ă hisstupidnephilim ă
 Where was Alec supposed to look? He felt awkward as if the man in front of him was peeling his skin back to find what was underneath. His arms would shift in front of him, blocking his body in hopes that his insides wouldnât be spilled out for everyone to see. It wasnât as if Alec had any secrets to hide. In fact, he had none he had been an open book from the second he was born up to his twenty-first birthday.
âMagnus,â He finally noted, nodding his head. The name had sounded familiar, but he couldnât pinpoint where he had heard it before. Instead of trying to rake through his mind he just extended his hand for it to be shaken. âAlecâer, Alexander Richards.â Even though he had said his name several times throughout his life he felt uncomfortable saying it now, almost as if it was poisoned.
With an uncomfortable shift in his weight, blue eyes found the ground looking at the mess. Was he supposed to leave now? Or maybe stay and talk to this Magnus Bane guy? âWhere did you know this Alexander person from? Funny we have the same name.â A crooked smile pulled at his lips, pleased to know that his mind had come with a decision all on his own. That question wasnât such a bad way to start a conversation anyway.
The name sounds foreign to his ears, coarse with discomfort, as though his brain is unable to ( or refuses to ) process it â to process the complexly painful TRUTH that this is, in some sort of twisted miracle, both his Alexander and a complete stranger standing a small distance away from him. That the familiarity he can see in the features of the man before him, the memory of what it felt like to touch them â sculpted cheekbones he had brushed the pad of his thumb along, full lips he had always kissed with everything he had, a strong jawline leaning in to the caress of his palm â had, in fact, never been touched by him at all. Not on the man before him. This man was a blank canvas, a chalkboard wiped clean with only remnants left behind. And yet thereâs an unshakable HOPE that those remnants could bring back so much more, one which brings the strength to touch the man in front of him, slender digits raising to shake the other's outstretched hand. The Lightwood ring upon his own finger glints under the light, and he forces himself to avoid looking at it.
Instead, his gaze remains upon the azure hues staring back at him, an uncomfortable edge to them that the warlock knows his behaviour has played a part in provoking. Though to him, seeing the face of the man he loved after years of believing it was one he would NEVER see again had sent his mind into a spiral of overwhelming emotion, to the Alexander he was looking at this was no more than simple small talk. Itâs this reminder that causes the smile fixed upon elegant features to be forced into ( what he hoped ) was a more genuine one, though the light such smiles often brought never reaches his eyes.
      â Yes, I suppose it is. Iâve met doppelgangers before,
      but this is... certainly something else. âÂ
The words are numb upon his lips, and though his voice is steady, controlled from centuries of experience, he can feel the d r a g of each syllable as he speaks, can feel the rigidity to his tone as he pushes himself into a facade of effervescence. Â
     â He was my husband, but he â passed away quite a
      few years ago. So, Iâm sure you can understand why
      your resemblance to him threw me off. â
