And Magnus- the same Magnus, still as smooth and bright and glittery as he'd been the night they'd met- Magnus looks at him, lying there so frail and pale, his blue eyes clouded with age. Alec wants to turn away, but can't- cantcantcant- because it's Magnus, and he's so beautiful, so bright, so young and full of life.
He wonders how many times Magnus has done this, how many lovers he's watched grow up and grow old, how many deathbeds he's watched over, how many lives he's mourned.
He's almost afraid to ask Magnus, but hey- he's dying. It can't hurt. But it can, itcanitcanitcan. He asks anyways.
Magnus pauses, hesitates, and Alec is abruptly hit with the thought that maybe he's not the first to ask this, either.
"Just this once, and never again," Magnus finally says, and Alec can see that Magnus- the master of trickery and illusions and witty comebacks- is being, for once, completely honest. Alec is relieved, though he can't say why- it shouldn't matter, but it does, itdoesitdoesitdoes.
As Alec closes his eyes again- perhaps for the last time, perhaps not- he wonders if that glimmer of truth he'd seen in Magnus's cat eyes was also an illusion, and then he wonders how many times Magnus has said those words- Just this once, and never again.