parabatights

Everyone you know is dead and you were the one who killed them. 

Poor baby.

*sideyes* sssssssmut? smut with feelingssssss, i guess

sorry if this isn’t what you wanted, nonny

*

There are so many ways to make love, but tonight it’s slowly, quietly, their bodies clothed in nothing but moonlight.

Magnus throws himself into the act, unapologetic in his desire. Their legs tangling in the sheets, their bodies’ merging almost as guileless as the rutting of animals in the grip of spring’s thaw. This thing between them is still new, still delicate as shrubs in a rainforest – he knows because Alec hasn’t asked for more than this, not yet. Magnus senses that it’s out of fear – fear that he’ll want too much, push too hard, and Magnus will leave him with no more than a note on his pillow. How, after the past months and all they’ve seen together, how he could think such a thing is a question Magnus rarely wishes to think about. But tonight of all nights even less than usual.

Alec pins him with all of his weight, his hand slippery around their cocks, a ballast against desertion. He touches and moves and memorizes the picture they make, as though, in a split-second moment, Magnus will simply disappear in a trail of blue mist. I love you, Alec doesn’t say, bites Magnus’s lip and soothes Magnus’s tongue with his own. His tone does not ask for, let alone demand, a reply. It begs to go unnoticed.

I love you. Don’t go, he doesn’t say.

Magnus closes his eyes, mouth bruised and heart full, allowing himself to reply.

 *

Love isn’t an unrenewable thing. Its well could not empty, its river won’t run dry. At least that fact remains for Magnus. After centuries of love and heartache and love, there’s no more fear of depletion. Or at least – there shouldn’t be.

Alec, whose gaze never fails to fillet Magnus open like a fish and pluck at his thinning, translucent bones – he might be a different story. It’s an assurance of immortality that Magnus will, in fact, find love again, even after outlasting Alec – a fact of life, of his life. But the thought alone makes his every pore and vein seize up. He’ll find at least only a subspecies of love. Knows it will be no more than a star to the sun of this kind of yearning, of this burning.

Some days, when he witnesses the sun splay across Alec’s skin, his sweat glistening and his face serene, Magnus wishes himself the respite of death.

 *

“Oh,” Alec gasps while he comes, just as he did the first time, and always does, like Magnus is an epiphany he keeps discovering over and over again. Magnus’s own climax is silent meanwhile, as it always is and always was.

Words, his father once told him when he was very young, are tiny fragments of the soul. Use them wisely. Use them wisely and know when to shut up. Over the whole course of your life, they should never comprise more than a fistful. At the moment when, legs spread and Alec between them, Magnus reaches orgasm, his soul, he knows, is too close to the surface. Too subject to exhalation. He murmurs Alec’s name, Alexander, honey dripping on his tongue, and he knows in his very bones that Alec breathes him in.

Afterward, as they lie in each others’ arms, skin cooling and heartbeat slowing, Magnus thinks of doing this, over and over, until Alec’s lungs are too full, too watery for any mote of oxygen.

He thinks it’s a delight. He thinks it is the cruellest punishment. He thinks if he’ll ever love again, let it be this kind, let it be this.

*

TEN MINUTES AGO

“So where do you want it?”

Alec looks up from where he’s seated, towards Peter, who is holding a brush and clad in the colors Alec wants. When he stays mute, Peter reassures him, “Don’t worry, it actually washes off unlike those things they use in kiddie parties. And it’s hypoallergenic.”

“Um – on my cheek, I guess,” to which Peter nods indulgently. He applies slowly and with a steady hand, firm strokes against Alec’s cheek. He hands out a mirror when he’s done. “You like?”

The rainbow is a shock of color on his usually pale face, and it’s not quite like that time when Magnus convinced him that some foundation and eyeliner wouldn’t be so bad, but it’s – well, it’s bright. It catches the afternoon light enough that it actually suits him. Seeing it makes his stomach clench in excitement – which is ridiculous, it’s just paint – but Alec tilts his head nonetheless, inspecting the bird-shaped rainbow for the second time.

“It’s not black, but yeah,” he manages. Peter chuckles, dipping his paintbrush in murky water, and Alec’s lips twitch of their own accord. “It’s perfect.”

ONE HOUR AGO

Fifth Avenue is loud.

To be fair, everything that isn’t silence is already loud for him, but today it’s full to the brim. With the subway line churning away and his enhanced-hearing rune catching everything, with the roads clogged to bursting with cars and smoke. Ten, thirty stories above, steel skeletons hold up scaffolding like gowns that billow out in the wind. The city thrums like it’s alive and maybe that’s just the chatter and the ocassional honk, but when Alec closes his eyes for a moment, he thinks he can almost feel a living pulse beneath his feet.

Not to mention the people.

People in dresses, people with glitter and makeup, people who are half-naked and dressed to the nines and strutting in their boots and sneakers and high heels. People who are chanting, who are singing, who are muttering about someone who plays Magneto (he sounds evil) and Laverne Cox (she sounds beautiful), or people in motorcycles tying ribbons (they say it’s some sort of remembrance) and flags around their side mirrors. A flurry of color and sound and Alec has never been so overwhelmed in his life. He has never seen this side of the mundane world and it’s – it’s bursting with life.

“You’re going to get mauled like that, honey, you should get off the road,” a passing voice tells him from his left, and Alec jolts. He opens his eyes to a blue sky and a bright skyline. He pulls his jacket close, hoping that he’ll be able to find what he’s looking for. And soon.

FIVE HOURS AGO

“You are not wearing that to a Pride parade, Alec. By the Angel,” Izzy says. It sounds like she’s gnashing her teeth together. Which is understandable – she’s tearing through what’s left of Alec’s closet like she’s been tasked with a mission – that mission being making sure Alec won’t look like he showed up at a funeral – and there he is, standing in his black shirt and black pants and black leather jacket.

Still. Alec wasn’t aware that human beings can actually growl like that. Must be the angel blood.

“Pride March,” he corrects her, for the lack of anything to say. He tugs at the hem of his shirt, sighing. “It started out as a political protest, so they’re still calling it a march until there’s nothing left to protest… or something like that.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Two minutes and a handful of flying shirts later, there’s a suspicious-sounding a-ha! from behind the cabinet doors. Alec resigns himself to his fate and expects some errant piece of clothing he borrowed from Jace and failed to return, but no, he finds himself staring at the shirt – the shirt – the pink shirt that started it all.

“Oh, no. Not that –”

Izzy’s smile, when she shoves it to him, is predatory. “Oh, yes.”

ONE WEEK AND THREE DAYS AGO

Sunday morning, and Alec feels more settled. He’s always more settled on Sundays. By then, he’s had a day to shake off the worst of the week, the demons and the patrols and the reports screaming for his attention, the latest convoluted scheme from whichever creature who aspires to be Valentine for the week.

He spends his morning drawing a bath. Nothing fancy, not like the lavish ones he’s been taking in Magnus’s apartment (with Magnus), bubbles and the works. It’s just water and some shower gel and he likes the routine, relaxing nature of waiting until the tub is full. There’s no evidence to unravel, no witnesses to interrogate, no Clave breathing down his neck every step of the way. Alec eases into the water, watching his worries dissolve into the warmth.

After he’s dried off, he stares at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t look any different than he did yesterday or the day before. Less angry, sure. But this is his face, his eyes, his nose, his lips, his ears. He still knows who he is. It’s the rest of the world that gets confused sometimes.

He hasn’t seen Magnus in days. This is probably the first weekend of the month he’s spent in the Institute.

Alec thinks of colors, of how they’re combined differently to ascertain similarities, an identity, and he breathes, turning off the light.

TWO WEEKS AGO

He comes back to the Institute from his usual weekend trips to Magnus’s loft in a foul enough mood that he hears Izzy and Clary unanimously nominate Jace to go find out what’s wrong. He ignores this. He’s used to them nosing about his business much like he meddles in theirs, and he doesn’t actually think they’ll follow through. But Jace, stubborn as he is, is already chasing him to the range, where he’s nocking an arrow between his fingers. Very well. He points to the target, extending his arm.

“Hey, buddy, what’s got you in a twi –”

Thud. Bullseye.

“That’s pretty impressive, Alec, but –”

Thud, thud, thud.

Jace puts his hands on his hips, now clearly reflecting Alec’s mood. Stupid bond.

“Alec.”

“Jace,” Alec mimics.

Something about the way he says it must make Jace realize something. He’s blinking one second, tilting his head the next, as though he’s been handed some kind of assault weapon and he’s figuring out the best way to use it. He says, “Okay. Should I ask?”

“No,” Alec exhales, looking around. “Sorry. It’s just not – sorry. About the mess.”

“It’s fine, I’ll help you clean up.” Making his way over, Jace rests a hand on his shoulder. It grounds Alec a fraction, and he claims that as a victory. “Hey, do me a favor, will you? Take a deep breath.”

Alec nods, visibly calming himself, and drops the quiver on the floor.

“Look, if this is about Mag –”

“It isn’t.” Liar. “I’m fine, Jace. It’ll be fine.”

Judging from his face alone, Jace doesn’t seem overly keen about the sentiment. Either way, he’s Alec’s parabatai – or as Simon likes to opine, his “bro, in every sense of the word” – so he has no choice but to nod back, clapping Alec on the back as if to say, I’m here, I’m here. “Whatever you say.”

TWO WEEKS AND FOUR HOURS AGO

“Hey, are you gay or what?” a mundane wearing a cap asks, stacking canned things into his cart.

Alec blinks at him, stunned. He thinks he simply misheard it, or the person is talking to someone else, but then the kid – because he can’t be much older than Max – gestures to him and Magnus, who has his hand clasped on Alec’s sleeve while he’s scanning over the cereal aisle with immovable concentration. “Excuse me?”

“You see anyone else in a pink shirt yelling FABULOUS around here?” the kid snickers. “I mean sure, guess it’s cool if you are, but you don’t need to, like, advertise it.”

He jerks away like he’s been burnt, dislodging Magnus’s hand in the process. He hasn’t returned the shirt in a while because it’s surprisingly comfortable, and he didn’t even notice that he’s wearing it today, too busy to think up something to cook for Magnus –

Perhaps his rage, his embarrassment, is showing on his face. Alec feels his fist clench, and he looks down to see Magnus’s hand – not touching him now, but hovering, and he did that, he did that – and Magnus staring at him seriously.

The kid leers and walks, and Alec can’t breathe.

In a flash, he’s out of the supermarket, panic a vice in his throat, a threat to his balance. He feels numb, but mostly he’s just angry, at the kid, at himself, at nothing and he’s aware of Magnus leaving their own cart inside the store, Magnus hot on his heels –

Magnus – Magnus is beside him. (Again, not quite touching.) They’ve somehow made it to the sidewalks of Lafayette Avenue, the one with the colorful box houses and the steep road, and the stone that rests in Alec’s gut is heavier with every step.

“Sorry,” Alec says, quietly. “I didn’t mean to –“

“Alec, hey.” Magnus presses closer (still not touching), slowing down, an entreaty for Alec to do the same. “I understand. Believe me when I say it’s fine.” A second passes. Unclenching his hands, he dares to look over – his eyes are trained on Alec’s, yet he looks distant, like he’s been transported someplace else. “Well, it goes without saying that the guy was an extraordinary asshole who doesn’t have an interesting life, but – it’s taking society a while, you know?”

No. No, Alec doesn’t really know. But it’s the miles of distance condensed into the mere inches between their disjointed bodies he’s really thinking of, how he and Magnus, at this moment, might as well be on different planes of existence. He swallows. “Alec,” Magnus says again. They’re already standing in front of Magnus’s doorstep. “Did you even hear what I say? I said it’s o –”

“If I can kiss you in front of the entire Institute, I can hold your hand in the grocery store, damn it.”

Magnus’s smile is wan, but finally, finally, he takes Alec’s hand in his. “Darling. These things – they take time.”

THREE WEEKS AGO

It’s an accident.

Alec usually tries to distract himself by straightening up Magnus’s apartment. The same old thing, every time – he just throws out some old catalogs, sweeps the floors, cleans the toilet, dusts the surfaces. He knows if Magnus sees him, he’ll insist to do everything with a flick of his finger, but Alec needs to keep himself focused and busy, and the monotony of the task helps. The Institute always feels like a buzzing hive of action; while it’s nice to have a space of his own, weekends without Magnus are kind of… bare.

Case in point: he spends weekends at Magnus’s, but Magnus himself has portaled to New Jersey today. Some kind of artifact appraisal for a client. He’ll be back in two hours, and Alec’s window of time to finish is small.

The apartment isn’t that big, but it feels that way, with the ancient things Magnus can’t quite bring himself to get rid of. There are bookshelves that have been threatening to collapse under their weight, a few broken easy chairs whose footrests won’t pop open any more, a quilt (something Alec secretly loves because it’s so soft) hanging over the back of the couch. He can never tell if it’s the sentiment in them that stops Magnus, or if it’s a by-product of his immortality, that he finds it hard to let go of things.

He’s almost done with the living room when he sees them arranged on Magnus’s desk.

There are flags. Done in stripes, they’re of different color combinations, some complementary and some downright clashing. Black and white and purple and gray, then pink and green and blue. While Alec’s pretty sure they’re not some countries’ flags, nor are they the ones used for mundane team sports, he doesn’t know what their exact purpose is, either. There are pins that has PRIDE printed on them, some colorful armbands. He catches a glimpse of a printout, an invitation by NYC Pride to The March three weeks from now, where Magnus Bane will be a Marshall, and under that a request to assemble at Abingdon Square, 12 in the afternoon –

Oh.

He wasn’t fully aware of Magnus’s participation in the mundane world, not exactly; it’s a topic of conversation that need not be discussed, because Alec sees it in action. A clink resounds abruptly as the door opens, making him jump, and he files that thought away, a subject for later rumination, smiling up at Magnus and his armful of takeout in the doorway.

“Hey.”

TWO MONTHS AND TWO DAYS AGO

Alec stretches out on top of the sheets as the sun peeks over the horizon, blissfully relaxed. It’s the same feeling he gets from a really good sparring session, but more liquid, more at ease. Which is fair, since sex is basically just another sort of exercise. One of the best, to hear Magnus tell it, and Magnus would know, wouldn’t he?

Snuggling into the pillow, Alec tries to rein in his blush. They’ve been doing this for quite some time, but it has never lost its novelty, and he idly wonders if it ever will. Magnus is dead asleep next to him, planted into Alec’s chest and drooling into his pectoral. Usually his facial hair is impeccable, but Alec can make out just a hint of shadow along his jaw where it’s growing back in. He flushes again, the pleasant burn on the inside of his thighs suddenly making sense.

Nude looks good on him, Alec thinks distantly, with the tiny portion of his mind that isn’t occupied going hrnnng. His dick aches a little just from looking, heavy against the body-warmed sheets.

As much as he’d like to stare, he has to pee, however. He eases himself out from under Magnus, who rolls over into the warm spot he left behind, catlike, and slept on. Alec finds a pair of stretchy pants and pulls them on, then casts around for a shirt, grabbing the pink one lying in a sad lump by the door. Must be one of Magnus’s famous statement shirts, he thinks, like the one with Blink if you want me written on it. He goes and relieves, brushes his teeth, decides that while curling up with Magnus for another few (decades) minutes would be nice, his stomach knows breakfast would be even nicer.

Magnus staggers out when Alec’s already nudging grilled cheese around on a griddle. He’s in last night’s boxers, and what must be one of Alec’s old sweaters. Alec watches in amusement as he fumbles his way for coffee. Eventually Magnus retreats to the kitchen bar, sliding onto a stool and yawning.

Placing their food on mismatched plates, he catches Magnus sweeping him head-to-toe with a dark, lazy gaze. He ducks his head, flushing again. Dammit. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” Magnus announces airily, sipping his coffee with a slow grin, and Alec barely hears, You look good in my clothes, that’s all over a sharp rush of arousal.

ONE MONTH, TWO DAYS, AND EIGHT HOURS AGO

“Darling, easy,” Magnus says, as Alec holds his waist firmly with one hand and tries to pull off his shirt with the other. “Be careful, I like this shirt.”

“It’s pink,” Alec pants out, but he doesn’t even care. He’s getting a hand under Magnus’s frankly magnificent ass as Magnus does some graceful shimmying.

“You got a problem with pink, soldier?” Magnus raises an eyebrow. “Heavens above, you smell good,” he adds, burying his face in Alec’s throat, biting kisses across his collarbones. “Hmm, baby –”

Alec shudders. Baby.

“Oh, you like that?” he asks. “Baby?”

Alec finally has his hand under Magnus’s shirt so he lifts, until he can pull it off over his head and throw it aside; it hits a wall and lands on the floor with a soft flump. Alec, carrying Magnus to bed so he can drop him there and get his uncomfortably tight pants off, doesn’t even hear it fall, too busy proving to Magnus that he doesn’t like that particular pet name. At all.

NOW

It doesn’t take too long to find him after that – the round sunglasses resting on spiky hair and the big flag with the familiar pink, purple and blue he’s holding are kind of hard to miss. Magnus is standing on some kind of wobbly platform. Every few seconds a new text will flash on a black screen beside him: “No homo, full bi”, or “NOT confused”, or “Bi the way”, and there’s the unforgettable “God said Adam AND Eve, so I did them both.”

Yes, that’s definitely Magnus, alright.

He hears Peter say, “Wait, isn’t that Magnus?” before he takes off.

Alec catches up to a float where a guy in rainbow wings is speaking from a megaphone, and Alec steels himself, taps Magnus on the shoulder.

As expected, his face crumples into surprise, then relief, then surprise, and Alec can’t do anything but smile at him like a fool. “Alexander? What are you – how did you – I haven’t seen you –”

“Hey.”

Magnus grins, and it’s blinding. “I can’t believe you’re here. You are actually, physically here…” He glances at Alec’s shirt, bewildered. “I see someone’s had some fun.”

“You can say that. I – I saw the flyer, in your apartment, and thought –” Turning his head to the side, he can see Magnus’s eyes hover around the point on his cheek. “My colors,” he supplies, somewhat unnecessarily. Magnus falls quiet, even when he takes a step forward.

“Alexander,” he sighs, his tone wondering. His expression goes wistful, and the abject adoration in it is a fork poking along Alec’s lungs. It’s kind of hard to breathe when Magnus is looking at him like that.

Before he can think twice, he grabs Magnus’s hand, bringing it to cup the cheek that isn’t painted. He counts it as a success when neither of them tense nor pull away, Magnus’s thumb stroking lightly, a small, almost intangible spark of blue caressing the skin. It’s unintentional, but Alec shivers all the same. “Tell me if I’m reaching, darling, but you – you look really happy.”

“I am. Thank you,” Alec blurts out. “For understanding. You didn’t have to be so patient with me. I thought a lot about it and… maybe it’s not something I can unlearn overnight, but I can. I can try. And shut up – I know it shouldn’t be for you.” Magnus laughs, shaking his head. “It’s for me, Magnus. I have a lot to learn. Might as well start with this.”

“The world is big, Alexander. I’m sure you’ll be able to see it on your own. In your own time.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not so bad, seeing it with you.”

There’s a shift in Magnus’s face, the tiniest of movements, and suddenly Alec can see it all: the purple bruise, that tender thing that lurks behind velvet suits and careless flirting. Like breaking the surface of an iced-over lake, Alec has a moment – one cool clear, dizzying breath – to wonder what he did to deserve this, to deserve what he already knows Magnus will say next.

“I love you.”

It’s far from the first time he’s said it, but it still leaves Alec with the sensation of plunging from a great height. He’s beginning to think he may never stop falling, that for the rest of his life no matter where he is or what he’s doing, some part of him is going to be dizzy, forever airborne, clinging to Magnus Bane with every ounce of strength he possesses. “I know,” he says around the lump in his throat, which is the only reply he’s managed so far.

Magnus has never seemed to mind. Right now, his eyes are telling – they are warm and fond. Alec wants to squeeze his hand and kiss him senseless, and he is tired of denying himself this, tired of depriving himself the right to tell everyone. Because he wants to. Tell the world about Magnus, that is.

So he does just that, grabbing and dipping him bodily in the middle of crowded Fifth Avenue, kissing him in this foreign place, in this newfound territory. Magnus makes a squeaked noise, and there’s some hooting, some clapping. Alec doesn’t mind.

Weird, how this feels like coming home.

*