He was reading a novel when he realized he loved her.
He sat, pale ivory light bleeding over the contours of his face. The sun had long gone down, darkness stripping the world of color, and the thin shred of moonlight outlined his profile. A light gesture, like a warm caress on his cheek, hardly comforting.
His eyes scanned the words, reading them yet not reading them, emeralds looking passed them, through them, meaning lost along with his mind in the off-white, raspy pages.
His doorbell then rang, quick and urgent. He set the book down, hands running through his glitter covered hair, a slouch in his step. The front door shot open (he apparently had left the door unlocked), heels clicking; slow stepping, silk robe flowing, he was observant, eyes scanning and brooding, regret trailing the length of his being.
He regretted everything.
She walked in clumsily, always clumsy, life falling apart and misery almost dotting the bottom of her eyelids. Booze was in hand, clutched tightly in her fingers, the bottle almost empty. Her life was full of almosts, almost falling up the stairs as she had been climbing to his floor, almost getting crushed by a car as she had been on her way to his apartment, almost punching her boyfriend in the restaurant, life almost falling apart, almost jumping off that building when she had been fed up.
It was funny, because he had been the one running to catch her when she had fallen.
Standing in place, he eyed her, nonchalant and shielded green-yellow eyes idle. She was all red and drunk, crimson brushing pale cheeks in intoxication and anger both. Ambers flamed, bloody with the rage and fury almost puffing out her ears. He wanted to laugh. The difference in intoxication and ire was scarce, a cloudy gray, melding together, ideal.
"What is it this time?" he asked slowly, amusement giddy in his eyes, arms crossed. He was always amused, a brick wall hindering him restless, powerless, a fraction of the person he wanted to be. He was rendered a joking, bisexual warlock, always trying to hide the feelings that wanted to surface.
She grunted, mouth curving into an expert pout, and took another swig of her drink, the contents completely drained. "More," she demanded gruffly.
His mask had been perfected over the years, never faltering. "I think you've had enough, Clarissa."
And enough she had. Her very fancy outfit was disheveled, trousers along with the very pretty cardigan and blouse. Limp strands of her fiery red hair chewed the edges of her face, going rampant, like a wild animal of carnage. The alcohol had done its number on her, strange and delirious.
She made a notion to throw the empty bottle at him, however it never left her hand. "Idiot Magnus!" She plopped on his couch, energy drained, keen to a corpse that just lost its life.
He sat down next to her, full of purpose and trying to ignore the very pungent breaking feeling enveloping his heart.
"What'd he do this time?" he questioned, meaningfully soft. She leered at him, lack of booze forgotten, and tears framing her eyeballs.
"That...That stupid Jace! He...he–!" She collapsed in his arms, broken and sobbing.
He kept trying to ignore that falling feeling in his heart.
He was so regretful.
He was at work when he realized he was so foolish.
He was going through paperwork, droning and lifeless as always, a dent in the career he loved and hated. A normal, sunny day, ignoring the storming clouds in his heart, a shattering feeling always there, there, there, permanently indented into the papers of his being. The sun was high in the sky, steaming and glorious, engulfing the world with its glow. The sunlight always paled in comparison to those emerald, emerald eyes.
He always loved those eyes, fiery in determination, smiling in mirth, a melody he didn't recall ever composing.
She barged into his office, happiness bubbling the usual stoic aura. She shined brighter than the sun, as precious as a diamond and so much more.
He wasn't the reason for her happiness.
She stomped to his desk, beaming; he gave her his full attention, like always, like every other time.
"Magnus!" she screamed, the definition of elated, hands slammed on his desk. He peered up at her through his glasses, careful to hide the sadness glinting off them.
"You're awfully...loud today," he joked. He always joked, paper smirks, twitching smiles, happy facade as see through as glass but it was apparently clouded in Clary Fray's magnificent eyes. He always masqueraded as happy, always for her, always, always, always.
He totally was falling apart inside, behind that very crooked upturn of his lips.
She pouted, again, as childish as she was mature. "I am loud," she retorted. But then that huge, goofy smile spread on her lips, his heart stopping, heavy with lingering feelings and he felt like crying at that very moment. So, so stupid, foolish and breaking; who would be there to catch him when he fell.
She stuck her left hand in his face, the gold band wrapped around her ring finger gleaming, metallic and beautiful in the faint light, blinding his eyes like a cruel joke. Everything was a cruel joke, humanity laughing and him there to bear all the scars.
"He proposed!" she screamed, almost jumping up and down, giggling and happier than ever. She loved playing with the strings of his heart, a sweet yet slicing violin song, pain underlying the softness of the melody. There was always a meaning buried there, just like his heart, down under the feelings that made him want to scream.
He swallowed the thick scratching at his throat, and smiled, truthful and yet still plastic.
"It's about time."
He conveniently left out the part that her "fiancé" had just cheated on her the week before, and with a fairy too.
Magnus Bane smiled until his cheeks hurt, and screamed until his throat bled.
They had met at the party he had years ago. He remembered Clary and the others found him at his New York apartment hosting a party in which Isabelle received an invitation. Magnus, assuming that he was the one who gave them the invitation, said that he "must have been drunk" because he doesn't give invitations to Shadowhunters.
He had immediately been drawn to her, smitten with her, falling so deep so fast he couldn't stop himself. Then he remembered her, Jocelyn's daughter. The girl whose memories he stole.
He watched over her like an older brother would do to his younger sister. He always teased her, joking and "sparkly bisexual warlock" comments were thrown back at him. Days morphed into weeks, weeks disguising as months and soon two years went by, and Magnus Bane was madly in love with Clary Fray.
But one day, one bleak and quiet day, raindrops dropping from the sky and thunder sounding in the distance, the loud booms synching with the pain in his heart, she had told him.
She had told him, whispered in the silent shudder of the rain, echoed and repeated, that she had loved him. He had wanted to hold her, wrap his arms around her and wait until some few minutes had turned into forever. "I'll love you forever and always," she had murmured to him, in the dead of night, frozen and broken.
When she had tried loving him, he just smiled, bright and shaking, and shook his head no.
"I'm sorry, Clary."
There had been many, many reasons behind that small sentence, peeking behind the words spoken with a level tone, hiding the meaning that secretly stood under the sound of voice.
He had felt her shatter underneath his fingertips, and she had gently let go of him.
It was dire, the mistake permanent, never to be erased or changed.
"Someone like me can't love you," he had wanted to say, but the important words died in his throat, tucked away in his mind and never resurfacing. "She's too good for me," he had tried reassuring his twisted mind. "I don't deserve her."
Now, he quietly asked himself, why he couldn't love her. It was always the same answer.
I'm immortal after all.
He was shopping for a tuxedo, preferably a sparkly black one, when he wanted to turn back time.
Scientists were amazing nowadays, and perhaps they could create an invention to help him, ease his insane mind, help him reverse a mistake he should never have committed in the first place. Mistakes were dangerous, he decided, dangerous and toxic, like poison seeping through his veins.
Jace Lightwood shot a lopsided smile at the warlock, questioning and feral.
"The suit looks good, right?"
Magnus gave the other man a corner gaze, the other's eyes a venomous sharp, deceiving and predatory. The warlock gave a curt and hurried nod, eyes examining the sleek ebony silk suit yet hardly giving it any thought.
Instead, he gave a warning, a hiss that put snakes to shame. Poison laced the words, potent and sharp.
"If you hurt her, you know I'll kill you, right?"
Jace just howled in a croaked laugh.
And temporarily, the broken feeling Magnus had was replaced with anger.
He wondered if Jace deserved Clary anymore than he did.
He stared at her dressed in pure white then he wanted to cry.
He walked into her dressing room, clad in a sparkly black suit, chatter swirling around the church with guests. He felt suffocated in that suit, squishing his limbs just like that cold hand wrapped around his heart. He was falling apart, world crumbling to just fragmented pieces scattered about his feet. He was falling.
She swiveled around, veils and ruffles and patterns. She had this simple elegance to her, soft and beautiful, fluttering like an angel (or half-angel for the matter) and looked so, so delicate. She was fragile, a doll masquerading as an action figure. She tried to be strong, tried to assure him that no, she wasn't broken. No, she wasn't making the wrong decision. No, she wasn't going to go to the edge of a tall building again.
Hair nipped at her jaw line, loose around her ears and curly, a stark shock against the white of her dress. She smiled bright, so blinding that it almost hurt to look at her.
"You look...gorgeous. But you definitely need more glitter." he said jokingly as he flashed her a smile of his own, corners tugged upwards almost forcefully. He didn't think his eyes were playing tricks on him, because he thought he caught a glimmer of sadness in her bowed eyes, emeralds glued to the floor and smile looking strained.
"Thank you." A genuine whisper of words, silent and as breezy as the wind. And then she looked at him. "You're always brooding; what's on your mind?"
He was always brooding, pondering what went wrong in his life, what was going to go wrong, why everything went wrong and why he wanted to scream his insides out every night.
Why did he let her go?
"You're sure, right?" Such simple words, simply phrased and with letters blocking the meaning. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
A flicker of surprise crossed her features, perfect and porcelain, as flawless as a goddess. She was stone, a statue, clad in white and beautiful. "Of course." Her lips curled wider, almost plastic.
And then he wanted to laugh, a shiver rippling through his body, a cry gnawing at the edges of this throat. Why did he let her go? Why couldn't he love her?
He may be the High Warlock of Brooklyn but he could never answer those two questions.
They had been friends from the start.
Her love had been shot down, his reasons still blurry. Everything was blurry, colors melded to black and white, the vibrancy drained. It was all bleary, dark, and unattainable.
She had been vibrant, a flower with wilting petals, and one particular night, he had been brooding.
"What's on your mind?" she had asked. She had looked at him, quiet contemplation, elbows leaning on the railing. The dark sky had been consuming, black like a sea of navy blue, stars peppering and casting a silver glow. Wind had breezed through hair, ruffled and quiet, a thief in the night.
He had shot her a sideways glance, questioning. "What makes you ask that?" he replied, airily and shadowy. He hadn't felt much regret then. It hadn't hit him. But it would, later, a boulder crushing his limbs and puncturing his lungs. He had found it hard to breathe, then.
Her mouth had been pressed in a thin line, pondering, as if mimicking him. "You're always brooding."
He had finally turned to her then, eyes screaming in question. "Am I?"
She had given a curt nod, final. "Why?" She had spoken as if she hadn't known, his world just a burrow of lies and betrayal and sadness, a piece of what he wanted it to be. He had been shallow, a little shell of emotions, brittle and cracking.
Maybe she had sensed his discomfort, his pain, the eyes that hid thousands and thousands of words
She had smiled. "You do know I'm here for you, right?"
Epiphany of meanings that little question had held, and suddenly, his heart had swelled, fluttering.
"I know."
Now he stood, at the altar, watching the blushing bride walk with frantic nervousness and happiness and a smudge of hesitation, mixed together to form an emotion quite unreal to him.
Her face had been painted behind her veil, graceful and beautiful, shocking ivory cascading and flooding warmth into the lesser colors of the room. Magnus was clad in pitch black (sparkly of course), save the red of his tie. Her bridesmaids had been wearing red as well, a pale rose, bloody on their skin and still charming. She had always been a fan for the lesser, more painful colors of the rainbow, keen on escaping the cliché of every other woman alive.
Like a fairy she fluttered, graceful, and he couldn't look at her any longer. He was standing at the altar, standing right beside the groom. The groom's wandering dangerous gaze set Magnus' instincts alight with an angry fire, rabid and ready to scream. Yet, he kept quiet, a cry gnawing at the back of his throat.
Clary Fray was going to become Clary Lightwood in a matter of minutes. And Magnus Bane, the man who was madly in love with Clary Fray (he was madly in love with her, could take care of her, could show her the world, could do anything her tossed heart desired, could attach his soul to hers, devout to only her, like a goddess, he let her slip away, could do nothing about this but stand at the altar, feigning such a crooked and cracking smile that he wondered why he hadn't fallen to pieces yet.
She had ascended the steps, her hands in Jace's, and Magnus bit back a shout of agony. He couldn't watch this, he couldn't watch this, no he couldn't watch this. Why did he let her go? Why couldn't he love her? Why was fate so unfair? Why was he falling apart?
The vows were said, crisp and clear in his ears but slicing his heart like a particularly tasty fruit. They had been merciless with him, playing with the strings of his heart like a weak puppet. He had become a hollow of a being, empty, a ghost of the person he had been, at some distant time ago.
Clary's lips carved into a smile, too stretched for the warlock's taste.
"I do."
Clary couldn't help but notice her eyes flicker to his when she said those legendary words.
He really couldn't hold back the screams.
Magnus Bane blinks a mile with his cat-like eyes, confusion lingering in his features and sweat glistening on his skin, as if he has just run a marathon. He is shaking, heart hammering, shattering with the realization of what could have been.
But it's all not true. Clary isn't dating Jace. Clary doesn't come to Magnus only when she is hurting. Clary isn't engaged to Jace. Clary isn't a bride, sealing her fate with the man she thinks she loves.
He jerks around, eyes locking on the red-haired woman whose heart he has just broken. She told him she loves him, will always love him, raindrops falling and a world of pain surrounding them. He refused; a guy like me can't love someone like her.
He thinks and thinks and thinks. He can't live in a world like what he has imagined. He cannot let Clary date Jace. He cannot let her marry him. He cannot let her frail little soul be tormented and ripped apart by a man who she thinks loves her.
He calls out her name, echoing like a shadow in the rain, meaningful. She swivels around and is enveloped in his arms, whispers hitting her ear like a ray of light. "I'm sorry, Clary. I love you, and I will love you forever. Even if it means shortening my lifespan, I'll find a way.
He holds her tight, and she holds him as if she's holding onto dear life, face peaceful yet coloring high in red, a soft yet placid "Stupid warlock," murmured against the collar of his shirt. He smiles, wide and unbroken, kissing her as if the world is melting about them.
She laughs with him, and there's no life without her by his side.