555-5565...
"You've reached the voice mail box of Magnus Bane. I'm currently busy doing something—or someone— that I refuse to stop. If you are a warlock, werewolf, vampire, or some other Downworlder in need of assistance, press 1. Nephilim who are important, press 2. Everyone else; hang up the damn phone, I'm not gonna get back to you."
Beep!
Nephilim who are important...that once described him. Caller-ID meant there was rarely a time he called and the phone simply rang. (In fact, he was fairly certain he hadn't heard this particular voice recording, even though Magnus changed it five times a month.) Caller-ID now guaranteed the silence on the other end of the line.
"Call me back."
He left a shorter message each time, his throat getting tighter and tighter. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think straight, couldn't see clearly. Even the Greater Demon poisoning hadn't brought him this close to death.
Three calls later, his phone was broken. Jace babbled something about friends and ex-boyfriends and insisted that Alec could do better. "It's over," he said bluntly. "Leave it in the past."
But it wasn't in the past, it was the present, the future, reality and fantasy, dreams and nightmares. It wasn't real because it couldn't be, but if it hurt this much then it had to be. Sleeping didn't help; he was waylaid every night from the darkest corners of his mind. Morning brought no relief either. But maybe if he apologized one more time, maybe he'd hear him this time...
So Alec found himself at a payphone, voice cracked, "I need you. I'm sorry. Please, I can't..." But a harsh, "Don't call me again, Nephilim" and a click! cut him off.
He drops the germ-infested phone and falls to the ground. If he curls in tight enough, everything is muffled and dark and he can pretend that Magnus is there and not in Brooklyn regretting Alec. He could pretend that they were in London, or Rome, or Paris, defying everything the Clave and his parents wanted him to be. They could be watching a opera or out to dinner or curled up watching a movie. Maybe they were even in the ever-changing apartment a few miles from Alec's current location, laying next to each other in silence, while Magnus played with his hair. Maybe Magnus would whisper "beautiful" and Alec would flush and pretend he hadn't heard because he still had no idea how to respond.
He wasn't beautiful; he knew that. Maybe for those short months, he had been, but he wasn't anymore. He didn't know how or when it happened (did he say something? did he do something?), but he knew it had.
If he was still beautiful, Magnus would want him.
Alec curled in tighter on himself. If he was still beautiful, maybe he'd want himself.