This is the first chapter in a new chapter fic I am starting which will (hopefully) be updated each week. I don't know how to feel about it, but I am excited because it's so long since i've done a chapter fic. And this one I shall hopefully finish. Enjoy!


A flash of red. A flash of blue. The streaming lights spun in circles, as if choosing who to land on, fluttering ever so slightly as if hesitating before resuming the chase. The music played just slightly too quiet for it to eliminate the awkwardness, and out of the corner of his eyes Magnus could see several interns bobbing their heads, their 2% beers sloshing in their glasses and their strangely large glasses slipping down their noses (Magnus was surprised to see them back in fashion once more). The room was covered in fun things, an Instagram booth filled with cool prompts, a chocolate fountain, even a small slide. But the evening was very much still in the awkward shuffle phase, and Magnus could see that even the most broad-shouldered men were keeping their heads down, the 'fun' things left untouched. The high windows indicated they were in some kind of warehouse (those were all the fashion in those days) and Magnus wondered how most of these people, who clung to their vintage boots and typewriters, would feel if he told them he was there when they were invented. They would probably laugh, a razor sharp edge of nerves running along their tongue. Magnus had heard it before. He seemed to have that effect on people (besides it was massively against Clave law to tell a mundane anything).

Magnus was only half talking to the man in front of him, whose round glasses and sweeping fringe matched everyone else's in the room. You have found a match! It was all so cavalier. And Magnus was trying to enjoy it, trying to throw himself into it, to find laughter in the bubbling 'pop!' of the drinks, but it took so long to get drunk nowadays. He was calcifying, he was sure of it. He was sure it would make him nervous, if his feelings weren't cold and healed over. He could almost laugh, could almost get into it. He hadn't lost it. Not yet. He nodded along to the intern.

Yes, the photo shoot was very successful.

Yes, his new piece was delightful.

Thank you, it means a lot.

His eyes drifted off into the crowd, absentmindedly stirring his drink with his right hand, small sparks of blue evaporating from his fingers like old smoke. Magnus appreciated the small fizz in his veins as the magic dropped from his pointed nails, purple and dashed with glitter. It wasn't exactly well known that Magnus was a Warlock. Or 'eccentric' as time magazine had called him (their fairy make-up artist covering her laughing mouth with the back of her hand), you say tomayto, I see tomahto, it was all the same. In fact, it wasn't well known that magic existed at all. Magnus scanned the room; mundane, mundane, mundane. Magnus thought he saw a werewolf before realising it was just one of these oddly large beards that had come back into fashion. Magnus wasn't a fan. It was remarkable what mundanes would consider 'eccentric', especially given his reputation, Magnus was getting to the point where he believed his assistant could walk in on him levitating above his desk and not even bat an eyelid. They were an exceptionally dense race. And yet, Magnus did have a soft spot for them. There was a fight that lived within their chests, a fire, that came from mortality, a spark in the eye that came from the mentality, one life, one chance, live fast, die hard; Magnus found mundane expressions rather depressing. Nevertheless, they were feisty in a way that one just wasn't when one had all the time to lie around. It was a quality that Magnus appreciated, that he desperately tried to emulate, in his attempt to avoid calcification.

'Shall we write that on your forehead?' Said Ragnor Fell, thumbing the latest addition of Magnus' magazine, 'Magnus Bane, lover of mundanes'.

But Ragnor could mock all he wanted, Magnus wished to feel alive, he didn't want concrete to grow over his heart and stop him from feeling. He had promised that to himself a long time ago.

And the intern was still talking, as Magnus caught sight of himself in one of the large, lit mirrors they had so nicely installed. His hair was jet black, combed into a small quiff and gelled, with purple streaks running through it. His green eyes (he was wearing contacts, with the cat eyes even the mundanes might catch on) were perfectly highlighted with excessive black, smoky eyeshadow and winged eyeliner, (it was all the craze) with glitter swirled into the beautiful penmanship. His lips had been outlined in red and his lips were coated in a lipstick that was thick and matte. His black skinny jeans (quite possibly his favourite thing from this era), clung effortlessly to his legs and his black top hung loosely from his jutted collar bones. However, quite possibly his favourite thing about his outfit were his boots, big enough to stamp through any trapdoor and decorated with a rich and deep purple, glinting small silver chains dangled, weaving through the black laces. Magnus caught several people staring with admiration.

He saw people looking, their hands itching for a pen, a camera, to capture his outfit choices and take the world by storm, as Magnus had so many times before. His face splashed across the pages of vogue, the new crazes in male make-up, eyeliner, concealer and glitter? (Magnus had always been surprised by the mundanes strictly enforced rules on gender and personal grooming). Or his shoot for Alexander McQueen which had the world rushing to the shops to buy scarves (of course what they didn't know was that every individual in that shoot was from the down world, with one blog had commented on the faerie's 'enchanting eyes', even Alexander himself was a vampire.) Magnus' desire to stay aware from mundane media had only made him more 'mysterious' to the paparazzi and the public. Not the first time, Magnus had found himself rolling his eyes and the trivial things onto which humans could lock themselves. They were truly creatures of juxtaposition, of fiery nature and of tantamount importance but also of checking the door was locked three times and obsessing over pictures of Magnus walking from one car to another car, Magnus could never truly understand it. Bane out for lunch? Bane seen walking from the gym. Bane spotted at the local park. Yes? And? Then again he had met Julius Caesar and Marianne Antoinette, so he guessed after that nothing could phase him.

And the intern was still talking, his cheeks deepening red. It was cute really, the way he obviously had a crush on Magnus, his words stuttering a little when he addressed him. And Magnus would be interested too, he was plenty cute, his hair sandy and his eyes a vibrant brown, his glasses were slightly wonky in a way that was endearing but not dorky. But he was too keen, he couldn't be real around someone like that, couldn't open up to him. The minute he told that boy he was a warlock he would be blabbing it all over town, talking to the crowd of cameras that waited outside. So, no, Magnus let him have his crush. He was sure it would disappear soon enough.

Magnus could see several important men over in the corner his publicist had wanted to mark the 'VIP' area, which Magnus had refused. He didn't know why these men should get access to slightly more comfortable pillows. Nevertheless it happened, people knew their place, they wouldn't sit on the sofa, for sign or not, it was VIP. Magnus sighed, everything was so set in stone with this race, glancing across the faces he saw the same as always, white males, you'd think this race would have shook it up by now, it had been literally hundreds of years. Magnus knew he should probably go talk to them, say hello, tell his anecdotes, for the sake of the clothes if not himself.

"Please, excuse me." Magnus smiled at his intern, noticing his cheeks turn a shade that was positively magenta.

Magnus made his way through the crowd, the people parting as if he were Moses, and they small atoms in the red sea. Celebrity culture had grown old fast for Magnus, he liked the attention but he didn't like the hierarchy, he didn't like people avoiding him for fear, he liked to talk and speak to people. There were thousands of people and he wanted to know their stories. Vogue had described his as warm and down-to-earth (which was just a nice way of saying he wasn't an arsehole) and Magnus wondered what the other people they interviewed were like, it was an odd concept to him, for people to like him merely for being pleasant and polite. Then again, he was in New York.

His eyes drifted away from the VIP area, from the lush cushions and the carpet made from real llama wool. And that's when he saw him. Just tall enough to peek out from the crowd, his back straight in a way that was warm and welcoming, lacking the usual arrogance of those who were tall. His looks were incredibly striking, a defined chin and cheekbones, arching eyebrows and piercing blue eyes. The air seemed to curve around him, respecting his space like railings round the Mona Lisa. His black hair curled effortlessly as he ran his chiselled hand through it, scrunching and ruffling it underneath his fingertips. But best of all was his smile, and the slight echo of a laugh Magnus could hear across the room, his mouth opening wide to reveal his slightly crooked teeth. His eyes lit up and Magnus saw, for the first time that night, someone truly enjoying themselves, soaking in the company, not caring about the volume of the music or the status of the people surrounding him, someone soaking in the energy of those around him, and expelling it from himself, as if floating effortlessly on a cloud. It was a beautiful sight to behold.

Magnus stared a little, and, with a sudden disregard for those surrounding him, nudged a smaller man to his left, his elbow catching the other man's chest.

"Who is that?" Magnus said, motioning towards the man.

"I believe that's Alec Lightwood." The man said, an arch of surprise in his low voice, "he's a model, fairly new to the scene I believe."

"Alec Lightwood." Magnus said, rolling the name along his tongue. "I like it." And the smaller man said something, adjusting his glasses nervously with his right hand, but Magnus drowned him out, focusing of the curve of Alec's lips as he gesticulated, telling a story, and gaining laughs from a small group around him. He couldn't help but smile himself. Alec Lightwood. He would remember that name.

He felt his feet moved automatically towards him, as if drawn by some sort of enchantment. Magnus started to wonder whether Alec was a faerie of some kind. He certainly had the cheekbones for it. But before he could reach him he heard the chant of; Speech! Speech! Speech! And several hundred pairs of eyes looking expectantly. He turned his head and the blue eyes were lost to the crowd. Another time maybe. After all, Magnus had all the time in the world.


Please tell me what you think! And have a nice day!