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Pain is all he’s ever known.
It’s hard to remember a time when he didn’t hurt, although he realizes that such moments must have existed, at some point.
The first time he picked up a knife and pressed it down on pale, unblemished skin, Alec told himself he was just curious, that he just wanted to know what it felt like, soft flesh giving way to sharp metal, wetness between his fingers, trailing down his arm, that it wasn’t like he was- it didn’t mean that he- it didn’t mean anything.
Later, with tiny scars not acquired in combat littered over various parts of his body, the words didn’t sound as true, anymore. And the visible proof, of feelings he couldn’t explain or understand, of this inability to deal, of this weakness, it made him paranoid, because someone would surely see—soon, someone would figure it out, and then, and then-
He stopped with the knives. With the tiny agony runes drawn at his ankles, at the back of his knees, just below his hipbone. Kept his nails short to avoid the temptation of digging in deep and scratching his skin raw. But he still needed an outlet, something to distract him: somewhere he could channel this anxious fire that kept raging and hissing inside, no matter what he did.
The older he got, the more his Shadowhunter training turned physical, and that became his salvation. No one paid any attention to him spending all of his free time in the training room. When his knuckles split and smeared blood on the punching bag, it was never questioned—he was doing what was expected of him, he was committed, dedicated to his job.
Pain became mingled with a sense of satisfaction. It didn’t mean failure, or weakness, not anymore; it meant achievement, working hard: his parents pleased, his siblings safe, a job well done. It meant not having to think anymore. Finally having some peace of mind.
He didn’t realize until later that no one cared to look closely enough to discover his true intentions, and by then, it had already become a pattern, something to fall back on when everything became too much: a way he could silence the voices, however temporarily, without having to listen to what they were saying. The fire still crackled beneath the surface, but at least it wasn’t scorching him from the inside out. For a while, he could breathe. For a short period of time, he almost felt like there wasn’t something seriously wrong with him.
But the reprieve never lasted for long.
Some part of him recognized that what he was doing wasn’t healthy—that it wouldn’t work forever, that he was only postponing the inevitable. But it had become a habit. When his skin started to prickle, rows of tiny teeth gnawing to reach and breach the surface, Alec didn’t think, his feet automatically carrying him to the training area and the promise of pain and release. There was safety in the routine.
Then Magnus came along, with his bottomless patience, gentle prodding, and promise you’ll tell me if things ever get that bad, and for the first time in his life, Alec had someone who wasn’t only willing to listen, but to whom he wasn’t Alec—the protector, or Alec—the dutiful soldier, or Alec—the disappointment, but only Alec—Alexander, and that…
It was confusing, and terrifying. Confusing, because he couldn’t understand that anyone would actually care enough, would pay close enough attention to him, to realize just how much he was struggling. Terrifying, because with his defenses stripped bare by Magnus’s genuine concern, he couldn’t hide anymore, couldn’t ignore the problem.
Alec had been deaf to his emotions for so long, that allowing himself to feel—and not only the bad things, but all the new and good and tingly things that Magnus made him feel—it was just… overwhelming.
He can’t handle it. He can’t handle it at all.
“It’s bad,” he chokes out when the door to the loft opens, revealing Magnus, makeup-free and clad in nothing but a deep blue silk robe.
The warlock blinks a few times, clearly freshly woken up, eyes taking Alec in before turning impossibly sad.
"Oh, Alexander..."
There is no trace of disappointment, pity, or annoyance in his expression, only a sorrowful kind of understanding.
He steps aside, beckons Alec to come in, and Alec moves right into his arms without hesitation. He belatedly realizes he’s trembling.
They stand there in the vestibule, Magnus making soft, reassuring noises into his hair, one hand cradling his neck and the other moving in soothing circles over his back, and Alec latching onto him like his life depends on it, because it kind of does.
It’s not okay. Not even close. No matter how desperately Alec wishes it did, Magnus’s patience, his kindness and compassion and support, doesn’t make years of conditioned behavior suddenly go away.
But there are other voices now, other touches—that sooth without simultaneously causing pain. There's a gentle blue to balance the violent fire.
He isn’t alone anymore.
At least it’s a start.