other boy turns his attention to Magnus next, sporting a defensive expression.

“Look, Magnus. I’m not sure who told you that, but—” He sighs, looking tired. “Are you sure you’re not looking for Jace? Jace Lightwood?”

And Magnus…he’s not sure where to take this. Because Alec is attractive, incredibly so. And Magnus is currently about 80% certain that Alec is at least a little bit bi-curious…Isabelle’s insinuation aside, Alec has been not-so-subtly staring at Magnus’s chest for a solid minute now. Sure, that might be easier than staring a stranger in the eyes, but there’s a hint of something sharp in Alec’s expression; an edge that has Magnus standing up straighter, warmth pooling heavily in his stomach as he stands there and lets Alec look.

Yeah, he’s pretty sure Alec likes what he sees. The thought has him giddy, almost sick with enthusiasm.

But still. There’s a shyness to Alec that Magnus doesn’t want to push. First impressions are very important. And for whatever reason, Magnus is curious to see where this goes.

It’s because Alec is ridiculously attractive. He’s known him for all of five minutes—so it can’t be anything more than that.

“Alexander,” he murmurs, batting his lashes, “The description I was given by my dear classmate was ‘tall, dark, and breathtakingly gorgeous.’ I’m more than certain that person is you.” A pause—Alec’s face is getting redder by the second, so Magnus decides to intervene and offer him an out. He redirects with a little bit of humor. “I don’t know who Jason is, but unless he’s your identical twin brother…?”

“It’s Jace,” Alec corrects automatically, having decided that this was an easy enough place to start. He keeps talking. “No, he’s actually ad—I don’t really know if—um, no. I don’t. Have a twin.”

Magnus smiles, soft and easy. “I figured.”

“Do you—I mean, you wanted me to…do you need me to show you around, or something?” Alec flounders, hands twisting nervously in front of him. “I could draw you a map, or—or, I’m not really sure how to help, so…”

“Do you have your schedule, Magnus?” Isabelle offers helpfully. Magnus nods and pulls out the paper, not missing the appreciative look Alec shoots his sister’s way.

The three of them crowd together to look at Magnus’s schedule. He relishes in the press of Alec’s bicep against his own, warmth bleeding through the thin cotton of his dress shirt. God, Magnus hopes he’s not imagining it when Alec seems to lean into the contact, shifting against Magnus’s side so that they’re nearly pressed together from hip to shoulder.

“Oh,” Izzy says, pointing at the paper, “you have chem with Alec in the morning.”

“English too,” Alec offers.

Magnus balks, barely able to catch himself in time and school his expression into something more neutral—because how in the world had he not noticed Alexander before today? He must wear a mask during his classes, to ensure the student body can focus their attention on academics, instead of getting lost in his eyes. Or on his lips. Or on the way the light accents his cheekbones, subtle shadows dancing under his eyes as his lashes move against the light…yeah, he’s got to have one hell of a disguise. Otherwise Magnus would’ve totally seen him in that stupid chemistry class.

Magnus’s GPA will thank him, if this is the case. And if it isn’t?

Magnus will buy the damn mask himself, and give it to Alec as soon as humanly possible. It’s for the greater good.

“And gym with Jace,” Alec continues, oblivious to his inner turmoil.

Gym. Magnus despises gym. Yesterday had been a nightmare…while Magnus is not entirely against the idea of sweating, he can certainly think of more civilized ways to accomplish it (as well as a few decidedly less civilized ways—the very thought of that when standing next to Alexander has him fighting off a full-body shudder.) But high school gym class? It’s not Magnus’s cup of tea. In fact, he’d dare to say it isn’t anyone’s—save for the testosterone-driven, overly competitive group of boys in his class, that is. 

There are two guys in particular who seem to think they’ve jumped forward in time to the 2018 Olympic Games in Pyeongchang; arguing and fussing with each other over every call the teacher makes as the class muddles through a less-than-stellar game of floor hockey.

He groans out loud, drawing the attention of both Alec and Izzy.

“Tell me this,” he starts, “on a scale from one to ten. How competitive is Jake in gym class?”

Isabelle’s quiet little snort gives Magnus all the confirmation he needs—but Alec absolutely loses it, head falling back as he laughs, sudden and vibrant. Isabelle is as surprised by it as Magnus himself, turning to look at her brother with thinly-veiled shock.

It’s a full body kind of laugh, warm and all-encompassing, and god, Magnus can’t tear his gaze away from the sight. Alive, Magnus thinks, so wonderfully electric and alive. He laughs too, because it’s contagious—because there’s nothing that could stop him from getting swept up in the moment.

“My brother,” Isabelle says after a few moments, eyes shining, “is a twelve. Think Elton John versus Madonna, circa 2004.”

“Oh god,” Magnus wheezes, laughter thick and breathless in his throat, “he’s the blonde one, isn’t he?”

Alec, who has finally managed to calm down, loses himself to another bout of giggles. Isabelle joins in this time, eyes watering from the effort.

People around them in the cathedral are starting to stare. Magnus pays them no mind.

“I swear, he does have some redeeming qualities. Besides his face, I mean.” Isabelle manages, dabbing at her eyes carefully so her makeup doesn’t smear. “Jace is just very…goal-oriented, that’s all. I’ve been told it runs in our family.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Alec says, eyes rolling as his expression shifts back into something serious. He turns to Magnus, arms crossing over his chest—the sight of the fabric straining against his forearms is enough to quiet Magnus’s laughter full-stop. “Don’t listen to my sister, we’re not all competitive. But Jace can be very…he didn’t say anything to you, did he? Or trample you or something? Because if he did, he didn’t mean it—”

“No worries, Alexander,” Magnus says, holding up a hand to stop him. “I can assure you that your brother has been nothing but cordial with me. In fact, he gave me exactly 15 seconds of warning before nearly taking out my eyes with a hockey puck.”

Alec’s eyes are wide as saucers, and Isabelle’s laughing again, but Magnus isn’t finished yet. He pitches his voice low for effect, leaning in closer to ensure they’ll hear him.

“And then,” Magnus says dramatically, “he argued with the teacher about the foul.”

Alec scrubs a hand over his face, looking sheepish.

“I’m sorry. About him. I’ll, um, talk to him about that today, tell him to take it easy.”

Magnus smiles at him, unable to stop himself from reaching out to touch Alec’s arm. His fingers splay immediately as he grabs on, reveling in the solid and real and sturdy of Alec. Such a simple touch, really, meant more to test the waters than anything else (after all, Alec had been a little…distracted, and hadn’t taken Magnus’s proffered handshake) but it’s grounding in a way Magnus wasn’t expecting a touch from a stranger to be. He tries not to think about it too much.  Nor does he think about the fact that Alec isn’t moving a muscle, frozen in place as people push all around them.

“Oh, that’s quite alright, darling. I can think of a few ways for you to make it up to me. On Jace’s behalf, of course.”

Alec is turning red again, looking anywhere but Magnus’s face.

“W-what—um. What did you have in mind?”

The bell rings and everything around them becomes a flurry of movement. Alec startles at the sound, glaring at Isabelle, who laughs at him before walking off with a shouted, “Bye, Magnus!”

“Start by walking me to class?” he offers, breaking their point of contact and offering his folded schedule to Alec. The taller boy nods, taking the paper and glancing at it quickly before shouldering his bag and offering Magnus a shy smile.

“The STEM wing is this way. Follow me?” Alec asks, as if he’s expecting Magnus to decline the invitation. Which…is a ridiculous thought, for a million different reasons, the most obvious of which being that Magnus initiated this little walk in the first place. But Magnus is no stranger to ridiculous thoughts—so he’s the last one who will call attention to it, teasing or otherwise.

“Lead the way, Alexander,” he says instead, following the broad stretch of Alec’s shoulders as they slip into the crowd.