Robert loved Michael's hands.

If he were an artist, he would draw them every day in every way. Holding a pencil, throwing a blade at a target, raking through his own hair, flat on a table top, pulling back a bowstring, fisted in Robert's hair or shirt…

What was he talking about? Michael's hands. Right.

Robert especially loved Michael's hands when they were slowly working out the knots in his back after a long day of training, or after a demon fight, or just after classes when Robert had gotten riled up at a peer or in a debate. Michael's fingers seemed to seek out every stressed region on Robert's back and shoulders and massage them in to sweet bliss and nothingness. He would also hum softly as he did, mostly lullabies or children's rhymes, which was a gift in itself. (Had Michael's parents known he would sing like the angels in heavenly chorus, and that was why he was named after one? Robert felt neither 'bright' nor 'famous', as his name implied. He only felt bright around Michael and famous when Michael looked at him like he was the North Star. Wow, that was lame as hell.)

It was like a switch flipped inside Robert every time Michael came near and put his hands on the Lightwood - imagine what you will. Robert Lightwood fucking loved Michael Wayland.

There was also the problem of Maryse Trueblood, but he tried to keep her from invading.

It hadn't been a gradual love. Robert hadn't even noticed it until it hit him like a brick and Michael was kissing him and he was kissing back and - fuck, who knew it felt so good to kiss another guy? It was like that with Michael. Robert had a strange inkling that he was Michaelsexual, meaning Michael was the only guy he could do things like kissing with. Whenever he tried to think about Stephen Herondale or even Lucian Graymark like that, he got vaguely sick to his stomach. No, it was only ever Michael Wayland for him. (Or Maryse Trueblood - no, bad. You stop that right now.)

Even today, he could remember Michael's hands. Even when Michael's hands moved no more, he remembered them. Padded fingertips, white scars all over, the rune on the back of his right hand. This strange red dot at the base of his middle knuckle on his middle finger on his right hand. The dark freckles that pockmarked his skin here and there, singular and solitary. He didn't know what he would do without those hands… Until he didn't have them any more. Until those hands didn't hold a pencil any more, didn't throw a blade any more, didn't fist in Robert's hair any more as they kissed and forgot to breathe and ended up light-headed and giddy and completely in love. Until Robert couldn't even remember what the exact pattern of scars on the back of Michael's hands were. Until Robert had three children and saw that one was already downhill to the path of that same pain and loss.

When Robert had begun to notice Alexander's peculiar tendency to stare at Jace when the blond boy wasn't looking or show absolutely no interest in the girls of Shadowhunters that passed through New York, he had almost gotten physically sick. It was the same thing. The exact same thing. Except Robert knew where this would lead. Absolutely no where. He didn't want that; not for Alexander, his little Alec, his first born.

It hurt him that he wasn't able to accept his son, but his heart was so corrupted at this point that Robert couldn't tell the difference between acceptance and dismissal.

His heart hadn't been the same since Michael had gone.

Since those hands he had loved so much, and the person they were attached to even more, weren't there to provide a stress relief.