Chapter Text
“What was your name again?” Magnus asked breathlessly, breaking off the kiss to let himself and the stranger he’d brought back from the club into his loft.
“Inti,” his companion replied with an amused smile, “and you’re Magnus Bane.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I see my reputation precedes me.”
Inti put their palm flat against his chest, applying light pressure, and Magnus allowed himself to be walked backwards and pushed down onto the couch.
Inti was beautiful — black skin, deep brown eyes, and lips painted a red so dark it was almost black. Their hair was shaved close to their head, highlighting the burnished gold hoops that hung from their ears, and their impressively heeled boots were paired with skin-tight jeans and a burnt orange silk camisole.
Let it never be said he didn’t have taste.
“You know I’m not cis, right?” they asked, watching him carefully.
He met their eye, wetting his lips. “Not a problem.”
Inti smirked and knelt on the couch, straddling Magnus’ lap. Magnus brought his hands up to their waist, brushed their nose with his, and then picked up where he’d left off.
The kiss soon evolved to something white hot, molten even. It wasn’t often Magnus found partners taller than him, and there was something incredibly hot about Inti’s grip on his hair forcing him to tilt his chin up.
In his back pocket, his phone vibrated, signalling a text. He ignored it, instead sliding a hand up over Inti’s ribs and cupping their chest. He brushed his thumb over a nipple, humming in satisfaction, and was rewarded with a sharp gasp.
“Fuck...”
Inti threw their head back and Magnus mouthed at their collarbone while he tugged the delicate fabric to one side. He drew a purple nipple into his mouth and swirled his tongue as his phone buzzed again twice in quick succession.
He groaned in frustration, holding Inti against him as he shifted his weight.
“Do you need to—”
Magnus threw his phone across the room, the thud as it hit the rug cutting off Inti’s question. He had one hand wrapped around Inti’s waist, the other rolling a nipple between his forefinger and thumb, and his tongue firmly back in their mouth when it rang.
He pulled back, muttering an apology as he recognised the ringtone he’d set for Raphael — a Fangoria song appropriately titled ¿De Qué Me Culpas?
“I should probably get that... it’s my manager.”
Inti pulled back, rearranging their top and shifting out of his lap. Magnus stood to retrieve his phone and answered the call.
“What now?”
“Camille’s single dropped.”
“...and this warrants calling me on a Friday night because...?”
“Just watch the video estúpido.”
Magnus rolled his eyes, but picked up the remote and turned on the TV anyway. He shot an apologetic look in Inti’s direction as he navigated to Camille’s YouTube page.
When he saw the thumbnail, his stomach lurched. In the still, Camille, all made up in a 1940s lemon print dress, was pushing away a man who looked suspiciously like a cheap knock-off of himself, right down to the fuchsia highlights and mesh tank top he was currently sporting.
Inti cleared their throat. “Is that...”
“Yep,” Magnus answered flatly.
He clicked play.
The single was nothing surprising, just the same old overproduced pop Camille had been peddling for the past decade, but the video...
Magnus watched in growing horror as his stand-in — who was at least half a head shorter than him incidentally — shouted at Camille, spilt red wine on her dress, sulked in the audience at an awards show, and then screwed up opening a bottle of champagne in a wildly unsubtle allusion to erectile dysfunction.
As the camera panned to Camille, surrounded by a gaggle of female friends she repeated the chorus.
Now I’m making lemonade from all the sour looks you gave,
Free from all the mind games and the nasty tricks you played,
Saw you threw a big parade for that attention that you crave,
Oh isn’t it a shame that you weren’t happy in my shade?
Magnus pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath.
“How bad is it?”
“You’re trending on TikTok, and I had to lock the comments on Instagram,” Raphael replied dispassionately.
“Fuck, okay.”
“...I think I’m gonna head.”
Magnus whirled around, having entirely forgotten Inti was in the room. “Sorry, I’m being rude... please, stay.”
Inti hesitated, their gaze drifting toward the TV and Magnus blinked.
“That is not what happened, I’m not— we broke up because she cheated on me, I swear.”
Inti raised their eyebrows. “I don’t doubt it, but... it looks like you’ve got your work cut out tonight.”
He sighed. Inti was right, of course, but he couldn’t shake the feeling this was the first triumph of Camille’s character assassination.
Inti stepped forward, their expression softening, and dropped a kiss on his cheek. “I’ll see you around.”
He didn’t bother asking for their number.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Raphael was in his ear, sounding decidedly judgemental. “Another hookup?”
“Not anymore,” Magnus said bitterly. “They saw the video.”
“If you’d released a statement in May this wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Well I didn’t think she’d do this, obviously,” Magnus sniped.
“We need to postpone the album, scale down the tour, maybe even pick up some television work...”
He threw himself onto the sofa with a theatrical groan. He hated reality TV with a passion.
“ABC called again... I think you should consider it.”
“Seriously, Raph?”
“They won’t be calling this time next week.”
He let out another sigh. “Fine... but I’m doing it in drag.”
“Morning.”
Alec looked up from the bacon he was frying to see his sister in a sports bra and a pair of sweatpants he’d long outgrown. “Coffee’s in the pot.”
Izzy muttered her thanks and then poured herself a mug, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
After six years of sharing a condo, the two of them had developed a Sunday routine — bacon, eggs, and copious amounts of coffee consumed in near silence before a lazy afternoon of Project Runway or whatever show Izzy was currently hooked on.
Some people would be embarrassed to be rooming with their sister in their late twenties, but it suited Alec just fine — the bills were split 50–50 and he could keep an eye on Izzy’s more destructive tendencies. Better yet, it stopped his parents’ friends from asking why he hadn’t moved in with a girlfriend.
There was a chime as he was plating up.
“Cast list is out,” Izzy said, tapping her phone to open the email.
“Did you get a partner?” he asked, setting a plate down in front of her before returning with fresh coffee.
“Someone called Simon Lewis... have you heard of him?”
He shook his head, tucking in, and Izzy frowned, clearly Googling the name.
“He’s a Twitch streamer apparently, some kind of board game... Dungeons and Dragons?”
“It’s not a board game, it’s a table-top RPG...” Alec said automatically, trailing off as Izzy stared at him blankly. “Uh, like in Stranger Things.”
“Oh.” She hesitated. “Isn’t that for kids?”
He gave an awkward shrug and took another bite of bacon.
“You should check yours,” Izzy said.
Alec didn’t bother. Although he was technically in the pool of professional dancers as a series regular, it’d been years since production, his mother more specifically, had assigned him a partner.
For the first few seasons she’d paired him with young, eligible actresses, hoping for chemistry that would reel in viewers. When there’d been a palpable lack thereof — for obvious reasons — she’d switched her favour to Jace and relegated him to the ensemble dances.
“Go on,” Izzy pleaded, “just for me.”
He sighed, fishing out his phone to check the notifications, and then blinked in surprise.
There was an email.
Across the table, Izzy's eyes lit up, but he shook his head as he skimmed through it as quickly as possible. “I think they emailed me by accident.”
She gave him a look. “Alec, you deserve this just as much—”
“No, I mean— this was meant for Aline or something.” He handed her the phone and watched as she read the same thing he had — a decidedly male name under the heading ‘partner.’
Except... Izzy didn’t look disappointed. If anything, she looked positively gleeful. “You don’t recognise the name?”
He shook his head.
“Magnus Bane isn’t just some guy, Alec, he’s a drag queen.”
Alec stared at her blankly. “They cast a drag queen?”
Before Izzy could elaborate, his phone rang, ‘Maryse’ popping up on the screen.
“I assume you’ve read my email,” she began, not bothering to say hello. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but his agent went directly to the network and it’s apparently non-negotiable—”
“Why me?” Alec asked, suddenly interrupting her. Part of him was wondering if this was some sick way of punishing him for what they both knew was true.
“You’re sensible, Alexander. I can rely on you to get the job done without kicking up a fuss.” There was a brief pause. “Besides, the whole transsexual thing was rather last minute...”
And there it was, the real reason Alec had ended up with a partner. The guy probably had been paired with Aline at first, before his agent had stepped in.
He nodded along to the rest of Maryse’s diatribe, half-heartedly agreeing the network must have lost their mind, until she asked if Izzy was there.
Izzy shook her head violently, eyes wide with panic.
“Uh, no,” Alec said hastily, “she’s out with friends.”
“Well remind her that the whole world is watching,” Maryse said sharply, “and we don’t need any more photos of her falling out of clubs at 4 am.”
Alec tucked his tongue behind his teeth and pointedly didn’t say anything. If he knew Maryse, she was less worried about Izzy going clubbing and more about the clubs in question.
Izzy’s partner from last year, a stage actor named Meliorn, was unapologetically queer and a connoisseur of West Hollywood’s LGBTQ+ nightlife. When Izzy had taken to accompanying him to the clubs, and some of her more incendiary outfits had been splashed across the front pages of TMZ, Maryse had made her disapproval very clear.
He made his excuses and said goodbye, hanging up as quickly as was polite. Izzy was watching him across the table, having no doubt heard the entire conversation.
“She doesn’t seem to mind when Jace makes the front page,” she observed dryly. “Look who he got.”
She held up her phone, and Alec let out a snort of disbelief.
Jace had a habit of sleeping with more or less every partner he was assigned, which had ended no fewer than two relationships and a marriage to date.
...and yet it was Izzy who’d been assigned a Twitch streamer that nobody had heard of, while Jace got to twirl around fashion's latest darling, Clarissa Fairchild.
“Who else has a partner, besides you, me, and Jace?” he asked, picking at his now lukewarm breakfast.
“The usuals... and Amatis.”
His eyebrows lifted at the name. Amatis was the eldest dancer among the series regulars, having had her heyday on the ballroom circuit when his parents were still competing. “Good for Amatis.”
“Maybe. She’s been put with Stephen Herondale.”
“The paralympian?” Alec asked, unable to hide his surprise. While Stephen was undoubtedly fit, teaching a double amputee to foxtrot would be no small feat.
Izzy hummed. “Hopefully she gets a few episodes out of it.”
“She’ll have two at minimum,” Alec muttered.
“What does that mean?”
“We both know I’m going home first.”
“No we don’t,” Izzy said, furrowing her brow.
“Come on Iz,” he scoffed. “A drag queen? It’s a stunt casting, plain and simple.”
“And who do you think’s going to have worse rhythm,” she countered, “a drag queen or a Twitch streamer?”
Alec wrinkled his nose. “How much rhythm do you really need to put on women’s clothes?”
Izzy rolled her eyes, which was somewhat undermined by the fondness in her smile. “Don’t write him off just yet — from what I've heard, Magnus Bane puts on one hell of a show.”
“Alexander, I take it?” Magnus asked, stepping through the open doorway into the studio.
The figure by the mirror didn’t move. “It’s Alec, and you’re late.”
“Sorry about that, I’m still getting used to the traf—” Magnus cut himself off as Alec turned and he was met with warm hazel brown eyes. “I brought you coffee.”
“What?”
“Flat white,” Magnus specified, holding out one of the paper cups as a peace offering.
Alec stared at it blankly. “I don’t drink milk.”
“Oh. My bad, I guess I’ll just...” Magnus turned to drop the cup into an empty waste paper basket, but before he could, Alec had closed the distance between them and swiped it from his hand.
“Hang on.” He passed by Magnus to stick his head into the hallway and shout. “Izzy, you want some coffee?”
Magnus watched in bemusement as a girl with a sleek black ponytail came to claim the cup.
“Who’s this from?” she asked, flashing Magnus a brilliant grin over Alec’s shoulder when he mumbled something in reply. “Hey, I’m Isabelle — big fan.”
“Of me?”
“I follow you on Instagram, and you just bought me coffee so, yeah,” she joked.
“Amazing,” Magnus laughed, returning her easy smile. “Are you...” He trailed off, looking between her and Alec.
“One of the professionals,” Alec supplied, “and my sister.”
“And as his sister, it’s my duty to tell you he’s a double espresso man, but he’ll take coconut hot chocolate if he’s mo—” Alec elbowed her in the ribs but she continued all the same “—ping like a little bitch.”
Magnus turned a snort into an entirely unconvincing cough.
“Shouldn’t you be getting back to Simon?” Alec asked his sister pointedly.
“Spoil sport,” Izzy fired back, before turning back to Magnus. “See you around.”
Magnus waggled his fingers, calling out a “nice to meet you” as Izzy swept away.
Any warmth that might have seeped into Alec’s demeanour during the conversation with his sister vanished the minute she left the room.
“They said you have some experience,” he said, returning to where his phone was plugged into the sound system.
Magnus took a swig of his own coffee, which was doing wonders for his hangover. “I’m no Matthew Bourne, but I can turn out an eight count when I need to.”
Alec glanced backwards over his shoulder, looking decidedly sceptical, and Magnus fought the urge to stand up straighter. “Did you bring shoes?”
Magnus arched a brow. “Did you think I was gonna dance in flip-flops?”
“Get changed then, we’ve got a lot to cover.”
Alec looked down at his phone, seemingly searching out the backing track while Magnus reluctantly abandoned his coffee in favour of the tote he’d brought his dance shoes in.
The wardrobe department had had a nightmare trying to source shoes in a size 14, so he’d offered up some of his more demure heels, to which they’d added a suede sole. This particular pair was pale gold with a delicate double strap.
He rolled up the sweatpants he was wearing so Alec would be able to see his footwork and shrugged off the denim jacket, before stretching his arms above his head. After he’d dragged himself out of bed, he’d thrown on the nearest top he could find, which happened to be a sky-blue crop top bedazzled with a diamanté pineapple.
Oh well.
Alec turned around, eyes catching on his exposed midriff before flicking down to his shoes. Magnus resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“Problem?”
“Hmm? Uh, no, it’s just... are you sure you want to practise in heels?”
“Why not?”
“We’re doing a jive this week, and there’s a lot of footwork.”
“All the better to learn it in what I’ll be wearing on the night.”
“Aren’t they uncomfortable?”
Magnus let out a bark of laughter. “Darling, you should see my pleasers.”
From the look on Alec’s face, he had no idea what that meant, and he didn’t care to find out.
Over the next few hours, Alec taught him the first part of the routine, which had been choreographed to Elle King’s ‘Ex’s and Oh’s’ — a reference to his relationship with Camille that Magnus wasn’t exactly thrilled about.
Alec was a patient, if exacting, teacher, and by the time lunch rolled around Magnus had most of the basic steps down. It was only when they ran the opening section for the first time that it clicked.
As they danced across the room in tandem, Alec’s gaze never strayed from his feet. It would have been perfectly unremarkable — after all, the footwork was the most complicated part of the routine — if, that is, Alec had looked him in the eye just once in the past two hours.
Between that and the little breath the dancer sucked in just before Magnus touched him, he’d come to the begrudging realisation that Alec was simply... uncomfortable.
While gay and bisexual men were no strangers to the world of dance, ballroom had a reputation for being more traditional, uptight even. Magnus had known that when he signed up to the show.
Still, he was expecting online trolls and bigoted producers, not a partner that couldn’t wait to get out the room.
It made him feel unsavoury, somehow.
He took a breath, and forced a smile.
He’d never cancelled a show, and he didn’t intend to start now — not least because Raphael would have his head if he so much as floated the idea.
If the powers that be had any mercy, this would all be over in a week’s time.
