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Miller knew he had magic from a very young age.
He didn’t know how to describe it, and that was what pulled him to his love of literature. He was searching, always searching for the best words to describe what magic felt like. Perhaps it was like an extra layer of skin resting above his own, warm and comforting. Like the static of the television had been boiled down into a liquid and injected into his veins. Maybe it was that feeling you got in the middle of the night that someone was there for you, that warm bubble of joy in your chest when you knew you weren’t left to be alone.
It was impossible, and he had it coursing through his body.
Miller had never been the best with magic. By that he didn’t mean that he wasn’t skilled at controlling it, because he was. Incredibly skilled. He meant it in the way that at six years old he was suspended because he was stealing people’s toys from across the room when they wouldn’t share. He was a powerful magician, he just used it in the worst way.
When he was a teenager he coped with the fact that he had magic (which was impossible, always impossible) by stealing more often, real things, from stores. Mostly because fuck capitalism, but also because he was the only one with magic in his family and they didn’t understand him. Acting out was necessary.
He’d wave his hand, turning lighters invisible before sliding them into his pockets. He’d twist and tug at his magic, taking things from shelves of aisles he wasn’t even in. Miller would shrink on himself and get the blaring alarms to stop barking as he walked out between the detectors without getting caught.
(He got caught eventually. His dad was a police officer, after all.)
When his mom died, Miller kept searching for those words to describe his magic. It was like a raging ocean, waves crashing against his chest every time he tried to breathe. Fire dancing in his fingertips, begging to be set free.
And then nothing.
Some nights, there was just nothing.
And then there was Monty Green, stealing his magic with his stupid balancing energy. Or maybe Miller was shoving it at Monty without knowing, trying to get rid of the feelings that were eating him alive. Or maybe it was both.
Monty was another thing Miller couldn’t find the words to describe. Miller fought against his magic again and again, willing himself not to send how he felt about Monty in Monty’s direction, but sometimes he lost. And sometimes he won, like when Monty cupped Miller’s cheeks and kissed him firmly asking, “Can you feel it?”
Miller liked to think he was good with words. But magic and Monty Green were two things that proved him wrong.
--
Miller’s magic had been acting up for a few days. He’d call for a book, holding up his hand to catch it, and it would move so quickly across the room that it would smack him in the face. When Monty tripped and fell, giving himself a bruise on his arm that was four shades of purple, Miller healed him so well that a scar Monty had had on his chin since he was a child had vanished too. It was ebbing and flowing through him sporadically, sometimes so strong he could taste it on his tongue, sometimes so weak that Miller spent hours searching for even a drop of it.
He should’ve known the cold was coming.
“I fucking hate being sick,” Miller said. There weren’t words for how much he hated being sick, either. Monty was standing in Miller’s doorway, a wary and sad expression on his face as he stood there. “I’m serious, Monty,” Miller grumbled. “Just go home. I’ll text you when I’m feeling better.”
“Nate…” Monty trailed off sadly. “I can’t leave you here.”
“Yes you can. And you’re going to want to.”
Monty sighed, waving his hand and stepping into Miller’s room. Miller’s magic was currently pushing out of him, making him feel wide and large and as though he had a tangible bubble around him. When Monty entered the room that bubble popped and Miller groaned, his chest aching with a pain that wasn’t necessarily there.
“Raven’s told me all about magical colds,” Monty said as he lowered himself on the edge of Miller’s bed. “It’ll be fine.” He reached up, cupping Miller’s cheek, and Miller leaned into his touch. Part of him was desperate for Monty to stay, to take care of him. Another part of him knew that magical colds were the worst and he never, in a million years, wanted Monty to see him with one. “How’re you feeling now?” Monty asked.
“Like I’m being strangled,” Miller rasped. Monty looked concerned, and Miller let out a huff of air. “Not literally.”
“Don’t speak in hypotheticals to me, Nathan.”
Miller smiled weakly. His magic did feel tight though. After Monty stepped into his space and it had popped, unwinding in the air, it quickly changed course and wrapped around Miller without hesitation. It was like a safety blanket that Miller didn’t want to wear, and it made his chest feel achy.
“Monty, I’m fine,” Miller tried again. “My chest hurts, and my nose is stuffy, but I’m fine.”
“Raven said once she sneezed so hard her eyebrows flew off,” Monty said.
Miller’s smile grew. “I’d pay to see that,” he said.
“I wouldn’t. Raven has nice eyebrows.” Monty dropped his hand and Miller sunk back into his pillows. “So do you. I don’t want you to be eyebrow-less.” Miller rolled his eyes fondly and Monty huffed, twisting so his hips were facing Miller straight on. “My mind’s been made up,” Monty said. “I’m taking care of you.”
Miller sighed, but his magic unraveled just a little bit around him. His magic liked having Monty around, too.
--
Miller woke up shivering.
He was wrapped in multiple different blankets, Monty’s doing, and he was still shivering. When he blinked into his dark rooms, using his lethargic and congested magic to get the lights on after three tries, it was easy to figure out why. Because it was snowing. In his room.
Miller didn’t need his hands to control magic, just thinking about it would usually do the trick, but using his hands did help him focus. So he took a deep breath, coughed, and curled his hand into a fist trying to wipe the snow from the room. In true magical cold fashion, it started snowing harder.
With a groan Miller tried to bury himself into his pillows, basically tearing up in frustration and exhaustion when he realized his pillows were soaking wet from the weather. Magical colds took a lot out of him.
“Nate?” Monty called from the living room. Miller wanted to melt into his blankets so he didn’t have to face his boyfriend. When the door creaked open and Miller forced himself to open his eyes, he found Monty with his jaw hanging open. “It’s snowing,” he said.
“T-thanks for pointing that out,” Miller grit through his teeth, still shivering. “I hadn’t no-noticed.”
A little laugh burst out of Monty warm enough that Miller could feel it. (Monty swore that he didn’t have magic, but Miller swore that he did. Even if it was just a little. He could feel it.) It was like someone had hit him in the face with a snowball made of heat and it spread down his chest, across his arms, coating him in warmth.
“This is ridiculous,” Monty said as he strode into the room.
“Magic is ridiculous,” Miller murmured.
“My socks are going to be soaking wet,” Monty carried on. He reached out to touch Miller’s forehead and Miller sighed. Yeah, he was pretty sure Monty had magic. “You’re freezing,” Monty said.
Monty’s (hypothetical) magic was so much easier to describe than Miller’s own personal magic. Monty’s was bright and yellow, like the sunshine of a summer afternoon filtering through the thick leaves of the trees. It was warm like a campfire on the beach in the middle of August where people slung their arms over one another’s shoulders and sat in a circle, crying about the beauty of friendship. Monty’s magic reminded Miller of home. Comfortable and familiar.
“It’ll stop,” Miller said as he sniffled. Whatever it was that Monty was giving him, whether it truly was magic or just a feeling, Miller clung to it. While his own magic was going in and out, both whispering and shouting at the same time, Monty’s was consistent. Miller could cling to it. Monty’s hand moved from Miller’s forehead to Miller’s cheek. “I can already feel it easing up,” Miller murmured, letting his eyes fall shut.
“Let’s move you to the couch,” Monty said softly. “It’s cold in here.”
It took a while, pulling layer after layer of blanket off of Miller. His magic was being clingy and forcing the blankets against him as though his magic was also begging him to get better. And Miller felt drained of energy, so moving to the couch using Monty as a crutch also took a lot of effort. But once he was nestled on the couch in a room where it was no longer snowing (thank God it didn’t follow him or Miller was going to honestly deflate into nothingness), his magic pressing down on him like another blanket, Miller felt incrementally better.
Monty sat on the floor with his back against the couch, close enough that Miller could reach out his fingers and brush them against Monty’s neck.
“Good thing you learned how to hold back your magic,” Monty said when Miller nudged at his ear. “I’m a very healthy individual and I have absolutely no time for getting sick.”
“Sick isn’t an emotion,” Miller murmured.
“But grumpiness is,” Monty said. “And you are supremely grumpy.”
“Shut up.”
Monty grinned, turning his head and grabbing Miller’s fingertips before kissing his hand. “Get some rest,” he whispered. Miller sighed, that same feeling of home that Monty always gave him easily nestling in with his own magic, and fell asleep quickly.
--
When Monty returned from classes the next day to check on Miller, it was at a pretty Not Great time.
Bellamy had come in Monty’s absence to take care of his friend, and Miller and Bellamy’s magic didn’t always get along. Not that they were opposites, or that it made it difficult to be friends, but sometimes it felt like they were having a force battle of Jedi versus Sith. Bellamy was currently using a chair to defend himself from a collection of Miller’s books, which had decided to form basically a giant brick to keep Bellamy from getting too close to his friend.
Monty laughed so hard when he entered that Miller felt it immediately, that warmth climbing into his chest and making its home between his bones. That’s got to be magic, Miller thought, as his grip on the books wavered causing them to fall to the ground. Bellamy jumped at the loudness of them and Monty kept laughing, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes at the entire situation.
“Jesus Christ, Nate,” Monty said as he checked on Bellamy, making sure he didn’t have any papercuts. “He insult your favorite character, or something?”
“It’s the cold,” Miller groaned. He was still on the couch (his room was damp—the snow hadn’t vanished it had just melted—and Bellamy needed to do some work with his magic to make it livable again) and Monty quickly crossed the room to him. “Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not!”
“You are,” Miller muttered. He sniffled loudly as Monty came into view and Miller tried to make himself look as pathetic as he possibly could. “I’m suffering,” he said.
“Boo hoo,” Bellamy murmured as he walked by, making his way to Miller’s room. “You aren’t the one who was attacked with books.”
The books twitched on the floor, Miller’s magic feeling just as insulted as he did, and Bellamy frowned before closing himself off in Miller’s room to get rid of some mildew. Monty perched himself on the edge of the couch and bent down, kissing Miller’s forehead. Warm, warm, the feeling spread through Miller until he felt his magic sigh in relief.
“Feeling better?” Monty asked softly.
“When you’re around,” Miller answered, “absolutely.”
Monty didn’t stay long, he had a paper to write, but Miller’s magic didn’t feel half as hostile towards Bellamy’s when he exited Miller’s room later. “All cleaned up,” Bellamy said. “Took a lot out of me too, asshole.” He sunk onto a nearby chair and Miller pushed at his magic slightly, finding it depleted like Bellamy had said. Bellamy pushed back at him with a frown that said told you I'm empty, so Miller stopped. “How long do your colds last?” Bellamy asked.
“Five to seven days.”
“Aw,” Bellamy said, “it’s like you’re menstruating.”
“I hate what Clarke has done to you,” Miller murmured, causing Bellamy to laugh brightly. It was a sort of bright laugh that Miller could feel, but it wasn’t comparable to Monty’s. “You never would’ve said that shit if it wasn’t for you and your stupid love for her.”
“For starters,” Bellamy said, still grinning, “you like Clarke.”
“Debatable.”
“Secondly,” Bellamy continued on, “love isn’t stupid.”
“Also debatable.”
Bellamy snorted and scoffed at the same time. “Monty walked into the room and your magic remembered what it was like to be magic,” Bellamy told him. “That’s stupid love.”
It wasn’t love, Miller wanted to say. Not yet. He could love Monty. He knew that he could. But they hadn’t been together long and love was a scary concept (Miller had been fucked over a couple times, okay?). But it wasn’t love. That’s not why his magic chilled out.
“Our energies match,” Miller said carefully after clearing his throat.
“So do mine and Clarke’s,” Bellamy pointed out smugly. “And we’re in stupid love.”
Miller huffed. His brain was foggy from being sick and his magic felt tangled, like vines stretched out across the jungle floor creeping and crawling over one another. “Monty has magic,” Miller said. “I can feel it.”
Bellamy shook his head but he looked so fond. “That’s not magic, Miller,” he said gently.
--
The worst part of Miller’s cold came next. Every time he coughed his entire body felt like it was on fire and every sneeze made his bones feel like they were on the verge of shattering. Any sort of movement was like nails on a chalkboard, full of wincing and groaning and defeat.
Monty climbed into bed with him when he came back from class, kicking off his shoes by the door before sliding under the blankets with his boyfriend. Miller was ready to grumble and shoo him away when Monty slipped his arm around Miller’s hips. The instantaneous relief that spread through Miller’s body was so overwhelming he wasn’t sure what to say. It was as though his muscles had turned into cushions, welcoming every aching movement instead of growling with the rest of his body.
“You’ll get sick too,” Miller murmured as Monty tugged him close.
“As stated previously,” Monty said softly, “I’m a very healthy person. Also I’ve been drinking Emergen-C like crazy this week.” Miller chuckled lowly, nosing into Monty’s side and absorbing every bit of magic Monty had. Whatever it was that Monty had, that sort of energy, it fit so seamlessly with Miller’s he could hardly tell there were two separate entities attached to it. “I’m so ready for you to feel better,” Monty said. “I want to kiss your dumb face again.”
“Romantic,” Miller hummed, causing Monty to laugh.
They caught up while Monty traced patterns down Miller’s shoulder and along the curve of his bicep. Mostly it was Monty talking. Miller didn’t really want to share that he’d coughed so hard earlier that the flowers Clarke had given him to spruce up the place had wilted. They were plastic. Monty talked about his day, his classes, his roommates.
“Why don’t you have a roommate?” Monty asked suddenly as though this was his first time realizing it. Miller lived down the hall from Monty but the apartments were different sizes, so Miller’s was smaller. “Why not live with Bellamy, or something?”
“You have to publically declare it when you have magic,” Miller muttered. “Had to put it out there when I was trying to get a roommate. People were turned off by that.”
“But magic is…”
“A hassle,” Miller muttered. “Magic is a hassle.”
“No, Nate, it’s—it’s amazing. Especially your magic.” Miller nuzzled his way closer to Monty, wishing more people in the world were like him. Magic had been around since the beginning of time and it still had that stigma to it that it was wrong, dangerous, bad. “I mean I can’t feel it, exactly,” Monty said. “I think maybe remnants from when your emotions thought they were mine. But your presence, it’s so warm.”
Miller chuckled again. “That’s you, Monty. Not me.”
“What? No. That’s you.” Monty kept talking before Miller could cut him off again. “But what about like, Bellamy, or something?”
“Our magic is temperamental,” Miller said. “Don’t want to risk living together, might make it go crazy.”
Monty hummed as though trying to figure it out. Monty was a man of science. And according to his roommates, Monty was not a fan of magic. Monty liked things he could understand, and he understood science. And science had never, ever, even started to understand magic.
“But your magic likes me,” Monty said. “Right?”
“My everything likes you,” Miller murmured sleepily. He wasn’t looking at Monty but he could feel him smile anyway. “But you don’t like magic,” Miller said softly, ready to slip into sleep.
Monty laughed a little. “Magic frustrates me,” Monty clarified. “I don’t not like it. It just has a mind of its own, sometimes.”
“Nah,” Miller shook his head. “Magic is instinctual; it does whatever it can to protect you. It’s like a sixth sense. Fight or flight reflex.”
Monty sounded a little wistful as he sighed, “Magic is real.”
Miller fell asleep feeling warm.
--
When Miller’s cold had cleared and his bones had stopped aching, his magic came back full force. He tested it on simple things like warming up a cup of coffee or flicking on and off the lights. It still felt impossible, but it was his.
Monty practically dragged him outside, demanding he enjoy the season and the fresh air. Miller laced their fingers together as they strolled through campus together. They ended up on a bench in the shade under one of those trees that had soft pink flowers blooming. Miller waved his hand causing some flowers to rain down on them (just because he could) and Monty grinned bright enough to light the entire world.
“Nate,” Monty said softly once the flowers had stopped falling. His smile slipped from his face and Miller’s magic reached out, grasping for the warmth that came with Monty being nearby. “I really—I don’t want you to think that I don’t like magic.” He was looking at Miller intensely, trying to make sure that this message was clear. “Because I do. I think it’s fascinating. But fascinating things can be frustrating, especially when you don’t get to be part of it. So, sometimes I can get frustrated, but I don’t want you to think I don’t like it.”
Monty was jealous.
“When I say that it feels like you have magic,” Miller murmured, “I mean that.”
Monty ducked his head. “Okay, but I can’t feel that.” Miller reached out, cupping Monty’s cheek. He was greedy when it came to touches considering over the past week or so he’d been hesitant. Monty leaned into his hand. “Describe it for me? Having magic?” Monty asked.
Miller nearly laughed. Of all the things Monty wanted him to do…
Miller nodded, confirming that he’d try, but just kept stopping. Miller lowered his hand from Monty's cheek as he thought. He would open his mouth to start, and stop. He would begin with a river, twisting and flowing through the forest. He would begin with a mountain, reaching into the sky. He would begin with the stars, vast and never-ending. And he would stop.
“It feels like the universe has climbed into your body,” Miller settled with, “and is begging to be set free. Begging to be more. It's just... infinite."
Monty blinked a few times before smiling. “Oh.”
“Oh?” Miller echoed.
“That’s how I feel when I’m with you.”
Miller tugged Monty toward him and kissed him hard, trying to convey what his words wouldn’t. That it was more than that. That it was endless and unceasing and wonderful. That he felt the same.
That magic felt like magic felt like Monty.
There would never be any words to describe it.