Alec is quiet, that night, and Magnus can’t quite pin down why.
To say things have been tumultuous as of late is an understatement; he finds himself caught off guard by this moment of peace they’re having right now, this perfect moment in between disasters when things actually seem fine. When Clary is alive, Jonathan isn’t, and Magnus is awake and who he was before: a warlock, with his true magic returned to him, living in a penthouse in Brooklyn that he’s called home for decades.
That doesn’t explain why Alec is standing on the balcony, though, hands clutching the rail until his knuckles are white, pointedly looking anywhere but inside, where Magnus sits on the sofa with a glass of bourbon in his grasp.
“Would you like a drink?” Magnus tries asking loudly, but the only thing he gets in response is a tightening of Alec’s shoulders under the thin material of his jacket.
It’s unlike Alec to avoid Magnus like this; Alec, who’s thrown himself into this relationship with the kind of blunt, driven force that’s propelled things forward even when Magnus wanted to hold them back. It’s unsettling, enough so that Magnus feels compelled to snap the tension, to be the one to lance at this until it bursts.
“Alexander,” he calls out as he rises from his seat. He snaps, sending his now-empty glass from his hand to the kitchen sink in a shower of joyful, familiar blue sparks, then takes loud, measured steps toward Alec. “My love. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Alec’s head turns right as Magnus comes up on his left. “Nothing,” he says. His voice is guttural, thick.
“Alexander,” Magnus says. Softer.
“Ignore me,” Alec answers. “It’s stupid.”
Magnus shuffles in a little closer until his arm is pressed to Alec’s. Alec’s presence is usually a grounding thing for Magnus, but the stiff tension of his muscles and the way he’s avoiding Magnus’ eyes has Magnus’ stomach flipping, from fear or anxiousness he doesn’t know.
“You’ve never been stupid, Alec,” Magnus says honestly, and lays his cheek carefully against the jut of Alec’s shoulder. “Not ever in all the time I’ve known you, and certainly not now. But even if you were, you know I’d still want to hear what it is that’s troubling you.” Magnus swallows, then adds, “You can always be honest with me.”
Alec’s jaw is clenched, muscles ticking, his spine straight as a ruler – until it slumps, half a minute later. Magnus runs his hand along the curve at Alec’s upper back, and exhales in relief when Alec leans into him. “It’s stupid,” he repeats. “And maybe you’ll hate me if I say it out loud.”
“No,” Magnus murmurs. “I could never.”
He means it. Alec has never been perfect – far from it – but he’s also the last person who would ever willfully take part in something that would knowingly hurt Magnus, especially in the aftermath of the Soul Sword situation. Which means that whatever it is that Alec has done, whatever mistake he thinks he’s made… it’s something Magnus will readily forgive.
So Magnus says nothing, but rubs his palms along the soft skin at the back of Alec’s neck instead. He watches as Alec bites his lip, teeth digging into the plumpness until it goes concerningly red, and waits.
“I can’t stop thinking about – I’m happy you have your magic back,” Alec eventually starts clumsily. “I know how important it was to you, and I – I can barely imagine losing my runes, so I can’t imagine what you felt like when you thought you’d be a mundane until you… until you died. But I said something to you when you were in a coma… because there was a part of me that was. A part of me that was – shit. A part of me that was –” Alec stutters, like he’s choking on his words.
Finally he blurts out, “There was a part of me that was happy you were mortal.”
Magnus stills. His hand freezes. Oh.
“There was a part of me that liked the idea of – of us being together for the rest of our lives. Which is a really fucking selfish thing to want, but I – I wanted it,” Alec continues, the words flowing, undammed and free, before they finally coming to a halting, grinding stop. He looks nervous, lips parted, and for the first time tonight his gaze is glued to Magnus. His eyes are wide, glassy under the lights; from the corner of Magnus’ vision, he sees Alec reach for him, then flinch, as if he’s seeking reassurance and expecting rejection in return.
Magnus wants to grab onto Alec’s hand, but he – he doesn’t.
There’s something like a war going on in the back of his mind. A battle on two fronts.
One side, louder and angrier and scarlet red, asks: how could you? How could Alec want to change Magnus and the man he is – a warlock, powerful and immortal and born to outlive dynasties? How could Alec claim to love him so wholesale, yet somehow also wish death upon him?
The other side of Magnus thinks: I get it. Me too. Because Alec is right – it is unbearably selfish for him to want Magnus to himself, yet that’s what Magnus wants from Alec. To have him for as long as time will permit, to be the only person he kisses, the only person he wants, the only person he loves. And maybe it’s overly possessive, yet Magnus can’t help it. He understands.
“Alexander,” is all he manages to say.
“I’m sorry,” Alec says, and crowds in closer to Magnus. “I wish there was a better way to say it. I wish I didn’t have to say it. But it’s how I feel. Now you’re you again, and you’re going to live. And maybe – maybe, someday, you die, but by then I’ll be long gone. Magnus, I – I want to spend my forever with you, and I’m going to spend my forever with you, but you – you can’t do the same.” Alec inhales. “And it’s not a bad thing, I love you how you are, you know I do, but I can’t help but think it… it’s hard.”
Magnus breathes in a ragged gasp of laughter. “Yes,” he says. Because he’s gone through this too many times, and every single time, it’s the most agonizing nightmare.
“I’m sorry,” Alec says again, and looks ashamed.
It hurts Magnus to see Alec like this – hurts him more than what Alec had said. It’s neither of their faults that these are the cards they’ve been dealt; this was always a problem the two of them were going to have to face, and most of Magnus is glad it’s happening now, rather than later, when it’s had time to fester into something uglier, something more resentful.
“Don’t be sorry,” Magnus says, and places his hand on top of Alec’s. “I don’t – I’m not mad. You’re right. I’m going to continue on, living this life for as long as I have, longer than most, longer than you, most likely. And I hope you understand how much I meant it when I say that it hurts me as much as it likely hurts you that that’s the case.”
Alec presses his forehead to Magnus’, and nods. “I know,” he says.
“I’m sorry too,” Magnus adds.
“Don’t be sorry,” Alec echoes, then pulls Magnus into a hug. His arms fold around Magnus’ body, holding on tight, and Magnus tucks his chin on Alec’s shoulders as they stand there, together, in the quiet of the balcony.
