Chapter Text
Staff Recommends: The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend by Katarina Bivald
One sentence summary: A person is nothing without a community and a community is nothing without a bookstore.
Magnus’ morning walk to work always made him feel like Belle at the beginning of Beauty and the Beast, book tucked under his arm, wondering if this was really all there was. He listened to people call to each other, greetings and exclamations, like they didn’t see each other every day.
At just past eight in the morning on a Sunday in summer, it wasn’t busy—there weren’t quite enough people to ever really constitute “busy”—but Magnus did spot a few of his neighbours on his way into work. Most of Magnus’ neighbours were older than him, most people either being too young to leave or too settled to imagine living anywhere else. Magnus was neither, but it didn’t seem like circumstance was going to let him leave any time soon.
It wasn’t to say that the town was boring, but Magnus was certain that in all the years he’d lived in it, the only thing about it that sometimes changed was the weather—which was as temperamental as its occupants.
That morning, the sun was warm, but the breeze was cool and Magnus silently chastised himself for leaving his sweater hanging over the back of the couch. The bell over the store’s door chimed as he opened it. He walked through and up the two steps, venturing deeper into the books. They rose from the floor like trees, a forgotten forest that threatened to swallow him.
Ragnor was already there, cramming books into the children’s section with the kind of aggression that made Magnus wonder what Each Peach Pear Plum had done to hurt him. He looked up as Magnus walked in.
“Almost late,” he said with soft admonishment.
“Alright, asshole,” Magnus huffed. “I’m your boss, you know?”
“I’ve cleaned up your vomit too many times to take anything you say seriously.” Ragnor said, slamming Goodnight Moon with his fist. Magnus briefly considered firing him, but that would mean putting the books away himself.
Magnus sighed, sliding the book that he’d nicked the night before back onto the shelf. He covered the few steps between Ragnor and himself, coming to lean on the edge of the shelf that Ragnor was abusing.
“I don’t think pushing it is going to make it fit.”
“Watch me.”
Magnus snorted, doing just that. Eventually the book squeaked into place—though Magnus imagined it would be impossible to get back out if the need arose—and Ragnor gave Magnus a look of savage victory. This was the kind of life that Ragnor enjoyed. Peace to read, the repetitive task of shelving and re-shelving. Magnus felt too complacent, too out of the loop of the rest of the world. He wanted to be in the middle of the action, breathing in new air, disappearing into a crowd that didn’t know his name.
“What are you thinking about?” Ragnor asked, getting to his feet and taking the small stack he was putting away with him. He shifted the books in his arms and quirked a brow at Magnus. “You seem like you’re a million miles away.”
“I’m not,” Magnus said, “and that’s part of the problem—“
“Not this again.”
“What?”
“Magnus, if you want to leave,” Ragnor fixed him with an strong stare. “You could go. Sell the house, sell the store, and just leave. Phones exist, planes exist, you can come back or call anytime—“
“I can’t leave the store.”
“You won’t leave the store,” Ragnor corrected. Magnus hummed. He’d known Ragnor for his entire life—maybe shy a month or two when Magnus was in the womb and Ragnor was already shitting in diapers—and they’d rehashed this argument so many times Magnus wondered if they were rehearsing to perform it for someone. “You’ve heard everything I have to say on the matter.”
“And you understand my reasoning—“
“I understand your excuses, yes.”
“Ragnor.”
“Magnus.”
Magnus shook his head, running his fingers through his hair once. “I’m not ready to move on.”
“It’s been years.”
“Maybe I’ll never be ready to move on.”
This time it was Ragnor who shook his head, putting the last book away. “I’m going next door to get coffee before I fall asleep standing up—“
“You know that going to bed before the sunrise is an option?”
“Like you’re one to advertise healthy living.”
“I’m nocturnal.”
“Maybe so am I.”
“You work in a bookstore only open in the daytime.”
“You own a bookstore only open in the daytime.”
“Touché.”
Ragnor rolled his eyes and slipped past Magnus, the bell cheerfully announcing his departure.
It certainly didn’t feel like daytime in the bookstore. That might’ve been why Magnus liked it so much. He felt safe and protected, like this was just a room full of portals to take him to other places. The only notion that time went on in his strange haven was the clock that rested above the front counter, though it never audibly ticked. Ragnor had insisted that the silence was delicate and essential. Magnus wondered if Ragnor felt his breathing was a disturbance and could imagine them being the subject of a particularly boring episode of Criminal Minds, where Ragnor would kill Magnus to preserve that divine silence.
The front of the store had a big window with several books in it—usually the ones that Ragnor and Magnus were the fondest of—and a pair of cushy armchairs. A third armchair (in considerably worse condition) was behind the desk where customers could pay. These served as a kind of waiting room, reception-like area. The store branched out from this small front. Two steps up and then there was nothing but shelves.
Magnus’ mother had built it to last. Magnus thought that there had to be some kind of irony to it, some kind of joke in the notion that she’d imagined the store existing for a long time. But Magnus couldn’t deny the beauty of the expanse of dark wood that needed daily dusting. The shelves lined a winding set of corridors that fit together like Tetris pieces. Somehow perfectly arranged for browsing and finding what you were looking for, whether or not you knew what that was going in.
This was the closest Magnus got to his mother anymore. Maybe the closest he’d ever gotten to her. Understanding her love of the bookstore and her intentions to create something that was as much art as it was basic architecture.
Ragnor was right in many ways. Being in the store made it easy for Magnus to pretend that nothing had changed. It was still middle school, Magnus was doing his homework, thrown in one of the chairs. His legs were propped up, draped over Ragnor’s lap as Ragnor ignored his homework in favour of trying to learn Tolkien’s elvish. Catarina was sprawled on the carpet. His mother was humming the back room. Magnus could close his eyes and tip his head back, the feeling of sunlight dripping down onto his cheekbones.
But when he opened his eyes, he was alone. Catarina was down the street, in the clinic where she was a doctor. Ragnor was still getting coffee. His mother hadn’t been here in years.
So Magnus stood, feeling young and old at the same time in all the worst ways. He picked a book off the shelves. He flipped the sign on the front of the store to Open. He walked behind the counter and sat in the third armchair. He opened the book.
He waited.
Shadowhunters Filming Delayed
Rumors are flying as it has been announced that the new season of Shadowhunters will not begin filming until this fall. It was originally scheduled to begin shooting in April, with the first half of the season premiering in October. However, it was announced this would not be the plan after tragedy struck for the Lightwood siblings.
Many are wondering if the Lightwoods will continue to be on the show or if the rumors are true and this coming season will be their last. So far there has been no official comment made from the Lightwoods or any of the Shadowhunters cast, though an insider…
Alec’s forehead was sticky with sweat. Part of it was the heat, part of it was the labour, and part of it was his complete abandonment of any kind of exercise over the past few months. He knew that he’d lost a lot of weight, but catching a glimpse of his reflection in the truck window still made him wince. He’d always been rather tall and willowy, a trait he shared with his sister, Isabelle. But he’d reached the point of looking almost emaciated.
“I thought you weren’t the materialistic sibling,” Jace said bitterly, looking at the boxes they still hadn’t brought in. Alec tore his eyes away from his reflection to roll them at his brother.
“I’m not.”
Jace snorted, crouching down to pick up another box. Alec had been frozen in place for longer than necessary, but Jace didn’t comment on it.
Alec picked up a box, grunting under the weight of whatever Isabelle had packed as “Mementos.” He was only going to be staying for the summer, but Isabelle didn’t seem to think that. With the way she was acting, it was like Alec was joining the army. She’d sobbed in the airport and everything, like he wasn’t a plane ride—they could easily afford—away.
He hadn’t wanted to confess his relief to his sister. Relief they weren’t filming. Relief he was getting out of LA. Jace, with his blonde hair and golden eyes, was probably the more recognizable of the two of them, but Alec was still stopped and followed almost everywhere he went. A fact which had gone from flattering to suffocating in the recent months. So here he was, off the grid and living in a small town that hopefully didn’t watch a lot of TV.
The house he was renting was small, tiny compared to Alec’s sprawling LA apartment, but Alec didn’t want a lot. He just wanted a place to sleep and relax. He had books. He could walk to the grocery store in slippers and not have it plastered all over TMZ. He was excited.
Most of the house was living room with a small kitchen, a bathroom, and two bedrooms encircling it. There was a large backyard and a car port. Alec felt like a housewife from the fifties, with the beige carpet and the retro fridge. He wondered what Isabelle would say if he came home with an accent.
He was staring at a sad tree in the backyard—all wilted and dying like it had just given up on staying upright—when Jace broke the silence again.
“That’s the last box.”
He’d set it on top of a few others. Together they’d managed to build a small settlement out of boxes.
Clothes.
Books.
Mementos. (Alec still wasn’t sure what that was.)
Photos. (Difference between this and mementos? Don’t ask Alec.)
More Clothes.
Kitchen Stuff.
Ugly Sweaters. (Apparently don’t count as clothes.)
Bathroom Stuff.
Things to put on walls. (Not photos, things.)
Sheets.
Pillows.
Extra Blankets.
Alec didn’t even realize he owned this many things. He could’ve sworn they’d left most of it in LA. Was moving the kind of activity that made people throw away everything they owned? Were people actually able to move and unpack and convince themselves they still needed it all? Alec was tempted to just make furniture out of the boxes and see if he’d ever actually need any of it.
“I didn’t know I owned so much shit,” Alec said softly. It was the kind of thing he would’ve said without thinking before, but now he realized it had lingered in his head too long to sound natural. It sounded like one of his lines, dead on arrival.
Jace still laughed, though it was stillborn as well. “Dude, you have nothing on Isabelle.”
“I know.”
Neither of them said anything about Max.
“When is your flight?”
“In about,” Jace glanced at his watch, “five hours. I’ll probably drive the hour and a half back to the airport and then eat something bad for me after I get through security.” Jace fired them off quickly and Alec nodded.
He knew that in reality Jace would probably sit somewhere for almost too long, thinking about everything and nothing, forget to eat, and board the plane just before it took off, but pretence served them well.
“Wait,” Jace said quickly, “smile.” He brought out his phone and snapped a picture of Alec, surrounded by boxes and probably looking like his own corpse. “Isabelle made me promise.”
Jace and Alec made themselves comfortable on “Mementos” and “Ugly Sweaters” respectively, despite the couch being right there. Their sister would have loved this. Sitting on boxes, feeling normal, feeling sibling-ish. Maybe with her the silence wouldn’t have felt so long.
Alec and Jace had shared trailers for years. Even when they were given separate ones, they would often end up lumped together, talking about anything and everything to fill the time. Isabelle would flit in and out when she wasn’t on some date with a boyband member or a teen heartthrob. But now, there didn’t seem to be anything to talk about. It had taken years, but it seemed that they’d finally run out of topics.
Jace shifted and leaned over, rummaging through the backpack that had sat in Alec’s lap in the cab of the truck. He pulled out Alec’s phone, which was essentially just a brick because he hadn’t charged it in too long.
“Charge it.”
“I will—“
“Listen,” Jace sighed, “you can live in the middle of nowhere and get some breathing room. You can drop the show—“
“I never said—“
Jace held up a hand. “You can drop the show. You can never set foot in LA again, for all I care. But please, fucking phone me.”
Alec looked down at his feet.
“I miss you.”
I miss me too, Alec thought miserably. He wasn’t sure if Jace and Isabelle were stronger than he was or if maybe he’d just been closer to falling apart than he realized, but in that moment he felt small. He felt like the younger of the two of them. Usually it was his job to take care of Jace.
“I love you,” Alec said softly. He didn’t look at his brother, but he could feel Jace’s eyes watching him. Following the sharp edge of his cheekbones and the collarbones that stabbed up through his sweater.
“I love you too,” Jace replied. “Come back whenever you’re ready.”
Alec nodded stiffly and stood up to let his brother out of the house. When they got to the door, he caught Jace’s arm and pulled him into a hug.
He remembered hugging Jace on red carpets, on camera, in cars, in trailers. He remembered singing—read: screaming—along to music in the car. He remembered pancakes in the middle of the night and drinks in the middle of the day. Jace that glowed. Jace that would have eaten an entire box of doughnuts the day after they wrapped on a season.
But he pulled back and the only thing left was Half-Jace. Jace who was tired and ill-looking. Less so than Alec, but still dimmer in almost every way. Jace who hadn’t sung along to a single song on the drive there. Jace who wouldn’t even listen to the radio on the way back.
Alec sat down again on Ugly Sweaters, alone this time. He stared at the floor between his feet.
He wasn’t sure why, but he waited. Waited to feel full again, to feel whole again. He waited for someone to call cut. He waited for the scene to end and for things to go back to the way that they should’ve been. He waited to wake up.
He waited.