AN:
I'm not an English native speaker, and I don't own the Mortal Instruments.
Warnings: swearing, prostitution, violence, anorexia, homophobia, possible lemons in the future.
Usual, big thank you to Madame OwlEyes, my precious beta.
And oh my god guys, I was so shocked by response to the first chapter. Thank you so, so much for all the reviews, and alerts and favourites. It meant so, so much for me ::cuddles readers:: Hope everyone got my review reply, if someone didn't, then I'm sorry.
It is sweet to dance to violins
When Love and Life are fair:
To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
Is delicate and rare:
But it is not sweet with nimble feet
To dance upon the air!
~~The Ballad of Reading Gaol, Pt. II, Oscar Wilde
The grass Alec was laying on was like a soft, vibrant-green carpet. It was a warm, sunny, spring Sundayand he was lazing around in the Central Park. He loved Sheep Meadow. And not only because it was so close to his favourite Strawberry Fields - which reminded him of John Lennon, whose music was his guilty pleasure, but also because it was always full of people that he could observe shamelessly. Now his hands itched to draw the small dog and girl running around her parents' blanket. He had thought that he wanted to fully relax in the warm, delicate sun's rays, and didn't bring any supplies with him. Now he regretted it deeply.
He reflected how only a year before he would be having a delicious, home-made Sunday dinner at this time, and felt a painful pang in his chest. He was sure that his parents and Izzy were now doing just that, but he hadn't been at such dinner in a long time; he didn't want to intrude after the coming-out fiasco. He wondered why he did that. He hadn't had a real boyfriend since his first and last high-school relationship ended, so what was the point, he mused. Was it even worth it?
Alec willed his bitter thoughts away, and stretched like a big, lazy cat, his bones cracking a little from laying nearly motionless for more than an hour. He had put that announcement, Isabelle was pushing him to, on Internet yesterday, and now was anxiously waiting if there was anyone interested. He didn't think, he would find anyone as he didn't have much to pay, but it was worth a shot. It wasn't like he could go to random strangers on the street and ask them to pose for him;people would think he's insane.
Alexander sighed tiredly opening the book, and lit off his cigarette; inhaling deeply and allowing tobacco smoke invading his lungs to calm him down. It was the tenth call this day and none of the people who were interested wanted to model for him for such low price. They were all picky, and when heard that he was only an art student, turned him down immediately. He mentally cursed Isabelle's idea; he hadn't anticipated that his offer would be so attractive – at least until he spoke of money; his phone was going off all the time.
He was thinking about taking off that stupid announcement or simply turning off his phone ,and just drawing some of Izzy's friends. She sure as hell had dozens of them. But still something prevented him, he didn't want to work with some shallow,angst-ridden teen. He wanted to find someone worth drawing, someone who would catch his attention and inspire him, and he felt in his bones that the wait would be really worth it.
His azure eyes narrowed and he puffed with exasperation when he heard the tune that indicated that someone was calling him again . He was sure that in a few days he would despise The Heart-shaped Box by Nirvana, even though it was always one of his all-time favourites. He put his halfway-finished fag in the ashtray, and snatched the black, torture device with irritation.
"Yes?" He snapped, annoyed that one more person disturbed his reading of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest". Damn, he wanted to know what Mc. Murphy would do to annoy that mean harpy managing the Hospital.
"Hi, I read that ad about modeling on Internet, is it still actual? Or am I late?" Answered deep,rich, luscious voice; Alec was shocked to the silence."Oh, I forgot to introduce myself, how rude, I'm Magnus Bane."
"Y.. yes, the offer is still on. " He stuttered and chastised himself. He was behaving like a high school girl, just because some guy's voice sounded nice. "Not nice" He thought. "It sounded like a pure sex."
"You still there?" Magnus inquired, and Alec felt like a total idiot. He had to get grip on himself.
"Yeah, sorry about that. Like I said the offer is still on, but the payment is not very big, and if you're thinking about professional modeling… Well, I'm not going to promote you. I'm just an art student who needs someone to pose for him, I mean for me, and the teacher won't allow me to work on portraits of any of my friends and…" Alec was babbling desperately, trying to conceal his previous almost-minute lapse of silence.
"Doesn't matter, I'll take it." Magnus cut him off curtly, his tone rude.
"But… but you don't know how much…"
"Like I said it doesn't matter." Magnus brushed him off like he was in a big hurry. "It will be interesting experience, and any money will be good. So you probably wanna meet somewhere to see me, after all you will draw me or paint or whatever else, so you must like my appearance?"
"Of course, well let's say … you know that Starbucks at theFlatbush Avenue, near Brooklyn Academy of Music?"
"Sure, I live nearby."
"Excellent, be there at 5 p.m. tomorrow?"
"Sure, Bye." His soon-to-be-model hung on him when Alec suddenly realized that he didn't ask how he looked like, or didn't even have a chance to introduce himself. How were they going to recognize themselves? "Well, I'll cross that bridge, when I come to it." He mused and smiled with satisfaction. He finally had someone to draw, or at least he thought so. Suddenly he felt giddy, his dark mood already forgotten.
As he resumed his reading, he thought that he couldn't wait till tomorrow. He wanted to find out if the voice suited the looks.
Magnus put his blackberry down and admired his freshly made manicure, he wasn't sure if he did the right thing. That art student shouldn't really be younger than him, but he sure sounded like some high-school kid. It annoyed him to no end. "But after all, it's a job, and if it meant one client less a day, I would take it any day." He mused.
He hated his so-called job with passion, but it was like a drug. When you started it, you fell deeply, became addicted, dependent on it. There were many names for him, because of what he had been doing for living since he was seventeen – a gigolo, a whore, a prostitute… - but he called himself an Escort. It didn't sound so crude that way and sometimes it helped him not to feel so disgusted with his body. But deep-down he knew what he was – a pathetic, used excuse for a human being – and he was perfectly aware what people thought of such likes as him.
His thoughts drifted to his quite happy childhood, well happy until his mum died when he was six. He didn't remember much of his mother before her illness – foggy flashes of her lovely face, delicious pancakes on weekend mornings, and warm, delightful laugh ringing through their small flat. But these which were vividly imprinted in his mind, were the memories of clean, sterile smell of hospital, and white, small room where his mom was laying motionlessly, her face much paler than usual, her jet-black hair contrasting strongly with the whiteness of the pillows. Her face became thinner and thinner showing of her high cheeks bones, and replacing the usual softness of her beautiful features while the cancer was eating her away.
He remembered being scared and confused, because he had no idea what was really going on, and his father didn't want to explain him "why his mommy was at that awful place instead of home, playing with him". He remembered how his father lashed out at him, calling him selfish brat and taking away his favourite teddy bear as a punishment. But the most vividly of all he remembered the day his mum died. He didn't understand anything, a month ago she had been fine – maybe had been sleeping more than usual – but had been fine, and now she was dead, gone? He didn't even completely understand the word.
The nurse at the hospital said that she was in the better place, but where was that better place? The best place in the world was at home with him and daddy. When he asked his dad about it in the car on their way home, the man snapped at him telling him to "shut the fuck up". As soon as they got home, he ran away to his room, hiding under his colourful covers the irrational fear seizing him, wishing that the dragons printed on material would protect him. He tried to block out his father angry screams, and noises of things thrown down on the floor in fits of rage. He tried to stop his violent shaking, and flood of tears tracking down his cheeks, but he couldn't. When the sounds died away, he quietly snuck out of his bedroom, and went to the living room. His father was sleeping on the sofa, an empty bottle of whisky lying on his chest. Magnus took it gently – so that he wouldn't disturb the man's rest – and covered him with thick, woolen blanket.
That was the day his childhood ended.
His self-phone going off disturbed his reverie. "Another client" He thought bitterly, picking up the phone.
"Hello, this is Aimé speaking." He purred, his tongue rolling around letters, subconsciously trying to seduce the other person. "How can I help you today?"
A/N:
Aimé – means "beloved" in French
I know it was all descriptive and all, but I hope you liked it. Tell me what you think, I had a really tough time writing Magnus, so tell me how I did?
If you have some questions, feel free to P.M or something.
Reviews motivate, and get chapters faster.
