Chapter Text
“I’m getting married.”
Alec has said these exact words plenty of times already, in front of other people for instance, but mainly in front of the mirror. To see what it feels like. He’s taken the time to familiarize with the feeling this simple sentence brought, like sealing something away. Quickly, he found a way to silence the music in the words. They became flat, lifeless, rehearsed, empty. “I’m getting married,” he’d repeat, and all would be right in the world.
Saying them in front of Magnus should have felt the same way. It didn’t.
Of course Magnus has to joke about it. Of course he plays around like the cat he is and teases Alec about them, about tradition.
“I proposed to Lydia,” Alec hears himself say then. He watches as Magnus can’t seem to find a way to react. For once, he seems taken aback. Should it be this surprising to him?
“It makes sense,” Alec starts justifying without thinking about it. “It’s a solid partnership, for both of us.”
“Solid partnership…” Magnus snides. “That’s hot!”
Even under the singing tones of his voice when he grudgingly praises the merits of marriage, Magnus sounds hurt. Alec doesn’t take the time to marvel at how quickly Magnus pulls himself back together; without a doubt, he has experienced worse in his long life than seeing a fleeting crush get married without him. Instead, he looks for something else to say, something better, something that would make Magnus stay and talk this out. Maybe he has a magical solution, a miraculous way out. But pride keeps his voice deep down his throat and after Magnus says his goodbyes, Alec is left gaping like a trout.
Magnus has always flirted openly and Alec has always done his best to ignore it. In a way, it pisses him off. He prefers not to think of the times it didn’t. Magnus is obviously trying to pierce through Alec’s defenses with innuendos as his best weapons (at least when he tries to be subtle about it) but Alec never felt the need to flirt back.
Once, however, he indulged in the thought of it. Well, maybe not indulged, it’s not like it was a treat or anything, but he thought about it. Just to see what it would feel like to just give in to childish tastes, to try something crazier than sit in the mold given to him years ago. He had thought of similar things before, when he was younger; of Jace often, of other boys sometimes. Quickly, Alec had learned how to tell unwelcome delusions from grounded realities, pinches to the heart from rational feelings, lies he occasionally entertained at night from reassuring limits that guaranteed his safety.
A few times per year, the white tower he had built for himself faded, mental marble collapsing all over his ego. He never did anything but turn a blind eye to it. If he ignored it, it couldn’t be that bad. Eventually, he would refuse his sister’s help and rebuild it quickly, his silent promises as his stones, his rationality as his mortar; perched in the highest room, he would drown himself missions to forget his spiritual stronghold was built on the edge of a crumbling cliff.
Over the years, he became better and better at it; so good, in fact, that he rarely – if ever – questions the stability of his identity. Sometimes, Jace’s eyes on him shake the foundations, his fingers around his arm have Alec close his eyes and inhale deeply, their intimacy make him wish he could wander off and come back as another man but never, ever, does he have to remind himself of who he is, who he needs to be.
So when the thought of Magnus, of his lips wet against his mouth, of his tongue all over him, of his hands laced with his own, sneaked into his daydreams, Alec blocked it like he had blocked others: harshly and bitterly. Because he wasn’t a teenager anymore. Because these thoughts had no business perturbing him. Yet once, only once, had he let his usually well-controlled imagination run wild, just to see. Just to taste it. What it could be, who he could be. Who he obviously isn’t, has never been. Who he has no reason to fight after all because you don’t fight ghosts and winds, you don’t defend yourself against mirror mazes. Because his tower is a monument of self-respect and not of shame, because he isn’t like that, has never been.
Especially not for Magnus, smoke between time’s fingers, with centuries of experience under his belt. Certainly not for Magnus, spell-caster, whose ungodly hands could take anyone’s breath away. Never, never for Magnus, half-demon, obviously slave to his impulses.
And yet, when he starts thinking of how familiar Magnus must be with carnal matters, Alec’s mind quickly turns blank.
As the wedding draws closer, Magnus’ attitude shifts slightly. A bit sassier than usual, he only offers snappy retorts when Alec comes to convince him to help Izzy to face judgement. Magnus tried, one last time, to test Alec’s limits, but Alec barely flinches, even though his stomach came up against his heart when Magnus proposes his gratuitous services. So instead, Magnus has to resort to aiming where it hurts. He tries to paint satisfaction all over his face when he gets Alec to give up his precious bow and arrows in exchange for his presence at Izzy’s side, but all Alec sees is bitterness.
“You don’t have to marry her,” Magnus will tell him later, his face so close Alec could almost taste him.
“Yes I do, Magnus,” Alec will answer flatly. It’ll sound like he’s trying to convince more than Magnus, it’ll feel like he’s raising a shield up, it’ll weigh as much as a lie on his tongue.
And Magnus will talk about deserving and loneliness; Alec will look away, unblinking.
Isabelle will walk free but Magnus will refuse his payment; if he can’t have Alec, he won’t have any part of him.
Alec tugs on his bow tie. His suit fits him perfectly – which he should be grateful for but Izzy seems happier about it than him. The man in the mirror follows his gestures when, mechanical, he smoothes down invisible folds in the white fabric and shifts to appreciate his profile. He slowly inhales, sticking out his chest as if his lungs were reaching for purer air. His reflection looks ready, invincible, untouchable.
Appearances will have to do, for the millionth time.
“You’re perfect,” Izzy reassures him, resplendent in her golden dress. Her face peeks over Alec’s shoulder, gently smiling. “Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine.”
Alec deflates with a loud sigh and turns his back to the mirror, letting Izzy runs her hands over the collar of his jacket. As always, she’s steady, calming, here.
“Of course,” he grumbles without managing to look at her in the eye. Izzy tilts her head to the side.
“Hey, Alec.” She cups his face with both hands. Alec catches her gaze. “Now is still time.”
A shiver runs down the nape of his neck.
“Time for what?” Alec pretends not to understand, but Izzy’s look doesn’t turn harsher.
“To call it off,” she says simply.
Alec’s lips part as the possibility of leaving this room without this suit fills his lungs. He doesn’t let his imagination run any farther than that, for he can already see the path he would walk, for he can feel the cliff he would throw his life’s work over.
Self-control is primordial.
“There’s no need,” he says, and Izzy’s hands let him go. Her lips tighten as she tries to read him in silence. Impassible, Alec lets her worried eyes undress him.
“Okay,” she eventually accepts, her voice lower than usual. Her worries quickly drown in her visible enthusiasm, but Alec knows her better than that. He also knows it’s reciprocal. Like the loving sister she is, Izzy straightens Alec’s bow tie for the last time before taking a step back.
“Take a few minutes for yourself. Jace will be waiting for you next to the altar when you’re ready.”
With a last encouraging smile, she turns around, making the light dance around her, and softly closes the door as she leaves. Alec stares at the exit for a second; something quickly pulls him back to the mirror. The sunlight filters through the window in a caress and lands on his side as if to bless him. Alec glares at the stoic man in the mirror.
There’s a maddening thrill to picking your own cage and watching yourself wither away as you throw away the only key.
The chapel is packed with a chattering crowd that Alec can’t help but scan over and over again. High representatives of the Clave, old family acquaintances, foreign faces Alec only remembers from blurry memories and trusted friends have gathered to witness an anticipated wedding. The large majority of these people carries the pure blood of Shadowhunters; rare exceptions merge with the audience, like Simon, who is currently engaged in a passionate conversation with his row neighbor. Alec can’t help but wonder what joy there is to witness the officialization of a purely political alliance, but he is well-aware no one here came for entertainment or human warmth.
Magnus probably would have. He most likely can find a way to turn any wedding into a remarkable memory, either by the light of his presence or by his talent at getting people drunk. There must be, somewhere in the archives, reports of important social gatherings that the Great Magnus Bane made his own; weddings, maybe, taken from modest family get-togethers to opulent celebrations. Birthdays, perhaps, from humble dinners to flamboyant receptions. Funerals, once or twice, where the warlock would have honored a loved one the way only a heartbroken, aching immortal could pay his respects.
Yes, Magnus could probably make any gathering formidable, not only by his magic but also by how people react to his presence, to his reputation. Put Magnus in the room and any piece of the conversation will orbit around him.
Today, not even dust follows gravity. Light particles slowly dance in the rays of light tainted by the stained glass, barely perturbed by the flow of moving people rocking back and forth between both sides of the aisle. Immune to time, they sparkle between cold floor and arched ceiling, the beauty of their indifferent waltz eternal.
Today, Magnus is absent.
“You’ve made me so proud.”
Maryse’s words swell with honesty and tear a smile from Alec. In silence, Robert nods behind his wife and Alec’s heart hiccups. The sole gratitude radiating from them is all he ever wished for – or almost all but no one ever needed to know that; he only blinks in acknowledgment. As Maryse and Robert walk away to greet a couple of people, Alec watches their backs turned to him, his good old sense of duty sinking between his ribs.
What was their wedding like? Alec had only heard stories and everyone unanimously described Robert and Maryse as a loving couple, as a strong partnership deeply rooted in years of dating and working alongside each other. And yet here he was, their first child, their precious boy, about to turn around the meaning of marriage to secure power and stability for their family name.
Of course, it goes without saying he wouldn’t have had it any other way.
But have his parents ever felt like this? Is it how they made all their choices, like princesses to be given away to the best bidder, wrapped in sheets of thorns and weakened by responsibility as their title of firstborn had them engrave their family name on their own forehead for everyone to see? Have they felt the burden to reopen the wound of duty on a regular basis, have they felt their own blood roll down their cheeks like tears of damned ancestors, warm with life but bitter with metal and reluctance?
Alec lifts his chin a little higher.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
He can sense Jace by his side when the ceremony begins, his support radiating through their bond, yet Alec has rarely felt this distant. From his parabatai, from the audience, from himself even. There is still light in the chapel, and not much has changed, but now he feels it. Feels it happening. He can’t stop it now – should he have? The memory of putting his knee down in front of Lydia claws at his insides. It was a good idea, he swears to himself as inexorably, cold quicksand swallows Alec piece by piece.
First, his heels and his balance with them.
A buzzing wave washes over the venue when Lydia steps on the red carpet, beautiful in her white dress. Alec barely registers the bouquet she gently holds or the golden reflects in her hair; her smile, authentic and true, outshines any deliberate artifice. Alec shifts his weight over his feet, watching her approach the altar. There she is, ready, in all her honesty and good will. Honoring outdated traditions must have been her burden for most of her life, seeing how her walk doesn’t stutter, how she effortlessly excels in her role as the immaculate bride.
Lydia’s eyes meet his and Alec realizes they must have grown in similar molds. One could say that’s what makes them good for each other.
He reaches out to her and takes her hand to guide her to his side. From now, they won’t budge until fate is satisfied but a part of Alec still hungers for a sprint. He kills the thought of it before it fully forms; unfair, it’d be unfair and irrational. This is the best that could happen. This is what he wanted. It may look uglier than it first sounded, but it is what it is.
But nauseous impulses sneak into Alec’s mind anyway.
The bride and groom both stand still at the altar, offering themselves to be scrutinized like fairground beasts. Actors, that’s what they look like; fakers, impersonators tip-toeing on the edge of a stage, hesitating between hiding in the crowd and play pretend until the end.
A voice – a Silent Brother’s perhaps, if not his own – resonates in Alec’s skull but he doesn’t listen. The aisle is empty and the rose petals covering the path have lost their grace, bloody specks of color over the dull masquerade. From the seats, people are looking up to him, to the show he puts on for them. Simon, emotional. His mother, proud. His father, unreadable.
On the other side of the room, the doors are invitingly open.
Second, his knees and his resolve with them.
Alec’s eyes fall on Lydia. She’s still smiling encouragingly, carrying the weight of the wedding for the both of them. He can tell, by the way she keeps eye contact, that she’s trying to make him feel good. To be a constant, an anchor in this silent storm; because she understood, Alec can see, that a sacrifice is being made today.
Something is missing.
He should be strong but he isn’t. He should be happy but he isn’t. He should be proud but he isn’t.
Lydia is. Maryse is. His father, hopefully, is.
For half a second, he admits he’d rather slit open the throat of a hundred lambs and suffer the price of their sacrifice than to be here; he catches himself in the middle of such a ridiculous thought. Of course he wouldn’t prefer that. He’s doing the right thing. Everything will be fine.
Lydia takes the golden bangle from the pillow Isabelle presents to her and reaches for Alec’s wrist. Without thinking, he slightly pulls his sleeve back to give her more room and watches her hands put the bangle in place. It’s heavy and cold against his skin.
From an angle, it looks like a shackle.
Lydia steps back to look at him and Alec tries to thank her without a word. He doesn’t even know why. By some miracle, his legs are still carrying him; he turns around to take the necklace Jace is keeping for him. For an instant, he faces his brother and Jace’s mismatched eyes scan him, right here, in front of this damned altar he’s so aware of. Here is his anchor. He’s seen these eyes before, a billion times. He’s let them see through all he’s ever been. He’s drowned in them. He’s even dreamt of them in the room they share. Not once, not twice, because he’s let them make him weak and powerful and alive of all things. And Jace’s lips are memories too, from the time his smile outshone a dozen suns, from their teenage years all the way to a few weeks ago; all of this, most of this, at least half of this belongs in the past but Alec clings to it because that’s it, that’s the look he was looking for on his bride’s face but couldn’t find, that’s what first made him wish for another kind of freedom, that’s what he has wanted and loved and oh how he loved him –
Alec unravels.
His heart hammers, thrashes and fights, as if a herd of wild horses was racing over his grave.
Third, his hips and his innards with them.
His fingers are steady when he takes the necklace from Jace and Alec can’t remember the name of the rune he should be thanking for that. The chain is light, infinitely so, but still carries the heavy tear of diamonds perfectly. Lydia turns around so he can tie the necklace around her neck as grooms do; dozens are watching and only make the pendant heavier in Alec’s hands. Furtively, he catches Isabelle’s grieving gaze. He ignores it.
Alec closes the clasp and lets the chain rest on the nape of Lydia’s neck. Where it should be. Where it belongs.
Because this is the right thing.
Even though the tower sways and the cliff is near.
Lydia turns to face him again and her hand grabs his without melting into it. The crowd behind them inhales as a single entity when the Silent Brother starts talking – Alec doesn’t quite register what he’s saying but he sees that Lydia does. She takes the stele Isabelle brought for her and reaches for the massive stone placed on the altar with it. The rock glows at the proximity of the heavenly metal and the stele flickers as Lydia pulls it back towards her, white smoke following.
Silence, he begs himself. Silence. He sighs out his demons, deeply enough to empty his chest of all the air he’s been holding in; his heart slows down, he can tell, and something clicks. Like during training. Like during battle. Alec floats between seconds, serene for what feels like the first time in ages. The choices he made look at him straight in the eye and it’s fine, it’s fine, he knows what to do. It’s limpid and pure and really not that bad. Now there’s him, and Lydia, and his family. There’s the essential, what matters. It’s simple, really. It’s clear. It’s obvious.
It’s okay.
“A rune on the hand, a rune on the heart.”
Then, his lungs and his heart with them.
Lydia gently takes Alec’s wrist in her hand and looks at him, as if to ask if he’s ready. Alec makes her understand she can go on, he’s as ready as he’ll ever be, but as Lydia is about to start drawing the Wedded Union rune on his skin, a bang echoes against the corridor’s walls and startles the attendance. It’s as sudden and chilling as a shot in the guts.
First he sees the crowd, their backs to him. Then he sees his mother as she twists to talk to someone. Finally, and now he understands, he sees Magnus, striding on the red carpet, his chin high, his suit fitting, his eyes locked on his soul.
Magnus is here.
Magnus is at his wedding. Magnus sees all this. There’s pink in his hair (pink? Fushia? Is it the stained glass that gives the light such a color or did he do it this morning? He didn’t have this earlier, right? Do warlocks use hair dye or do they have a spell for that? It fits him though, it looks very Magnus-y. He should wear this more often. Maybe a cold color would fit him better though –) and ten different emotions all over his face.
Jace and Izzy mumble something behind his back but Alec doesn’t find the strength to focus on what they’re saying. He barely notices his mother standing up furiously; is she talking to Magnus? Maybe. It doesn’t matter.
Magnus is here.
The emotional rollercoaster Alec has been riding since the start of the ceremony stops dead in its tracks. From far away, Jace’s voice resonates.
“You gonna be okay buddy?”
He’s not. He’s so not. And maybe it’s magic, maybe it’s not but he can’t take his eyes off Magnus. The skies could have parted, the seas could have let him walk on dry ground yet nothing would have felt as biblical as the war raging between two different men inside of him; Alec brutally realizes Magnus can easily see both, has always seen both, while he so often tried to blind himself. He’ll have to kill one of them.
“Alec?” Lydia whispers. “Hey.”
It’s just a choice to make. Just a path, gray like all the others. It could be holding Lydia’s hand and forever linking his name to hers or it could be coming out to the entire Clave and kissing Magnus with everything he has left in him.
“It’s – It’s just, I – ” he struggles.
Tension crawls between the chairs like a thick, putrid gas poisoning everyone’s illusions of what this wedding could have been, growing heavier with each second. The horses are back, galloping against his ribcage in a roaring thunder and a hundred hands keep him from moving, from swallowing, from even trying.
Magnus, immobile, watches him, sees him behind the façade. Alec remembers his words, what he deserves, what they deserve.
“I can’t breathe,” he chokes.
“I know,” Lydia answers. She pauses for a second. “It’s okay.”
They talked about this before. He had made his choice, he was sure of himself only a few moments ago. How dare Magnus try to break everything down for his own benefit? Is he used to everything going his way, always? Did an inflated sense of entitlement bring him here? Did he think it would be a great idea to push Alec to his limits here, in a public place, with everyone else watching? How is he even supposed to choose; is there a right way? Panic bubbles against his pounding heart.
“Yeah, it’s okay.”
Alec stares into the whites of Magnus’ eyes when he speaks; he remembers the warlock’s voice, you’re a traditional guy.
Magnus was right. Following the rules is easy. It takes responsibility away from you. It makes you a tool, a symbol, a weapon at times. Walking the path of tradition is the simple way. Heartbreaking, but simple; a map is here for you, the ground is paved, the steps are clear.
It’s all Alec knows.
“Go on, Lydia.”
Time and space crash in a blur and everything that could have mattered until now pops like soap bubbles.
Finally, his throat and his head whole.
What happens next is hazy, Alec already knows the memory of it will be indistinct. He thought the runes would burn but he hardly feels them. His hands are not his own when he draws over Lydia’s skin in return, robotic; his heart has stopped beating. His eyes turned almost blind, as if he was looking at Lydia’s fresh marks from underwater. What is he doing? He has no idea. He knows the ritual, the instructions, he does what Lydia does. The rest is wind in his head, cotton in his ears.
The only thing he’s aware of is Magnus, from the corner of his eye. Magnus, who watches all of it in silence, crushed by the weight of lonely centuries upon his shoulders – the misery radiates from his whole being so powerfully there is no need to see his face to be drenched in its aura. Alec can see the shadow he is, standing on his own in the middle of the holy chapel and he can’t tell who he’s betraying the most between the two of them.
And it hurts. It hurts.
It hurts because now his eyes are open and all of him aches because he could have done it. He could have raised from the grave like the immortal he isn’t and faced the world and sent everyone to fuck off. But he didn’t.
He could have been true to himself, and to Magnus, and to Lydia, he could have done what was truly right. But he didn’t.
And now he’s locked in the dungeon he built with his own two hands and Magnus witnessed his spine turn to dust; he could have made today a better day for both of them. But he didn’t.
The Silent Brother speaks again and the stele is back on a pillow; Lydia takes his hand and someone starts cheering but Maryse’s smile doesn’t feel half as good as Alec expected it to. It’s hollow and void of all meaning, completely worthless, worthless compared to what he just lost. Even without looking at his sister, Alec can feel Izzy’s sorrow from where he stands and the list of people he just let down now carries another name.
Lydia kisses him. And Magnus is leaving. Alec’s breath hiccups against someone else’s lips for the first time and he begs the heavens above to never think of this first time again. He can’t close his eyes but Magnus is leaving, evaporating almost, so fast he barely touches the withered petals and in a matter of second it’s like he never came in the first place, him, the eternal who leaves his mark over everything he touches. His back vanishes behind the walls and a flash of his pink hair disappears now that the light doesn’t shine on him anymore; his presence is invisible and this crowd already doesn’t miss him. The audience stands and cheers and they congratulate each other as if they had any credit to take from this lie and Alec dies with each pair of eyes smiling as it meets his own. He could be crying for all he knows.
There’s a hole in the room, a gaping void larger than the doors to Hell and the pain of having dug it hits Alec in the chest with the strength of enough regrets for three lifetimes; he deserves it, he deserves all of it and Magnus deserves better.
There are so many people all around him, or maybe they’re all hallucinations; it’s like waking up from a surgery, with all the numbness and unreality of it all and Alec is alone, he’s holding hands but he’s alone, he’s smiling back but he’s alone, he’s thanking someone but he’s desperately, dreadfully alone.
One day, this chapel will only be ruins, even if it takes a dozen millennia for the sacred stone to age and fall, but Alec is already there, King of the Ashes, and as he contemplates the fallen fortress he used to cherish, he only has floating dust for a crown.
Silence grows everywhere Alec goes, cancerous, slimy and smothering like bubbling tar. He only has to step into a room and the ongoing conversation dies under his feet. It first seemed that other people’s enthusiasm would be his main concern but once the Clave’s authorities gone from his immediate surroundings, their fake fervor vanished from the vicinity, leaving Alec to face everyone else’s concerned faces. Rumors had quickly started to spread; they hadn’t even emptied the chapel that some people had already started murmuring, gossiping like drama-starved old ladies. A look from Alec, just a turn of head in their direction, that’s all it took for them to stop talking, but in the corridors, Alec still feels the weight of other’s curiosity on his back. Without looking around, he can count the pair of eyes trying to decipher his expression, to catch a glimpse of remorse, to capture a word from his mouth. Craving for something juicy, heads follow him similarly to the likes of snakes, predatory. Necks turn as he walks, voices hush and when he stays in place for a few moments, at least one small group always gathers; not much, maybe two or three, but there they stand, emaciated hyenas eyeing some fresh meat, watching the newly wed with vampiric interest.
When he thinks about it, Alec understands. Everyone saw him avoid Izzy, dodge Jace, almost literally run away from any form of interaction involving someone who knows him well in some way or form. He let Maryse talk to him. He let Robert say some of the few words he could find in himself for his eldest son. He let all the others bless him with all kinds of attentions he sincerely couldn’t have cared less for, allowing them to bite off some more flesh from his decaying self-esteem, but the few people Alec had honestly opened to at least once didn’t even get to look at him in the eye.
In any other situation, Alec would have gone to Magnus. For a spell. For help. For a cocktail maybe?
Instead, he hides in a corner of the Institute, where benches are so uncomfortable no one ever goes there to sit down, and he fidgets with the golden bangle around his wrist. It’s still cold and heavy. It’s probably supposed to mean something beautiful and heart-warming.
It doesn’t.
Izzy and Jace are probably still looking for him. There’s work to be done, there are words to be said. The Institute as a whole has been wrapped in quite the crisis for the last few days after all. Alec knows he will soon go and drown himself in work, stay busy. For now, just for a few minutes, avoiding all responsibility seems like a good idea. It’s not like him to run away though. He’s never done such a thing.
But look at where it got you.
The others will have to do without him for half an hour. His presence isn’t that crucial. They still have Capable Izzy and Golden Jace and Trouble-Magnet Clary. Maybe they even have Magical Magnus.
Apparently, they don’t have Leader Lydia, judging from the characteristic clacking of heels against the floor. Alec doesn’t raise his head and still sees her sitting by his side on the hard bench.
“Hey,” she starts softly.
“Hey.”
Even though she tries to get his attention, Alec refuses to look at Lydia in the eye. He couldn’t even if he tried.
“So,” she pauses for a second. “What happened back there?”
Alec swallows air.
“Nothing.”
She’s obviously not buying it.
“I’m not blind, Alec,” she sighs, annoyed. Alec looks around quickly to confirm no one can hear them and cuts her before she starts talking, his eyes drilling into hers.
“Forget about it, okay? It doesn’t matter.”
Lydia raises an eyebrow and straightens her back. The light shines a bit brighter on the necklace she’s still wearing.
“Listen, if you don’t want to talk about it, then don’t,” she says, not as cold as she could have been. “But I need you to be ready to work, Alec. If you need help taking care of whatever that was, then tell me so we can fix it and get you back on the field.”
Alec lets go of the bangle he’s been playing with and his eyes drop back to his thighs, avoidant.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he concedes.
Lydia doesn’t answer but her plea still goes on in Alec’s head. Eventually, she detaches her gaze from him and stands up. For a short instant, she looks like she’s about to leave; she stays a bit longer, watching Alec pretend she’s not here.
“Do you regret it?”
Her voice clears the fog, neutral and flat, masterfully hiding a hint of acidity behind her controlled tone.
Of course I do. Alec turns his head but doesn’t quite manage to look at her. Instead, he chooses to talk to her shoes, the way he would have with his mother when he was much younger. Of course I don’t. His fingers find the bangle again and he mindlessly tugs on it; his wrist follows. Of course I do. The memory of Magnus, haloed by golden light, makes him bite his bottom lip. Of course I don’t. He often paid attention to these thin fingers made heavy by precious rings, to thinner lips that have kissed centuries-worth of lovers. Of course I do. Of course I do.
“No.”
If an outsider was to look at Magnus, they would first see him in all his eccentricity and singularity. They would admire him, probably, observe him from afar, most likely. If they were the kind to pay attention, they would learn to recognize his honest smile from his theatrical grin or his genuine interest from his back-handed compliments. Over the past couple of days, the outsider would maybe have noticed that Magnus’ hair had gone back to a classic black and that he hasn’t worn as much glitter as he usually does. Without a trained eye though, the outsider would probably have missed the way he neglects mirrors and people alike, for he ignores the former and rejects the latter in the same silence. Finally, an outsider would be blind to his oh so particular aura, to the trail of impressions he leaves behind him; it takes time and habit to recognize the way Magnus imprints on people. It would reveal itself to you in a slow realization. Seeing it for the first time would concern you, as you’d grow more and more aware of the full potential of Magnus’ influence on those who live and breathe around him; then one day Magnus’ effect would vanish, and it would concern you even more.
Maybe it’s all in Alec’s head after all – maybe Magnus never really changed anything he ever touched. Maybe he’s always been the only one to see sparks at the end of his fingers and sorcery in everything he does. Maybe the others’ stomachs never really filled with foam when Magnus entered a room.
Alec refuses to believe it.
It can’t be true, because Magnus is here, standing on the other side of the briefing room’s table, the palms of his hands flat against the glass, his head low, and something of his tugs on Alec’s spine. Magnus has to be the one who holds the rest of the world silent, who keeps the others from talking, magnetic; he has to be the reason why gravity feels heavier, why the room feels smaller.
He has to be, because if it’s not him, then only guilt can be this consuming.
Magnus lifts his head to argue and make a point and the light cuts his profile neatly, throwing his shadow on the table like black silk. He could have been looking at Alec at this exact moment, made a subtle innuendo about what kind of magic resides in this book they’re looking for and what they could do with it, but he solidly ignores Alec instead.
When Clary points out that this bookmark belongs to the Book of the White, Magnus immediately volunteers to track it. Silent, Alec can only stand and watch the wall between the two of them grow taller and thicker as Magnus then explains his findings to everyone in the room but him. Not that he can’t hear Magnus, it’s more that Magnus doesn’t talk to him in particular, yet Alec still feels the weight of Magnus’ hand on him, of his presence and his aura all around him.
In another time, had he been born with the gift of ignorance, Alec would have called Magnus a wizard. He would have accused Magnus of having cast a curse on him, for Magnus would have obsessed him day and night. Like others, he would have rationalized his passion by pointing at made-up supernatural abilities, because never could he ever had developed such a fascination for Magnus on his own. Yet, the more Alec thinks about the choices that led him to this moment, the more he wishes he had made others.
It’s no magic, it’s no spell; if anything, Alec cursed himself.
“You’re not okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not okay,” Izzy insists, grabbing her brother by the shoulders. She keeps him in place and he lets her do it, even though he could very well push her away.
“Talk to me, Alec,” she begs. “Talk to me.”
Alec doesn’t talk; instead, he rolls his eyes under his closed lids and sighs as though Izzy had just brought up some ridiculous conversation topic. He doesn’t fool Izzy, who knows her brother as well as she knows her own pockets. He doesn’t talk, sure, but he stays, so she tries to get words out of him.
“You’re sad,” she states blankly, testing his reaction.
“Izzy –”
“And angry.”
“Izzy, don’t start,” Alec groans. Despite looking grave, he still doesn’t try to get away. They’re alone in the room, without anyone to disturb them, and Alec could very well escape at any moment and go lock himself in another room.
“Alec, it’s important,” Izzy perseveres. “You’re hurting yourself.”
Alec takes her right wrist and frees one of his shoulders. Izzy isn’t shaking – she never shakes, but her nervousness clearly shows in her tense frown and her lips bitten so frequently her lipstick started washing off.
“Please.”
Alec gives in.
“I’m not angry.”
“Alright,” Izzy accepts, letting him talk.
“I’m – I don’t know what I got myself into, okay?” Alec admits. “I may have made a mistake.”
Isabelle could mock him right here, you may? But she doesn’t, knowing fully how rare it is to see Alec slowly open up. Instead, she rubs Alec’s shoulder with one hand and draws circles into his wrist with the other.
“What about Magnus?” she asks softly.
“Well I – I don’t know, I haven’t talked to him, he probably hates me, and it’s not like he –”
“No, not that, Alec,” Izzy interrupts him. She suffers his glare without protesting. “How do you feel about him?”
Alec helplessly looks around, as if something in the area could help him; of course, he doesn’t find anything. Unable to build a proper answer, he stammers.
“I don’t – Listen, I don’t feel any –,” he pauses a second and inhales. “It wasn’t like that, you know it.”
Izzy raises an eyebrow.
“No I don’t. He crashed your wedding. I understand you’re not about to move in together, but Alec, there is clearly something here. And it’s killing you, and I hate seeing you like this,” Izzy says, visibly trying to keep it together. “I want to help you,” she continues. “Let me help you.” She steps closer. “Alec. Please.”
Alec breaks.
“How? Really, how?” he barks. “I’m stuck now! What can I even do?” He steps back, slipping out of Izzy’s hold. “Ask for a divorce? In the basis that I may have a thing for Magnus?”
He turns around dramatically.
“Oh yeah sorry I’d like to call it off actually, I have a tiny crush on this dude I met a few weeks ago,” Alec snickers with exaggerated hand-gestures, already visualizing how Maryse would react to such news.
“Not because of Magnus!” Izzy retorts. “Because you’re just not into women, that’s all.”
Alec stops in his sarcastic rendition of Keeping Up With The Lightwoods; he turns back around, jaw clenched, a vein in his neck pulsing.
“You have to tell them, Alec. For your own sake,” Izzy’s voice comes softly again. “Or you’re going to spend your life married to a woman you’ll never love. You deserve so much better.”
“I can’t, Izzy,” Alec replies, cold as ice. He’s still calm and somehow composed; he certainly has a special talent for it.
Isabelle doesn’t have the heart to break the silence immediately. She takes a few steps towards him, burning the sight of a struggling Alec in the back of her mind for the hundredth time. She tried to have this conversation before. She tried so many times.
“You know, he rubbed off on you,” she says eventually. Alec’s stern expression turns inquisitive.
“Magnus. Look at you being all theatrical and emotional,” she continues, containing a grin.
“I’m not –” Alec starts, ready to defend himself.
“It’s a good thing,” Izzy reassures him, stroking his arm. Alec closes his mouth and seems to deflate a little bit. “A good thing. Let it happen to you. For once.”
Does New York know when fires are born and burn in her palms? Does she know when passions fizzle and smokes asphyxiate her children? Does she feel it, when fires die, when someone she fosters lays awake at 4 in the morning? Does she regret it, when what once used to roar and consume, incendiary, turns docile and broken?
She stays and watches as the young ones fail and learn from the scorching pain, as the old ones realize they hadn’t failed enough times. She mourns when these hopes, once pure energy ablaze, unstoppable wildfires, die suffocated in their own ash.
Maybe she has pity for those who start the fires, for those who run away from them. Or maybe when, out of breath, they kneel, she’s the one to hand a fresh lighter; catalytic, maybe she thrives on the heat of it all.
Alec runs, runs like the Red Queen, exhausted but immobile; under the head of the shower he burns, rages and crackles like a summer bonfire.
It’s not tears if you can’t taste the salt.
The corridors have gotten narrower. There’s not enough space for Alec to look away from Magnus walking around, on the rare days he visits the Institute. There’s not enough room to pretend he doesn’t see him, doesn’t feel the ghosts he leaves all over the place. Magnus carries grief like a thick velvet cape; his perfect posture and impeccable fashion sense only flatter the way he suffers through the loss of one of his dearest friends. How broken must he be when hiding behind the heavy black doors of his flat; Alec has a hard time imaging him hugging one of the plushy cushions scattered around his living room in a desperate attempt to ground himself. He could, instead, see Magnus pour himself a tall glass of whatever he drinks on bad days – if it even differs from what he drinks on the other days.
Alec should talk to him, he knows it. There’s too much to be said. He owes him a word, a sentence, something. It’s weird though, it’s not like anything ever happened between them. It’s not like Alec broke a contract, spit on a blood oath, yet it feels the same. Betrayal slithers in his veins, he could almost feel its claws rip at this inside of his arteries. In the morning, he likes to tell himself he only feels this way because he projects too much of himself on Magnus – he hasn’t hurt Magnus, of course he hasn’t, Magnus doesn’t care, right? He’s only shot himself in the foot. By nightfall, Alec closes the door of his room slowly, secretly hoping something, someone would open it wide again and force him to seek out Magnus, force him to do the right thing. When the lock clicks, the hand holding the handle doesn’t feel like it’s his; he calls himself coward and wishes others would too.
Alec leaves the training room, his bow in hand. He’s stayed in there for what feels like days – even though his training lasted a few hours at most – and he now smells like a dead cow. Exhaustion got the best of him. His mind blank, still short of breath, Alec wanders through the Institute, letting his sore legs find their way to a shower. He’ll be making rounds downtowns tonight, meaning that he won’t have to stay home and ruminate on his own. Good news.
Lydia has tried to cheer him up but quickly stopped. When Alec spends more than half an hour around her, he can feel the guilt she tries to hide. They haven’t talked, really. But she knows. Maybe Alec should lean on her a bit more, let her support him. Would she? Probably not. How selfish would it be of Alec to ask Lydia, whom he kneeled in front of, to help him get over someone he almost ruined their wedding for anyway? What a healthy marriage.
The distance he leaves between everyone and himself will, sooner or later, have consequences. Jace is running out of patience – not out of thirst for drama but out of concern. Soon Alec will have to talk to him, because that’s what parabatai do. That’s what brothers do. That’s what friends do.
That’s what Alec refuses to do.
The only thing is actively tries to do is avoid. Avoid everything. Run like the plague is right behind him. Avoid people who see him as a married man, avoid interactions with his parents, events of the Clave, avoid his own reflection like it’s a survival instinct.
He has yet to learn there are things he can’t avoid; they happen by accident, for the most part.
Magnus turns around the corner.
Like a panther, swift and fluid, he walks towards Alec. He’s probably aiming for the exit of the Institute, somewhere behind Alec, but it doesn’t matter. Chin high, chest up like always, Magnus moves with a confidence few could brag about while still looking so light on his feet you wouldn’t feel him if he ever touched you. The corridor is empty, except for them and for an instant Alec thinks of stopping, turning around and taking another way.
He doesn’t.
He could almost hear a tsunami coming for him, running behind his back to catch up on him; how else could Alec explain the quake under his feet, the shaking of his bones the slight tilt in his balance? When Magnus’ dark eyes finally meets his own, Alec only sees surprise in his expression. No game face, no hint of joy, no pleasure. No ressentment, no pain, no anger. Only flat, indifferent surprise, and clearly the worst option of all.
“Alexander! You, here?” Magnus salutes, his tone drenched with irony.
“Magnus,” Alec breathes. “Hey.” He slows down, suddenly very aware of how disgusting he must look, with his shirt wet with sweat and his greasy, messy hair. His grip tightens around his bow.
“Coming back from training?” Magnus asks. He stops walking to look at Alec from closer, feline. Magnus’ eyes are lined with a bright blue that neatly compliments his nail polish and his clothes are as casual as his wardrobe must get. His belt in particular looks ridiculously expensive, adorned with a massive sapphire on the buckle – Alec wonders if Magnus consciously decided to attract attention towards his hips. Knowing him, he very well could have (and even if he didn’t, well, too late).
“Yeah, I was – uh,” Alec gestures above his shoulder, trying to find his words. “Training.” Ah yes, perfect.
Magnus fiddles with one of his rings for a second. His eyes drop below Alec’s collarbone and quickly drink in the sight of Alec glistening in the dim light of this corridor.
“How is Lydia doing?” he asks politely, finding Alec’s eyes again. Now, Alec thinks, now it’s not neutral. There is a vicious satisfaction attached to the thought. Magnus clearly insisted on Lydia’s name, as if he had no interest in knowing how Alec himself was doing, as if he didn’t want to say your wife.
“Oh she’s fine. She’s – Yeah she’s fine,” Alec answers awkardly, unable to hide that he doesn’t know and never really asked her. “How are you?” The question slips out of his mouth before he can stop it and he regrets it immediately.
Magnus blinks slowly, his thin mouth stretching in a weak smile. He brushes off the question.
“Oh I’m fine, lots of work, as usual.” He pauses for a moment, his gaze drilling into Alec’s skull. Maybe he feels the agony Alec is trying to fight. Yes, he probably does. “I was wondering how the married life is treating you.”
Alex swallows. Magnus can read lies so well, but he tries anyway.
“Oh it’s good,” he starts, his free hand coming to rub the back of his head. “It’s fine, really. We – nothing has really changed, it’s just – It’s okay, yeah.”
Magnus doesn’t answer; instead he stares a bit more so Alec can’t help it; he talks, he talks to kill the silence, and Magnus lets him
“It’s a lot of – I mean, it’s a lot of work, but I think it’s going to be fine,” Alec improvises, not knowing where these words even come from. There’s no substance behind any of this, he never really thought of working with Lydia on their “relationship” but here he stands now, rambling. “Our parents are happy, and we are – or at least she is, well I think she is quite –,” Alec stutters, spilling his truth amongst the obvious lies little by little. “She is quite happy, I guess. I think.”
Alec is out of breath, again, and his heart stammers. He can’t find words anymore – what do people say usually? – so he just licks his lips. Behind dark browns irises, he could swear that he just saw a piece of Magnus fall off.
“Sounds… Great!” Magnus comments after a silence. “I am delighted to hear you’re doing so good. Now if you don’t mind, there’s a bottle of whisky I have been waiting decades to open and I believe today is a perfect day.”
Alec nods and Magnus breaks eye contact. Alec has a hundred reasons to want to keep him here, keep him right here in this corridor; he also has a thousand reasons to let him leave.
So he watches Magnus walk around him. He should hold him back. Maybe Magnus would like it too after all? Maybe Magnus wishes Alec could grow a spine and do something. Maybe Alec isn’t the only one who sleeps badly after all. It’s still time, Alec can still reach for Magnus’s arm – he feels his hand twitch at the thought – and push him against the wall. He can still shove his own body against Magnus’ and ask him to make him lose his mind; he can still make him turn around and cup the side of his face and kiss him. Fuck it, he can even drop his bow and wrap both arms around Magnus’ slender waist and hold him, hold him far from everyone’s sight and taste him. He could catch his lips and his tongue, he could make the skin of his neck red as lust and just listen, listen to what Magnus would try to keep quiet. He could embrace the wave that came for him, ride the tsunami, and make Magnus feel it too until they’re both unable to breathe anything but each other’s name. But he doesn’t.
Magnus’s shoulders sway under the lights until he turns around the next corner. Alec stares at the empty space there until a drop of cold sweat reminds him he has a body to take care of.
Magnus doesn’t come back to the Institute after that.
Lydia buries herself in her work. There’s pain to the way she talks and bliss in her relentless hunger for more things to do. She relishes in the time she spends without taking a break and Alec sees it clearly. He’s not the only one hurting.
Jace paces the floor of the room when he waits for Alec, no matter what’s happening. Jumpy and nervous, dark circles grow even darker under his eyes, morning after morning. He who should be golden tarnishes under the sun, even if he tries not to show it. Alec can feel it thought their bond. He’s not the only one hurting.
Izzy laughs less often. She dresses more and more like Maryse, as if to embrace the family name like Alec did. She chooses darker lipsticks and when night comes, she fights demons with exasperation. Alec sees the taste for games and mind tricks seeping from his sister; her fingers are cold all the time. He’s not the only one hurting.
The man in the mirror, stoic as ever, regrets.
On a Monday night, New York guides him. Alec follows the curve of her hands and finds the path to the building without even trying. He knows the smell of the stairs, the touch of the doors. Standing still, in silence, he inhales. He has to do this. He must do this. He has been repeating these few words to himself like a mantra on the way here; it would be unfair not to do this. Rude. Cold. Immature.
He knocks against the door with tight knuckles. Usually, he doesn’t warn anyone that he’s going to enter. He just lets himself in and no one ever complained. This time is different though, but when Magnus opens the door, he still doesn’t complain. For half a second his eyes are out of focus and Alec witnesses a train of emotion hitting him, one wagon after the other. First, surprise, then worry, satisfaction and unease all at once. He blinks, unintentionally showing off his lids covered in black glitter, and when his eyes open again, his expression is neutral and controlled.
“Hey,” Alec blurts out.
“Alec, I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
Magnus keeps a hand on the door, the other holding a heavy book that looks like it has seen centuries.
“Can I come in?” Is there a way to be less pushy? Alec forgets at times. Magnus seems taken aback, more by the fact that Alec really is here and wants to see him than by Alec’s question itself.
“Sure,” he says with a nod, turning his back on Alec to leave the book down on a table in his living room. Alec follows slowly and closes the door behind him; now it’s only the two of them.
“A drink?” Magnus offers, raising a large bottle full of a clear liquor he picked up from a cabinet. Vodka? Gin? Alec has no idea. It probably tastes horrible anyway.
“No, thanks.” Magnus takes the time to pour himself a generous glass.
“So,” he starts with this singing tone of his, “what can I do for you, Alexander?” He puts the bottle back down and moves his glass around to watch the alcohol dance. The muscles in his forearm gently flex under his golden skin and his bracelets – at least one of them must be cursed in some way – click against each other.
“I came to apologize,” Alec announces clearly. “About what happened at the wedding.”
Magnus tilts his head to the side but avoids Alec’s gaze.
“It was – It was a difficult situation. For you,” Alec feels the need to specify, as if to convey empathy, but it doesn’t sound as good as it did in his head.
“Did you come here to pity me, Alexander?” Magnus raises his head and firmly stares at Alec. Even with his strong stance and dark eyes, he doesn’t look mad, but almost disappointed. Alec inhales deeply.
“It was a difficult situation for me too,” Alec tries to correct himself. Magnus frowns and opens his mouth, as if he was about to start a whole speech, but doesn’t make a sound. Instead, he walks to one of his luxurious armchairs, sits down with a huff and crosses a leg over the other. Alec stays still, powerless.
“Is there something you may want to talk about?” Magnus eventually asks, not letting his eyes leave him.
A ball of nerves chokes Alec. “I made a mistake,” he admits quietly.
Magnus stays silent and sips on his drink, his gaze piercing through Alec. He’s doing that thing again, so Alec keeps talking.
“I panicked. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Magnus swallows.
“Alec, it’s common to have regrets right after a wedding. You’d be surprised by the amount of people I’ve seen in your situation,” he says, tilting his head back slightly. Alec knows he’s just pretending not to understand what he’s talking about. Is he protecting himself? “You’ll feel better soon, I’m sure.”
“I don’t like Lydia,” Alec lets out, and Magnus’ chin comes back down. “I thought I could play dumb but I can’t. I already can’t stand it anymore.”
Magnus takes another sip, longer than the previous one.
“Listen, Magnus,” Alec starts, and Magnus straightens up, his eyebrows raised. Alec can see sparks in his eyes from where he’s standing, even though Magnus hasn’t quite given up on pretending. “When you entered the room, I didn’t know what to do. I realized – I realized this wasn’t what I wanted. I thought about leaving Lydia right there and then. But people were watching and – I panicked.”
Magnus’ lips part slightly. Alec can’t stop staring at him and his heart skips a beat when Magnus speaks.
“Alexander,” he says, and Alec could never get tired of the way his name rolls on his tongue, “what is your point exactly?”
Alec can’t feel his hands anymore.
“I came here to say I wish I had done things differently.” His gaze drops to the floor but he can see Magnus rubbing his lip with his thumb from the corner of his eye. “I’m not expecting anything, I know it’s too late, but I figured you deserved to know.”
Magnus stands up from his chair, both hands cupping the wide glass he’s holding. He takes a long sip and closes his eyes as he swallows. Slowly, he makes his way closer to Alec, whose heart is just as good as gone by now. In his chest, something opens a bit wider with every step Magnus takes and it’s terrifying.
“Excuse me for insisting, but what would you have done differently? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
If it was anyone else, Alec would have asked if this was meant as an insult, as a way to call him spineless. But it’s Magnus, and he deserves it. It’s Magnus, standing right here, asking for him to actually put in words what he has been thinking about since the wedding day – a well-deserved torture.
There’s an eagerness to Magnus’ expression, a selfish neediness that surged from nowhere, toned down by the soft resignation he’s used to wear. It’s written in the slight wrinkles of his forehead, the almost invisible smile that lifts the left corner of his mouth and the bounce of his eyes that catch Alec’s one after the other. His right thumb runs against the glass he’s holding, making it sing faintly in the dead silence of the apartment. He probably doesn’t even notice. However, Magnus stops walking and stays at a fair distance; Alec could touch him if he wanted, but Magnus isn’t inviting him in his personal space. He keeps to himself, closed off.
The tear in Alec’s chest keeps growing wider and Alec recognizes the feeling he had at the end of the wedding, when he watched Magnus go. His stomach twists at the thought of it, his heart gallops. He can’t breathe.
“I –” Alec looks at Magnus’ lips. “I think,” and his eyes find Magnus’ collarbones, raising and falling quicker than they usually do, “I think I would have kissed you.” Blood hammers in his ears and Alec watches Magnus down half of his cocktail without breaking eye contact. His lips are red and glossy when they leave the rim of the glass.
“Oh, so you would have,” he finally says after a couple of seconds. The tension between them, tight as a string, keeps them apart. Magnus doesn’t move, and neither does Alec. “Sadly, you can’t marry the girl and kiss the boy, Alec. It’s not how it works.”
Alec blinks quickly. The back of his throat is dry. Magnus’ Adam’s apple bobs up and down and Alec stares. The tower has fallen, it feels like it crumbled ages ago. The cliff is far, far behind him and nothing really matters. Nothing really matters, it’s done, it’s all gone to the wind. There’s only him, the same man as the one standing in all of the mirrors, and Magnus in all his beauty. There’s no need to protect anything, Alec has already destroyed everything himself. There’s no need to run, no need to hide; of all places this is where Alec would always wish to go.
“I know.” Alec swallows, again. “I wouldn’t have married the girl.”
Magnus sighs, as if something had fallen in place in his head. “That’s… interesting,” he concedes with one his hand gestures. He’s visibly at loss for words, which must not happen often.
Alec must go. Is there anything else to be said? Anything else to do? He never had a plan anyway.
He doesn’t want to leave like this. Not like this. Not with half a confession floating in the air around them. But it’s too late. He knows it’s too late. It’s not now, the right thing should have been done weeks ago, at the altar. It’s not now, not anymore.
Or maybe it just doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s irrelevant anyway, Alec thinks as he steps forward. Maybe it’s just dust and rays of light playing, he vaguely ponders; his eyes are out of focus but he can still see Magnus’ uncertainty painted all over his sharp features. From here Alec can detail how Magnus’ lined eyes widen, how his pupils grow larger by the millisecond, how his tongue finds the back of his lips. Maybe he was meant to fail and hurt, so he could learn the taste of dirt; Alec’s hands find Magnus’ shirt, pull on the silk and Magnus’ eyes say yes, so Alec leans forwards and kisses him.
It’s messy and unpracticed, Alec pushes forward, presses his mouth against Magnus’ lips and makes sure to keep him here, even if it’s only for a second. Magnus kisses back with enthusiasm, his bottom lip slightly trembling. He tastes like a kind of alcohol Alec can’t name; it’s bitter and harsh but Alec doesn’t mind; on Magnus’ mouth, it could be cotton candy and he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. Magnus’ free hand slowly climbs up Alec’s back and rests in the curve there so Alec insists, craving, taking everything he can. Magnus calms him down and slightly pulls back; Alec tries to follow him and suffers like a damned man while, for a fraction of a second, Magnus’ lips are not on his own. Magnus tilts his head the other way and kisses him again, his mouth coming to play more eagerly with Alec’s lips, giving into their embrace and Alec exhales with satisfaction. His wrists could cramp from holding onto Magnus this hard but he doesn’t care and lets himself melt against Magnus’ chest. Through their shirt, he can feel this immortal heart beating with vigor and for a second, he delights in knowing that he has such an effect on him. His thoughts can’t wander for long though because Magnus holds him a bit tighter and the pressure of his body against Alec’s makes a wave of a certain kind of bliss rush to his head.
When they part, Magnus’ hand doesn’t leave Alec’s back right away.
“That was… Unexpected, to say the least,” Magnus comments, his voice rough. Alec has never heard him like this and he can already tell he’s going to do everything in his power to make this happen again. He smiles, smiles more, can’t stop smiling at Magnus.
This is what he has craved. This is it. The thrill, the color of it. The heat and genuine pleasure in it. He should have done it sooner, so much sooner.
There is a way, Alec is sure of it, to make things right. And if there isn’t, he will find it, for all the lands he built for himself, all the castles he thought of have no value compared to what Magnus has on the tip of his fingers, hidden in the corners of his mouth. He will chase it and lose all of his royal titles, turn his back on his mother if this is what loving a man means. He will make it his, make it theirs, and keep it alive, even if it costs him all the energy in the world, because there is no grave deep enough to hide what he feels, to hide who he is. His heart could very well be at the epicenter of all the quakes he’ll ever feel; as long as Magnus is around to hold him, Alec will be okay.