Okay but if you're not absolutely BROKEN over the Malec kiss (yes, it happened) then you probably haven't been on any social media sights in the last like 3 days.
I'm hella problematic about Malec, and I've never written them before, so please excuse how horrid that fic is. But I like it, so PPPFFFTTT
Disclaimer: All rights go to their respectful owners yada yada yada Cassandra Clare owns something and someone else owns something. Can I stop now?
This story has no plot I'm not even kidding I just wrote what felt right I'm sorry.
He stands, breathless, motionless, senseless. What is he doing? What could possibly be going through his mind right now? He doesn't seem to know.
Then suddenly, there's movement.
He can feel his heartbeat, he can hear his own breathing, louder than the sound of his boots hitting the steel stairs he is suddenly ascending. His heart beats harder as he reaches the door at the end of the hall way, just to left of the stairs, his breathing grows louder when that door swings open, seeming by itself; but the blue smoke that slithers through the lock hole shows otherwise.
He knows he's coming. He was expecting him. His heart stops for a beat, then starts again, at a much more erratic pace.
The foyer is as he remembers, it always is, it never changes. The same plant by the door, the same coat rack, the same smell of sandalwood and bark. He always thought that was an odd smell for him to have linger around his home. Bark. It didn't sound like it would suit him. But it did.
The lounge area is different. There is a large, smooth black corner lounge sitting dead smack in the middle of the floor, a comfortable looking recliner right next to the window, and next to that, sat his always full liquor cart.
He's sitting in the recliner, a book in his lap but his eyes were looking out the window, boring a hole in the moon.
He can't hear his breaths any more, but maybe that's because he has lost the ability to breathe. He can't function, he can't move any further because it might kill him.
And it's then, just when he is sure he has met his end, there are cat eyes on him, staring him down from across the room, suddenly he can breathe, suddenly his heart is beating as it should, suddenly he is across the room, sitting on his lap, huffing and puffing and trying hard to think.
What is there to say? What could possibly fix this?
The upside, he notes, is that he hasn't pushed him away. His arms have wrapped around him, his head has turned back up to the sky, but it's something. Some form of invitation and he's willing to accept it.
There's a snap, and suddenly a box of his favourite biscuits are in lap. He chuckles. He sighs. He leans up to kiss his chin, and he smiles when he's met with lips.
He never did know how to say sorry, he may never learn. But at least he met him. At least he met someone who will never, not in his millions of years, push him away.
Let's play a game called, 'Chief sucks at writing so here's some suck-ish Malec.'
Chief.