Originally published June 6th, 2014. Rewritten version published June 8th, 2016. Unedited.
Rating will most likely increase to M at some point.
Prologue.
The first time they meet is purely by chance. There's no form of fate toying with the strings of their lives, intertwining them with a predetermined destiny neither can deny, nor is there some meddling friend with questionable intentions forcing the two of them together. It's nothing but Alec and Magnus and a fair bit of good timing that grinds the gears to life, though a badly-aimed football might have something to do with it as well.
There's nothing notably spectacular about the day they meet, either. It's an average, sunny day in an average, busy city, and the state park is packed full of average, happy people hoping to enjoy it. The birds chirp the same tunes they always have, leaves billowing on gusts of wind as unpredictable as usual, and Magnus's sequined leather jacket is the only thing prominently out of place.
The bright pink fabric has earned him the attention of most of the unremarkably ordinary people he passes, though he hardly notices when his own focus is glued so firmly to the glittering purple device in his hand. His painted nails click across the screen at a rapid pace, practiced precision in every expeditious press or swipe, and it buzzes constantly against his palm with each new message it receives.
To put it quite frankly, Magnus is as out of place here as a zebra prancing through the arctic tundras. He doesn't visit parks often, if ever, and it shows in every aspect of his figure. It's probably the reason he's here at all - a desperate attempt to ditch the paparazzi by diverting his usual course to somewhere they'd never in a million years have expected him to go.
He could probably appreciate the natural beauty of the place, if he weren't so attached to his electronic device and his connection to all the latest gossip. There's something quaint and subtle in the way the trees spatter randomly across the open fields, well-kept wooden benches lining a dated cobblestone path and inoperative streetlights swirling as tall as the centuries old oak tree a ways down the trail. It's the kind of beautiful thing he'd usually find inspiration in, find himself wholly and undeniably perplexed by, find remnants of a time when he didn't have a fancy phone or a fancy jacket or paparazzi tracking his every move.
Maybe he'd be reminded of the home he grew up in - fields and fields and more fields with a dash of ancient glory and outdated structures doing nothing to block the view of the clear blue sky.
But he's not because he hasn't really taken a second to even briefly note his surroundings, let alone allow them to send thrums of nostalgia and appreciation through his bloodstream. He's glued to his phone and the life he has now, full of skyscrapers and a record label with high expectations and fans he can't let down. He doesn't get to appreciate natural beauty the way he used to anymore, not when it's such an extinct concept in the confines of his new surroundings.
It's something he tries not to think about, no matter how persistent the thoughts may be once the lights have flickered off and he's laying alone in an empty room.
Frowning at his latest text from Ragnor, he purses his lips and attempts to dissuade the prejudice swimming in his stomach. Just because Camille's a stuck-up bitch with nothing better to do than torment the innocent, doesn't mean all rich people are like that. Magnus sure isn't and neither are any of the friends he actually likes.
There's a new message from his manager, too, but he rolls his eyes at the sight and doesn't bother tapping through to actually read it. It's ninety percent guaranteed to be another complaint over him having produced no new songs in quite some time now, the other ten percent going to some overly petrified demands for his current location. He doesn't really care which it is - Magnus wouldn't answer either if his life depended on it. Which is probably an exaggeration, but that's totally beside the point.
There's also the small chance it's to inform him of some jilted ex-lover's recent inquiries about him, one person on a long list of other equally as forgettable people trying to remind him of a night the same as every other for him. It happens more often than he'd like - the men and women he's hooked up with showing up at the studio or trying to contact him through the people he works with. His conquests always have a better memory of their time together than he does, are always the ones who can't forget and can't move on and seek more than the one night he was willing to give them.
Whatever. They get over it eventually. It's not like he told them that it was anything more than sex.
His phone chooses that moment to light up with a call, the grey figure of a contact without a set picture displaying itself across his screen. Magnus wrinkles his nose when he notes his manager's name scrolling above the image, swiping at the red rejection button before tapping back through to some gossip magazine's webpage.
He gets a little lost reading about some internet celebrity's alleged breakup, hungrily devouring the horribly inaccurate story as he wanders aimless through the park. So lost, in fact, that he completely misses the football flying towards him and shouts for him to get out of the way. It rams hard into his shoulder, jarring his arm and sending his expensive phone flying out of his hands onto the hard stone path beside him. His balance is equally skewed, heels teetering before he collapses to the grass with a grunt.
Wincing at the sound of shattered plastic, Magnus casts a wistful glance at the shattered device now sprayed across the park pathway. He rubs at his sore shoulder, frowns as he tries to ease away the bright red imprint no doubt displayed beneath his jacket, and tries not to groan when he thinks of how much of a hassle it's going to be to get a new phone. For the third time in as many months. His manager's going to be pissed.
It's then that Magnus catches sight of what's slammed into him, the worn football lying guiltily to his right like the smug perpetrator of a genius crime. He hopes the vicious glare he shoots it makes it think twice about its deplorable actions, brushing the dirt off his fitted jeans and glaring harder when he notes the grass stain on his calf. He plucks himself up unhappily, lips pursed and eyes narrowed.
Leaning down to flip the football into his hands, he considers gathering the ruined remnants of his precious phone before deciding it'll take ten years off his life and serve no real purpose.
Admittedly, Magnus nearly falls right back onto his ass when he turns to find a sweaty, attractive boy now standing in front of him. He hadn't heard him approach, preoccupied with sending hateful thoughts towards an inanimate object, so it's understandable that he has to take a minute to calm himself down. Possibly to resist the urge to swoon as well, he decides absently as he rather unsubtly takes in the man's full appearance. A mess of dark hair, stunning blue eyes, muscles, and a ruffled t-shirt hiding the sweat that drips down his chest - he's probably the hottest thing Magnus has seen in a month (excluding the sight that greets him every time he stops before a mirror, of course).
But if anyone asks, Magnus's blush is one hundred percent a result of the sweltering summer heat.
"Hey," the boy greets, grinning lopsidedly in a way that sends all his features askew. There's a casual nature to his tone, to his stance, and Magnus can't help but offer a wide grin of his own in return.
"Hey," Magnus replies, the single word so coquettish it'd be hard to miss. The part of him that knows how inappropriate he can be, that remembers every awful situation he's ever gotten himself into, tells him not to flirt. It urges him to smile in a way that's a bit less of a leer, to laugh and respect this perfect stranger, but Magnus can't bring the rest of him to care. Besides, it's not like he'll ever see this guy again if he ends up rejecting his advances.
The man gestures loosely to the football still clasped between Magnus's manicured nails, his eyes as bright as the sky and so alive they put the budding blooms to shame. "Can I have that back?" he questions lightly, laugh lines prominent above his flushed cheeks. Glancing down at the sporting good in his grip, Magnus blinks in confusion for a moment before returning his gaze to the other man. He tries not to sink too far into those deep blue oceans of serenity, but it's hard when this guy literally looks like he just walked out of a Calvin Klein ad.
Shaking his head, Magnus shifts his expression to something more teasing than flirtatious. "You have awful aim."
His companion laughs jovially in response, the kind of musical sound Magnus wants desperately to write the lyrics to, and it sends something swooping fast through his stomach. His insides twitch, heart flinching, and he realizes he actually might want to know all the different laughs those luscious lips can produce.
Which, okay. Slow down there, Casanova.
"Actually," the stranger informs him kindly, pulling the football from his hands to twirl it between his own. "It was Simon who threw it. I told my brother we shouldn't let him play, but he insisted. Looks like I was right."
The grin that sits beneath those stunning blue oceans of sincerity is the type of smile that Magnus almost never sees - open and honest, real and bright, and so painfully genuine that it makes his heart ache for a simpler life where such a sight would not be so rare an occurrence. It's gorgeous, a reflection of the person to whom it belongs.
"Maybe now your brother will reconsider," Magnus replies with a laugh, the smile growing brighter at his brothers despite how impossible a feat it may have seemed. The guy twists the football in his grip again, glancing down at it briefly. Magnus tries exceedingly hard not to watch his nimble fingers too carefully, but he's pretty sure he fails.
"I doubt it. She's our sister's boyfriend," he explains, the smile softer now as his eyes find the shattered phone beside them. His brows hitch upwards briefly, but they settle back with a small shake of his tangled hair. "We're pretty much required to include him. Apparently regardless of the cost to anyone else's electronics."
He pauses, like he's realized something, and his eyes goes just a little bit wider before he jerks a hand out for Magnus to shake. "I'm Alec, by the way."
It's probably short for something, most likely Alexander, and Magnus wants to roll it across his tongue until he gets sick of the two syllables, but decides that's probably weird. Instead, he reaches to clasp firmly at the offered and even manages to keep his grin in place when he notes how warm and welcoming Alec's grip is. "Magnus," he offers, refusing to swoon. That's not how these things work - others swoon over him, it's not a vice versa kind of thing.
Alec smiles sweetly, wholly unaware as to his inner struggle, and glances over his shoulder in what's probably the direction of his friends. "It was nice to meet you, Magnus. I should probably be headed back before they think I've been murdered or something," he jokes with a light laugh, though there's a tilt to his features that suggests he's not entirely certain he still won't be. Glancing down at the shattered phone crunching beneath the toes of his high heels, Magnus decides he's not even mad. One destroyed device was totally worth this encounter, as much as his manager probably won't think so.
He's mildly surprised Alec hasn't mentioned his name, being that it's fairly unique and he's fairly well-known, but he brushes it off. This guy already doesn't seem like the type of person to be concerned with pop culture, as little as Magnus may know about him.
"Ah, yes. That's probably best," Magnus replies, but it feels like a lie with the way it sits in his throat. He doesn't want to stop speaking to Alec just yet, let alone lose the remarkable view he's being presented with. An idea sparking at the thought, his smile shifts to a smirk as he opens his mouth to continue. "Though, perhaps I should give you my number. You know, just in case I change my mind and decide I do want to kill you after all."
Alec chuckles, shaking his head like it's a fond gesture, despite them having known each other for all of five minutes.
"Very subtle," he comments, the same attractively lopsided grin as before finding his defined features. "I have a boyfriend, though."
His off-hand addition sends disappointing crashing through Magnus for all of half a second before he manages a false pout in return. At least now there's no doubt Alec's batting for his team, even if he's already in the game. It doesn't deter Magnus in the slightest, pout returning to a smirk as he scrawls his number across the stranger's arm anyway. It's times like these that he's grateful for the life he leads, prompting him to keep a sharpie at hand for the occasional fan he stumbles across.
"Well," he grins, the ordinary word sounding extraordinary with the way he practically purrs it. "Should that little situation of yours change, give me a call. Actually, you know what? Call me anyway. Maybe I can change it for you."
He drops a wink, long lashes cloaked with mascara as they sweep across his cheek, and smiles blindingly when Alec rolls his eyes at him. He doesn't protest, though, stroking those nimble fingers across the number with an almost disbelieving grin, and he looks like he might actually call.
Magnus watches him run off back to his friends until he's disappeared out of sight, gaze openly lingering on his ass. No shame.