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Somehow, rather annoyingly, Magnus had managed to convince himself that the clock sitting in front of his eyes would miraculously be gone by the time he woke up.
But it’s still there.
Surprisingly.
And the first thing he sees when he wakes is the clock. Glowing orange. Glowing 3:18.
It’s been happening for a while now.
It’s probably some random internal timer, he thinks. Some weird schedule he’s created through his own bad sleeping and drinking habits. And not just alcohol; he was notorious for drinking completely caffeinated coffee at all the wrong times (“You absolutely can taste the difference, Alec,”), and his mouth burned incredibly dry some nights. It was no surprise that his sleeping habits left something to be desired.
It’s quite likely exactly that.
Or it’s the exact opposite. Not random at all.
Flawlessly set times coordinated based only on relative events and the inexplicable connection of souls, times issued to shake him awake at the most important events, explosions of moments happening halfway across the world that seem beyond insignificant, but are tied together, pulled tightly, the string snapping as Magnus wakes up to them.
But it’s really, really not that.
As much as Magnus would like to believe so, things like that don’t simply happen. And they really don’t happen every night for the past three weeks.
Anyways.
The second thing he sees, when he lifts his head from a pillow of papers issuing the connection between Zombie’s Blood Croup and actual Zombies, is his scarf. Technically, his own scarf, but he supposes it’s better to think that he and Alec have it split between them now. Alec started wearing the first time the rain faded into soft flakes, like the weather had hit slow motion.
It suits Alec better. Truly. And Alec, to Magnus’ mountainous delight, actually wears it more than he himself does. It looks very good on him, and usually that thought, the thought of Alec willingly sporting an article of his clothing, in public, was enough to make Magnus feel some sort of dipping fervor in the pit of his chest.
But he doesn’t feel this now, glancing at the scarf draped over the chair, glancing back at then away from then back at again. He does not feel this feeling. All he feels is the silence, a lot like the way he felt before. And he’s back.
They’ve just stopped shouting. Alec has, at least, and the silence that taunts them is swallowing. Magnus realizes he’s standing, he’s been standing, with his hip stamped defiantly (painfully) into the edge of the desk, but Alec doesn’t seem to realize this, so Magnus sits back down. He looks at the paper on his desk, and thinks madly about how stupid it is when people don’t look at the most important thing, even if it’s right there in front of them (clutching its fists at its sides and trying not to blink and grinding its teeth so hard you can hear it, halfway across the room.) He’s stupidly mad, thinking about the stupid people who don’t look, and the word hypocrite hops into his mind for a second, but then it’s pushed away with some noise. Magnus is aware of everything, but he doesn’t give in, doesn’t look up, until Alec moves out of his peripheral vision, and he feels too weak for that.
He looks up, and it’s anybody’s game. Alec is strangely close to the door, longly pulling something dark out of the closet, pulling a smoke of a scarf out of his coat sleeve.
“What are you doing?” Magnus is just about to ask, at the same Alec says bluntly, “I think I should get back, to the Institute.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Magnus says, but his voice is way to sharp, and he really had meant it to sound caring, but now it seems like every word he says is just steaming on and making everything so, so much worse. And he can’t even make himself look up to see Alec’s face. So he does what he can: he stumbles to fix it.
“It’s freezing,” he rations; “You’ll freeze. Literally. And I know we’ve just had an argument, and I’m still supposed to be mad at you, but, Alexander, I honestly cannot have that weighing on my conscience-“
Bless the angel for Alec Lightwood’s sense of humor.
Although he’s still not looking at Magnus, not directly, he’s slacking against the wall and a thread of a smile is now traced on his lips, tentatively. The scarf, ever present, is wound in a ball at his thigh. His fingers are tracing hypnotic patterns.
“It’s ok if I stay tonight?”
Magnus suddenly feels like crying, and he’s surely not going to count the reasons. “I don’t think it would be morally or legally correct if I made you go.”
Ghost Smile. “Well, that’s part of dating me, right? Things not being legally correct?”
If Magnus looks surprise, it’s because he’s mentally shoving Alec against the door and making sure he never feels cold, ever, ever, ever again. Alec looks alarmed though, and speeds to explain himself. “Joking, joking, it’s a joke,” he tears quickly; then, mumbling, looking down, “I hear people make them sometimes.”
Nodding, Magnus tries to hide his smile before Alec does more to water it and it grows too huge and literally pulls Magnus towards Alec against his will. “Please stay,”
Magnus hears himself say this, and for a moment that’s all enough and for Alec it seems to be enough, too, for tonight. He shoves his coat back on the rack and, suddenly looking much more tired, he glides back over to Magnus’ desk, keeping his distance. Magnus looks at Alec. Alec looks at the scarf, bulbed still in his hand. There is already nothing left to say, so Alec turns to go to bed. He stops, pauses to untangle the grey wool from his hand, and drapes it carefully over the edge of the chair. He stops again, a few steps later, pauses to gaze at Magnus carefully halfway over the edge of his shoulder. He hesitates, then: “Are you coming in soon?”
Soon.
Itsenoughitsenoughitsenough.
Alec doesn’t stop again.
Magnus doesn’t either.
He settles instead for working himself long after what he would prefer, then waking up at 3:18 in the morning, on the dot, the way he has for the last three weeks. He settles for plucking up the grey Alec/Magnus scarf in pitch darkness off the floor, and feeling his way over to Alec’s coat, where he winds it over the collar, the way he would as if Alec was actually wearing it.
He settles for hoping that Alec is as forgiving as he is beautiful when he’s mad.
And he goes to bed.
Striding towards the hallway, Magnus almost misses the sleep-fluffed cat stretched luxuriously on the couch; the flick of one soft pink ear is the only thing that barely catches his eye. Sighing, politely ignoring his trembling need for sleep, Magnus sinks down to cat-eye level, perusing Chairman with tired, lidded eyes of his own. He’s mildly shocked the cat hasn’t bothered him all night.
“Why aren’t you in bed, hmm?” he coos, cupping a hand over the felines head, to which he indulges greatly, his eyes snuggling in on themselves. “Alec’s in there, you know.”
Magnus has always had presumptions that all his cats have been, collectively, extremely intelligent, Chairman Meow of course being no exception. Like clockwork shrilling to a start at the sound of Alec’s name, the cat stretches and trots into the hallway without a backwards glance, nuzzles the bedroom door open and disappears.
Magnus scoffs. “Typical.”
Smirking, he forgets all else, and follows him.
As soon as he’s in the room though, Magnus avoids really, really looking at the one thing he wants more than sleep.
Alec.
He’s only a knotted together bundle of blankets in the shifting light anyways, his back open and faced to Magnus like he means something by it. And the side lamp is still on.
Magnus rounds to his side and turns it off. Still doesn’t look at him. He’s obviously asleep. Probably has been for a while. It’s not like Magnus expects him to wait up, because he didn’t. He doesn’t. But his sleeping form, the side lamp, still on way past its bedtime, shakes away an entire bundle of emotions, all of which Magnus could probably define, but he doesn’t, as he steps around back to his own side, careful to make sure none of the floor boards creak.
Shaking his head at himself, at the darkness, Magnus unbuttons his shirt, tries to herd his thought into at least some sort of linear pattern. When that doesn’t work, like, at all, he messily pulls at the bottom of his shirt, letting any idea of consciousness float away and be replaced with the yearn to fall into bed.
With his rational thoughts out the window, nothing stops Magnus from tilting into somewhat of a daydream. Because technically, he guesses, it is day.
For a fleeting, lovely second, he envisions that it’s Alec’s fingertips, dragging up the length of his hips.
Alec’s fingernails, scarcely ghosting up towards his chest as his shirt pools off around his collarbone.
He realizes, with some dismay, his own fingertips don’t spark dripping red-hot flames to his chest when they meet his skin. When Alec would undress him, he was always so careful, just so sensitive to whatever was happening, Magnus could hardly breathe.
It was like Alec was scared. Like, careful, you might shatter him.
But he couldn’t be that scared, not really, of hurting Magnus. That much, he supposed, was evident, considering the way they acted sometimes; the way they kissed. Even if Alec was rough, when, Alec was rough, it still felt different.
It still felt safe.
On second thought, actually, Alec may have been anxious about tearing Magnus’ clothing, not him. That was a very Alec thing to think; that he might actually rip Magnus’ clothing if things got too heavy. At the thought, Magnus almost laughs. Then he feels bad, because he actually has no idea how he would react in that situation. Certainly, he wouldn’t be mad, and he hoped with everything that Alec didn’t think he would be.
On third thought, he hoped Alec didn’t think any of that, at all. Because it was actually sort of terrifying for Magnus think about how much he wouldn’t mind, just would not care, about what got ripped, torn, tattered, as long as in the end he got to be pressed like flowers against Alexander Lightwood.
Magnus only realizes the severity of the coldness in the room once the last of his clothes fall to a heap on the floor (he isn’t always this messy; he just isn’t always this tired, either). His eyes locating the source of winter before his mind does, he hisses out in quiet annoyance- “Alec,”- and stumbles over towards the open window. He’s just about to let if fall shut, who cares how loud, who cares how pretty he looks when he sleeps, when he stops.
It would do no good, anyway. Everything has already seeped into the room.
But it’s not even that. It’s not even the cold. It's-
Alec.
From his stance at the window Magnus has a compulsory yet shockingly lovely view of the younger boy, drenched in blankets, pulled tight up to his chin, like his life depends on it. Because it might, actually. It’s really cold in there.Really cold. And he’s just sleeping there, hair soft and sprung out all over the pillowcase like some sort of reverse cloud. He’s just there.
And just then, Magnus feels nothing else but a blossoming stab of just wanting to be with him, to be surrounded by him, so much so that it’s sad actually, and the open window now dulls to insignificant. Not taking his eyes off Alec, simply because he doesn’t have to, Magnus slides into his side of the bed, and takes a last small breath of mint-cold air before drowning into the sheets and Alec’s smell.
Magnus guesses that, chances are, although he informed the New York Institute of the advantages of modern-day central heating in the 90s, Alec’s room there must have been pretty cold- all the time. It’s the only explanation, really, for why Alec prefers to sleep where the threat of hypothermia is just around the corner. He sleeps better, Alec claims, where it’s cold. Not debatable. By this reason, by force of habit, Magnus can’t really blame him for sleeping more comfortably this way. Alec doesn’t usually open Magnus’ window at night, anyway, because he is incredibly reasonable and Magnus is only one person who could actually very well die by means of freezing to death. But despite this, despite himself, Magnus still does worry about Alec.
Usually only small, rational things though.
Him, catching a cold.
Him, being torn apart by several demons at once while Magnus is off drinking tea somewhere.
Him, slipping on the small patch of ice right outside the apartment steps.
Magnus tries not to get ahead of himself.
But, yet again, Magnus’ worries press him as he reaches out to skim Alec’s bare shoulder, free from the blankets and- he’s freezing.
He’s the exact opposite of red-hot, anything hot. He’s anything-cold.White-cold, actually, would be better, because in this lighting Magnus can’t tell if Alec’s skin is his normal shade of dizzying pale or if it’s from the cold, or lack of blood, or perhaps a thin layer of snow.
Reflexively, Magnus tugs up a corner of the fallen sheet and drapes it over Alec’s shoulder. Magnus settles back into his spot, still collecting heat, and transfixes himself on a spiral of Alec’s hair. His thoughts kind of go numb, by that curl, sprouting against the pale canvas of his back, where his skin is gathered from being cramped on itself too tightly. It reminds Magnus of art. It reminds him of a sign, hanging right in front of a piece of expensive art, showing off, enticing children: Do Not Touch.
Magnus closes his eyes, then realizes he actually prefers them open.
Alec’s hair is on a weird spectrum of curly and straight. The shorted it is, the curlier it winds, but fallen long it’s all struts of inky strands. Magnus finds it all very enthralling. But wet or damp, it kinks up on itself, like a snake, or something retreating.
Rain and sweat make him soft.
Alec usually hates it when that happens. Magnus likes it.
Sometimes, if he’ll reach out and tug, slightly, then let go, the strand will sling right back into position. Alec would then typically swat his hand away.
At the back of his neck though, it’s all curled. The shortest strands reach out in tumbled directions and you can’t really see them unless you looked. Sometimes Magnus thought that was what he enjoyed about the curls so much; they were his to see and they were on Alec and it might have been selfish to try and keep something like that but maybe Magnus liked the idea of having a piece of Alec to keep with him, just for him.
He understood that that wasn’t very fair.
He understood just how many things weren’t very fair.
He didn’t put too much thought into it, though.
That’d be weird of him.
Magnus has let his eyes unfocus on the curl now, so that all it is is a thread of black snaking along some white. He reaches out and fingers the strand, ever so lightly, and pushes it with the pad of his finger to the back of Alec’s neck. Now all the hair is plastered thickly together, in his eyes; an arrow pointing blatantly down his spine.
Without thinking, Magnus extends his arm and pushes up the mess of hair back with his palm. Underneath, the back of Alec’s neck is warm and muted, and seems simpler somehow, as he knew it’d be. He shifts over without waking the sheets and lays his head alongside Alec’s. After a moment, he moves down.
When he reaches to tread his fingers along Alec’s arm, he’s not surprised when he doesn’t respond, even with a stir. When he does sleep, he sleeps like the dead. This does little to stop Magnus from paralleling his forearm with Alec’s, and, with his palm pressed against Alec’s knuckles, Magnus presses his fingers to the spaces between Alec’s.
He still doesn’t wake, doesn’t make a sound.
Not that Magnus wants him too.
Exactly.
Magnus moves himself so that his body is pressed right into place with Alec’s. Hip to hip, he can almost hear their frames click together. A fraction of Alec’s shirt rides up and his back is cold against Magnus’ stomach so he focuses on pressing them even closer together so that whatever’s cold will bleed onto Magnus and whatever’s hot will flood to Alec.
It feels almost like a game.
Above anything, Magnus cannot wake him up.
Faintly, faintly, he squeezes Alec’s fingers in his.
When he moves his head back to the pillow, Magnus can feel his breathe bounce off Alec’s neck and back to him, and suddenly he’s anxious that that’ll be the thing that wakes him up, that sets it all off. He pulls back a bit to clear his breath, and daintily hikes up the hair at the back of his neck again. And rests his hand there.
Before, he thinks, Alec was coloured all in black and white pieces; cold skin outside of the blankets, warm skin heated inside, from the sea of sheets. Now, rested underneath Magnus’ arm, Alec’s feels not burning hot, but nicely warm, a temperature Magnus knows Alec would much prefer to his arctic of a room.
He’s not so cold anymore.
He can feel Alec’s heart in his throat, and Alec breathing in his stomach.
And Magnus doesn’t remember when he realized this, but he knows it quite certainly now, almost like common instinct: Alec. His chest, his neck; they were always warm. Probably because that was where his pulsed stemmed, straight from his heart.
Magnus presses his face hard into the nape of Alec’s neck.
He burns foolishly, then wonders why. He would look so desperate to someone watching from above. So stupid, that he almost pulls away. But no one’s watching them, and Alec is still asleep, his breathing is still even. Magnus doesn’t want to wake him, so for a moment he doesn’t let out a breathe, doesn’t inhale deeply, like he wants to now, with his nose smashed to Alec’s skin. So he waits and eventually everything flattens out and he finds he’s breathing regularly, and actually falling asleep.
He wakes up before he can try and reason with himself.
Alec still rises over him like an outline of high clouds, and Magnus, now infiltrated further with a bleak need to sleep, wants to apologize. He wants to see his face and apologize.
Before he even knows what he’s meant to be doing, his mouth is firm against Alec’s neck. And he’s whispering, breathing gushes of words and he hates the sound of them but knows they are right and true. He tunes into what he’s saying, and it sounds like an ending.
“I promised myself I wouldn’t make a mess of this; I wouldn’t let you break me. I thought you wouldn’t, I knew, I’m sorry, Alexander-“ It sounds like an ending. His name; an ending.
“I’m trying to keep this together, but-“ and then the words stop, the tap shuts off, leaving only a conscious Magnus and a microphone and an empty theater except for one person.
But Magnus knows what to say.
It’s the bonus features of what he wants to tell Alec, after every fight they have.
It’s what Magnus wants to tell him, each time Alec gets that look, that expression, like oh, that, when he discovers something about Magnus’ life that he isn’t sure of.
It’s Magnus’ thoughts, staring at Alec when he’s asleep like he is now, with his lips parted softly against the pillow that they share.
He knows what to say.
“I wont let it end this way. I wont let it end at all, Alec. I’m trying to do this properly- you don’t know how new you are to me. You’re so new. I will make this last. Alexander,”
None of these words, in Magnus’ jaded state, are making sense to him. But they’re all true.
And he’s suddenly a ball of determination, and he’s clutching Alexander Lightwood to his chest and their heartbeats are all sandwiched together and he knows something then that dissolves and he knows he won’t remember again until it’s relevant, until it’s alive.
And he knows that he won’t always have Alec. He knows this now.
But that’s really, really ok.
Because right now, he does.
He has Alec the way he does now, with his breaths enveloped in his sheets and arms and he has him right now.
And for now, that will have to do. Itsenoughitsenoughitsenough.
And he knows how to say this.
I can’t promise you much, and I’m so sorry for that. This isn’t the first time we’ll be like this, and it won’t be the last, but someday, we won’t wake up the way we’re going to wake up tomorrow. We’ll wake up and you’ll still be in bed with me and you’ll be asleep and I’ll get to tell you how beautiful you are in the sun. We’ll wake up and not have anything on that day and we won’t stay in bed the whole day but we could, if we wanted too. I don’t know how we’re going to wake up tomorrow, but I do know this-
It’s amazing, it’s devouring, the way Magnus has never acknowledged the words he’s saying, never even glanced at them, yet they stream out. Pour out. And there’s nothing logical to make them stop. He knows the words are true and right.
“Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done, Alec. But I won’t stop until I make this easier, if you want to and if you want me too, I’ll make this.”
And right then, he’s not sure for whom these words are for. Himself, or for Alec. Or to finally make the world shut up. It’s dark, but the sun is rising.
And Magnus Bane knows his answer.
Breathily, he pushes a kiss to the back of Alec’s neck, and suddenly that’s all he needed to do, all night. He could have gone to sleep earlier, if he’d just done that.
Oh, well. Too late now.
He knows his answer.
“For us,” he mumbles, closing his eyes and for the first time in a long time, seeing absolutely nothing but a spitting image of a sea of black, packaged so tightly together it could have been mistaken for raven hair.
“If you’ll let me, I’ll make us.”
And he goes to bed.