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Alec was used to knowing that he was probably about to die. He was not used to knowing that his imminent death could leave a person in ruins with words unspoken, things not quite tied up—there was his family, and they’d mourn, but they’d understand, as only shadowhunters could. Every Lightwood had at least a skeleton or two in their closet—it was a given. He didn’t know how it was with Banes.
“Jace isn’t Valentine’s son,” Isabelle was saying. “He never was.”
He couldn’t shake the feeling that this fight would be his last. But that’s what he felt every single time. It was probably why he was still alive—he was not Jace. He would err on the side of caution.
Isabelle was looking at him and Simon like some sort of reaction was warranted. Alec cared about Jace, truly—they were parabatai , and brothers, and he’d always be… it wasn’t right to call Jace his first, because those feelings hadn’t been reciprocated.
Jace had been a mirror. Alec had discovered himself. But the part within him that put Jace’s past and Jace’s feelings and Jace’s everything first was currently remote, hard to grasp through silk screens of anticipation and nerves.
“So…” he managed a reply for the sake of both Isabelle and normalcy, “whose son is he?”
A piece of fabric left unhemmed, fraying, torn in two by sword or tooth or claw—that’s what Alec would be to Magnus if he died—if he died first . Magnus would never know. He’d never know. They could both die and neither of them would ever feel what it was like to… to know .
His parents were frowning at him—did they know what he was thinking? Did everyone know? Sometimes he was amazed—how could anyone look at him and not know? How had he managed to blatantly lie to everyone he loved for nearly two decades? People believed what they wanted, didn’t they?
Isabelle threw up her hands, saying something about Michael Wayland.
The Lightwoods wanted a mature, responsible eldest son. Jace was reckless and sarcastic and borderline suicidal, Isabelle did everything she shouldn’t—Alec was supposed to be the good example, the protector, the adult. He’d failed as an adult already. He’d failed Max. Alec wanted to try being Alec, but he wasn’t sure he had the courage.
Simon said something about Stephen Herondale; Alec managed half a thought about the old inquisitor.
“Alec, pay attention. Or at least tell us what you’re looking for.”
“Not what. Who.” He let the conversation flow by, slippery satin over his fingers. He thought, distantly, of the bedsheets in that tiny apartment in Brooklyn. Was he blushing? God, he was probably blushing.
Alec found him.
He darted forward immediately, not quite sure if he’d said anything to Isabelle and Simon and the werewolf girl they were now staring at before leaving the conversation.
Magnus looked straight. That was the first thing that came into Alec’s head. He was aware of the hypocrisy of the sentiment—Alec had about twenty of the same dark wash jeans and black sweaters, and he’d never even wanted to hold a girl’s hands. But Magnus wasn’t like that—he loved glitter and eyeliner and colors , patent leather and hair gel . There were just certain occasions when he consciously toned himself down, and Alec saw it, and it broke his heart. He did not want his Magnus made into anything small, plain, ordinary.
Magnus was gaping at him like he’d just walked on water instead of across a room. “Alec?” he asked, uncharacteristically shy—he was always coy, always teasing, but not once had he done anything that could be described as shy .
“You thought I wouldn’t come.” It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t wait for a response, just held out his hand for Magnus to take.
He held back, stubbornness settling in over his features. “Nothing led me to believe otherwise.”
Alec let his arm fall back to his side. Let his eyes close. He was exhausted. Lying all the time, to everyone—it was exhausting. Constricting. Magnus had given him freedom, shown him acceptance, caught him when he fell. And Alec just kept him guessing. “I owe you a better apology than I could ever write—”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
He opened his eyes again, heart falling even as his brain told him this was rational, maybe even inevitable. Magnus knew his own worth, of course he wouldn’t waste his time—
“I’m not interested in your apologies, sweetheart—I already know you feel like you’re being torn in two.” He presented his hand, nodding slightly to give Alec the go-ahead.
He took it slowly, gingerly, confused.
“Don’t be so nervous,” he squeezed lightly. “All it would take is a word, you know. I’m just waiting.”
Alec took out his stele and began tracing the rune on the back of Magnus’ hand. Alliance —that’s what Clary had named it; he’d heard. But she’d also described it as a rune for partnership, and that word had a better feeling to it—more weighty, more consequential. Unequivocal. “I don’t understand,” he said quietly, hair falling over his face. “How am I worth your trouble?”
“I wonder the same of myself.”
His eyes shot up to meet Magnus’. Which word was he waiting for? Alec had never been good with words—what singular gesture could make their relationship real, solid, unbreakable? With the battle they were about to fight, their unflinching trust in each other had to be cast in titanium.
Alec finished the rune but didn’t let go, still holding Magnus’ yellow gaze—he’d once found those eyes so eerie, so intriguing. Now, they were familiar. Home. “Can I kiss you?”
Magnus laughed, but it held less mirth than usual. “If that was all you wanted, you didn’t have to do it under any pretense.” He pulled his hand back, glancing at the rune. “I know somewhere we can go—”
“No. Please.” Heat pricked behind his eyelids; he hadn’t realized he was full-on crying until Magnus brushed his cheek and his fingers came away wet. Alec wasn’t sad—more like frustrated and nervous and really, really vulnerable. “I don’t want to go anywhere. I don’t want you to go anywhere.”
“I won’t,” he said quietly, before brushing his fingers over Alec’s cheek. “I won’t.”
“I want them to know.”
“And if they cast you out?”
Alec had thought about that possibility every single day, weighing his allies, his enemies, neutral individuals who might be swayed to either side—he was a soldier, and this was war. His parents were wild cards. But he had Isabelle, Jace, Simon, Clary—even Luke, and that wasn’t even getting into Magnus Bane and his circles in New York. Alec would be whispered about, gawked at, harassed. But he would not be alone.
“Let them,” Alec said through gritted teeth.
Magnus grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled.
He laughed deliriously, pulling back for just a moment. “The word you wanted to hear—what was it?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?” He shoved his hands through Magnus’ hair. “That’s all?”
“‘I love you’ wouldn’t be unwelcome, since you’re asking and everything….”
Alec kissed him; he was swept so far away from himself that he would have forgotten his name if it weren’t for Magnus’ soft but insistent mumbling of it against his lips.
Alec kissed him; he was a mess of tears and red cheeks and probably snot, but he felt nothing short of beautiful.
Alec kissed him; he was distantly aware of his mother watching with a hand over her mouth, of the hush that had fallen over the room, but that world—those people—felt more dream than reality. He felt like he was waking up.
Magnus pulled back first, breathing heavily.
“ Yes ,” Alec wouldn’t let go of him. “ Yes , I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he tousled Alec’s hair fondly. “I love you, too.”