CHAPTER SEVEN: Concrete In My Veins

Alec brought a hand to his lips, tracing them with soft innocence—the same innocence, he supposed, that Magnus saw in him. Magnus tended to treat him like sugar candy. Sweet, vulnerable, but breakable. And when he cracked, Magnus would always find a way to ease himself into them, and meld the pieces back together. But he never left the holes completely flawless. There was always a scar, a little piece of Alec that had been once undiscovered. Every crack brought out a different side to him, and to get his thoughts and to see how much he felt, Magnus would have to shove him inside a nutcracker before taping him up again.

Alec's eyes shut on their own as he inhaled the musty after-rain asphalt smell, fingers tightening their grip on the window sill. He leaned out of the window, into the New York night sky. The storm had cleared up on the walk home, but he had yet to strip and shower so he was soaked and shivering in the air conditioned bedroom.

He wondered what Magnus was doing—if he was right, his friend would be pacing his living room, venting to Chloe if she'd come back yet, eyes shimmering but refusing to let anything come out of them. Chloe, whom he'd come to know very well, would wrap her arms around him and tell him to cry, that everything was okay.

But was it? No. No, it wasn't okay. Alec had kissed his best friend—his bisexual, overly emotional, completely confident and glittery best friend. And he hadn't moved to stop it. He should have. He should have backed away and they should have talked and worked things out—just like Alec was saying before it happened. But no. He freaked out and ran away, like a coward and recreant.

What was wrong with him?

Magnus had told him that he loved him. Loved. Love is not a word just tossed out for the sake of having something to say. Love is…scary and real. And if Magnus really did mean what he said, then Alec had used him, had taken that unconscious step to use Magnus' feelings as an excuse.

Guilty as charged—he was settled between the lines of fear and blame.

Alec backed away from the window, from the wall entirely, and felt his way in the dark to his bed, where he sat down on the edge and buried his head in his hands. What was wrong with him?

He needed to sleep. It was late, and he could deal with this in the morning, when the sun was up and he was sane again. He didn't have the energy to change into fresh pajamas, so instead he pulled off his sweater and shirt, and stepped out of his jeans before lying back down and pulling the comforter over his head, hoping to suffocate his nightmares, like oxygen to a flame.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

In the dream, there was a table, long and metal. It sat in the middle of a small room, very dark, all lights reflecting off the medical bed. Alec ran his fingers over the surface, shivering at the touch. He scoped the room, or tried, unable to see in the darkness. Above him hung white lights that extended only so far.

There was techno music vibrating the tiled ground, cutting the silence. When he listened closer, he heard that it wasn't from a booming sound system, like he believed, but a piano—or a keyboard, electric, ringing pulses of a loud-soft rhythm into his skull. A voice began to sing along with the music, turning the club beat into a sort of ballad. The voice belonged to a woman, soft and frail, high and flowing. It whistled through his being like a mantra, repeating the same verse over and over.

"It's an outsider's escape for a broken heart."

It was the lullaby his mother would sing to him and Isabelle when they were children, afraid of the dark. Except now, alone and enclosed by a single light and surrounded by a dark that to his knowledge could contain demon after demon, he bathed in it. He relished in the darkness, as it was all he had come to know.

Without warning, the dream shifted, and he was bound to the table, his naked back pressed against the cold metal, wrists tied together underneath. His forearms dug into the corners, creating harsh bruises in his scarred skin.

He struggled slightly, but couldn't be bothered with his bindings. He was tethering on the edge between sleep and wake now, somehow the pain in his arms allowing him to see beyond his closed eyelids. He could see shadows on the walls of his bedroom, forming the faces of monsters and devils, the cries of dying children and worlds. But he drifted back, on the table, lying quietly as the lullaby droned on.

A figure emerged from the darkness.

"Alexander," it said. No. It didn't speak. The word—his name—drifted across the top of his mind as if he had thought it himself. Alec tilted his head curiously to get a better look. The figure was draped in robes, head to toe, a hood casting shadows over its face. However, Alec could see its mouth. He was terrified when he saw that there was barely a mouth at all, but closed lips stitched over with X like crossing threads, enabling his speech.

Alec wanted to shy back, looking down at his unclothed body. He looked away from the—the person, and up at the ceiling with closed eyes. When he opened them, he gasped in alarm when he saw himself looking back, blue eyes burning bright. It was a mirror placed directly over his face.

The hooded figure was pulling down the hood when he turned back. His eyes widen. There were no eyes at all, black holes etched where they should've been. It was like looking into the universe, except with no stars. Until the figure began to change, to contort into a person; black hair grew from the scalp, the flesh shaded itself a tone more brown, eyes stitching themselves into bone, and then green awakening from the fissure.

"Magnus—" Alec whispered, his breath catching in the back of his throat.

Magnus, the boney fingers now long and ringed with gems, held one up to his own lips. The robes still encased him.

"Don't talk," His voice was soft but sharp, and Alec could feel the command pricking his skin like knifes.

Magnus approached him, stepping completely into the light. Alec now remembered that he was naked and began to tremble in humiliation and anticipation. Magnus reached out, grabbing the hand he'd meant to take before Alec had run from his room in Brooklyn. They weren't in Brooklyn anymore. They were far from Brooklyn. Alec's lips parted and his breaths became shallower, panting softly under the hard gaze of his friend (if that was what he was?).

When their hands met, Alec's stare faltered. In the corner of his eyes he saw more light. Where Magnus' fingers were trailing up his arm, they left a line of glowing shine, streaming from out of his skin. The light was shining through his scars—through the undesirable nonexistent fearless runes.

Magnus' hands kept going up, stopping at his shoulder before dipping south, down his chest at a slow pace. He shivered—whether it was in pleasure or fear he didn't know. Magnus walked with his hands, footsteps barely noticeable. He stopped at his hip, fingers circling the bone there. Their eyes no longer connected as Magnus stared down at his own fingers, watching them with narrow eyes, glittering with entertainment, like he enjoyed watching his love squirm.

Suddenly, red flashed behind his eyelids, and a sweet oily scent had filled the air. His back arched and blood pulsed behind his ears.

He forced his eyes open and was horrified at what he saw. There was no Magnus. There was simply a figure in a hood, soulless eyes like an opened window.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Alec shot up in bed, breaths erratic and uncatchable—soundless but deafening alike. It was still night, and the window was opened letting cool wafts of air into the room. He threw the webbed blankets off of his legs and got to the window, shutting it and turning the lock with a click. He pressed his forehead to the frozen glass and shut his eyes, exhaling one last time before torturing his lungs lacking the oxygen needed.

Shit, he thought. He'd forgotten to take a pill before he fell asleep. He would have to wait until morning to keep his schedule. When he looked back at his room, his eyes had finally adjusted enough to see a bit more in the dark. He didn't bother trying to find the light switch, as the electricity was probably still out, and besides, light wouldn't chase away the black spots dancing in his vision. He could still feel eyes watching him, the paranoia of the shadows still glaring at him on the walls. He heard their taunting whispers, their judging laughter.

And the dream. What the fuck was that? Sure, most of his dreams were strange, but that was just…a drunken mess. What could he do now? He wasn't going back to sleep now; normally he couldn't.

Alec bent over and grabbed his jeans off the floor, pulling them on and leaving his room. He was a bit nervous, as he wasn't sure what time it was and his arms were uncovered, but by the moon still being high he didn't think anyone would be up.

In the narrow hall there were dim lamps lighting his way downstairs and through the rest of the house. He caught the time on the kitchen clock—four thirty. He had time.

He was unlocking the door to the black room in a matter of minutes, closing and re-locking it a moment later.

Alec flipped on the standing lamp; everything was as he left it. Colored bean bags scattered, paint cans of a variety of colors towering in the corner, filing boxes overflowing with notebook paper. This room, you see, was his masterpiece. To some it would be just a lonely child's social getaway, and in a way it was, but if you looked closer, at the right angle and in the wrong places, it was his story, his life. There was Magnus, above him in the form of starry lips, and Jace a splatter of gold's and yellows on the concrete floor, and Simon was a pair of glasses, only the size of his hand, on the light bulbs dangling down, casting different shadows over the room. His parents were the black walls, and a purple dot, only visible when the lights were off, over the black was his disease, which he'd taken great care in not letting the paint touch anything else, so that he wouldn't infect anybody important—he knew that one day he would reel somebody in too deep, and they would get lost with him.

It was a win lose situation for them all.

He sunk into a yellow bag, pulling one of the file boxes close. He snapped it open. Half of it contained sketches, drawings—some of random things, some of eyes, faces, some of nature or animals. He even had one of Church. However, in the other half was what actually mattered to him. The writings, the journal entries, the thoughts and words written on paper, the feelings that defined who he was and how he was shaped as a human; his journey discovering his sexuality, accepting it, getting over his incestuous crush on Jace—it went back earlier, to before the black room, learning about his parents adopting his brother, about his mother being pregnant with Max, meeting Magnus and Simon, and even earlier, to when he had started having the hallucinations (granted, his writing wasn't very good back then, and very vague, but he only been six, just barely learning how to write properly).

Now it was his life. Writing was an escape, as drawing was an entrance to other dimensions.

His parents weren't aware of this. They didn't approve of creative people. They think that artists and writers and actors and musicians are unpractical and attention seekers. He wasn't an attention seeker—he just wanted to be noticed, just for once, over his oh so perfect siblings. His parents were also very narrow minded. They weren't religious in any way, they just didn't approve of his social anxiety, or the fact that he was different. There was that word again. If only they knew how different he really was. If they knew he spent his spare time writing novels and kissing his best friend—his very male best friend—they would probably die, or disown him at the least.

They weren't bad people though, and Alec knew this. They were accepted and known by everybody who was somebody. They were just...normal.

Marsye and Robert were agents. Not company agents, not hiring agents—real agents. They worked for a higher level servitude in the FBI. It was secret. He and Isabelle had no idea what they did, they didn't know what kind of work they did, if they dealt with criminals or weapons or worse—he didn't particularly want to know, especially if his parents were killing people. He wouldn't be able to look at them the same again. They were never home, and the few times they were it was because they were packing for another trip. It was rare that he saw them even a full month out of the year. Christmas and Easter were the only excuses, and then the get-togethers were awkward and stiff—presents were infrequently exchanged and dinner was silent.

Alec sighed and shut the notebook, sticking it back into the file. He leaned back, unsure what to do. He'd been trying to keep them gone, but the previous day's events came rushing back to him as result of thinking of the dream.

In brutal honesty, Alec hadn't actually considered coming out an option for him. Those types of public confessions were life changers, for the good and the bad. Alec wasn't concerned with having a relationship period—why put himself through all that misery and embarrassment if he didn't have to? Being attracted to other men didn't define who he was, it didn't put him on a golden (or scalding black, if you like) pedestal. He wasn't ashamed…just logical.

It was a legit solution. No love life, no family or social issues. He was already socially awkward enough as it was. He didn't need this backing him into another hole.

Unfortunately, he'd done that by himself, no social anxiety needed.

Magnus was…a tricky subject—always. No matter the time or place, he always stirring people around, trapping and tipping their emotions, flipping them, so that he was right. But now, with tongues and fingernails involved, was there any right answer?

It's like a fucking rape campaign, he thought. The man is always guilty. Until it's discovered that the woman was wearing short shorts. Then it's her fault. But it's not. Is it?

When it came down the end though, he should not have kissed Magnus. It was out of the question and completely inappropriate. He should have stopped Magnus, told him that he wasn't interested. He wasn't sure that he was interested. It was idea of kissing someone that he was close to, being with someone with all the right physicality. He liked men. He didn't like Magnus.

But Magnus…loved him? He groaned.

"You pretend, you lie, so that you won't have to face reality—me."

Was he lying? No—he hadn't remembered ever flat coming out and saying he was straight. Did anybody? Was being straight just expected? No, he hadn't shoved himself into a hole.

Magnus had—by telling him that he loved him. He felt a sudden surge of anger flood through him. It was Magnus' fault. He wouldn't be feeling the things he did, the confusion and pleasure, if not for Magnus. Somewhere in his distant mind he knew he shouldn't be thinking these things, that it was just as wrong, that it was his un-medicated mind speaking to him, but he couldn't help it. For just a split second, he felt true hate towards his friend for putting him in this position—to lose their friendship or form a relationship. He regretted it a moment later.

It was true though—that now he was stuck with no alternative. One didn't tell someone they loved them and then take it back. He'd watched enough romance movies to know that, read enough of Izzy's books. Confrontation was the only way to deal with an issue like this—talking, face to face, eyes to eyes. Lips to lips? He hoped not.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

When Isabelle awoke early Saturday morning, she was bombarded by her little brother, practically forcing her from her bed with a pile of clothes shoved into her hands. She was then told that Hodge wanted her to take Max out, to get some air before her parents returned the next weekend to discuss colleges with her older brothers. And now, Isabelle was in Brooklyn. She hated Brooklyn. Call her snobby or conceited, it was probably true, but Brooklyn was just…Brooklyn. Narrow streets, lots of cars, a hot dog stand on every corner. Manhattan was so much more put together and sophisticated—elite parties, posh galleries, elegant banquets and plenty of ball gowns. She was sure Brooklyn had its fair share of fun, but they partied differently than rich girls like her did.

She hated it sometimes, that she hated Brooklyn. It was what she was raised in—to always to be properly dressed for the occasion and smile and nod in all the right places. She wanted to have fun, to be like other girls, but fun meant danger, and with her parent's profession she never knew the messes she could get into without caution.

"Can I get this one too?" Max's head peaked around the shelf, holding out another comic book in his hand. His glasses were tilted on his head. Isabelle let out a little laugh, smiling sadly.

"Sorry Max. You only have enough money for two. Hurry up and pick—Hodge wants us back soon," Her tone was different with her little brother, it always was. There was no impulsive way to act around him, as he was always surprising her.

Max Lightwood was different from other boys his age. He was smarter, more aware and in tune with people and the way they perceived things. She wasn't sure when to talk to him like a child or when to speak to him like an adult, or at least a teenager, because she wasn't sure were his boundaries were, where his knowledge halted. He'd already asked her about sex before (he had wanted to know what a 'g-spot' was, claiming he'd read about one in a school text book), but hadn't known what she meant when she asked him about his non-perpetual vision. But he learned new things every day, faster than she did.

"I'm not stupid you know," he said. "I know you and Alec get money from mom and dad. Why don't I?" Her smile faltered, face softening.

"Max…" said Isabelle, trailing off. "It's complicated. Mom and dad…"

He shook his head. Dark strands of hair fell into his face. "Yeah, yeah, I'm too young to understand. Whatever, I only wanted these two anyways," He said before disappearing behind the aisle and reappearing with a comic book and what seemed to be one of those Japanese styled ones—what was it called? Anime? That was it.

Isabelle turned around in the shop, going to check out Max's picks, when she backed into something, or someone, sending whatever it was toppling to the ground with a soft thud. There was now a cardboard box lying sideways on the carpet at her feet, comics spilling out of it. She glanced up, eyes round.

"Simon?" She gaped. The taller boy was standing there, face staring down the box blankly. His hair was pushed out of his face, glasses making his wide browns look wider. He was dressed in a black t-shirt with the shop's logo on the front and tattered jeans. Isabelle seemed startled at how much he resembled Max, if he was older and had lighter hair.

She realized that she probably was very over dressed for Brooklyn; skinny jeans and leather vests probably weren't top notch fashion here.

"What are you doing here?"

"Isabelle?" He asked, looking up at her surprised. "I—I work here."

"Oh," She said stupidly. "That makes sense, considering…"

He chuckled before bringing an awkward hand to his face. "We keeping meeting like this, huh?" He said, gesturing to the overflowing comic box on the floor, bending down to pick them back up. She helped, recalling their first meeting outside of Taki's.

"I don't picture you as a Brooklyn kind of girl," he said, trying to make conversation. "What are you doing down here?"

"I'm here with my brother, actually." she explained.

"Max?"

"M'hmm," she nodded, looking over her shoulder to find him. She was amused to find him still scanning titles even after deciding. "He managed to convince me that this is the only place in a hundred mile radius that has the, the comic book he's looking for."

"Nah," Simon said, crinkling his nose. "I think he's here for the discounts. We're cheap, unlike that bastard borough you live in,"

They finished packing in the last comics and Simon helped her to her feet while balancing the box in his other hand to avoid another incident. They stared at each other for a short while before she cleared her throat. Max was tugging at her arm, apparently ready to leave now. Simon noticed too, looking down at the nine year old.

"Hey Max," he greeted. She'd forgotten that they knew each other better than she did. "Well, maybe we could hang out sometime? With Alec or something," It took her a second to see that he was talking to her.

"Oh! Yeah, sure, that sounds great,"

He smiled before walking past her and continuing whatever task he had needed to complete. She watched, partly with curiosity and partly because he intrigued her. Why would she be interested in a guy like that? A guy, coincidentally, who had been in her house probably more times than she had and yet she'd never gone out her way to make conversation with him.

"Izzy? Izzy..." Max pulled at her sleeve. "Don't you have a boyfriend?" He said, more of a statement than a question.

"Wha—Max!" She exclaimed.

"Can I check out now?"

She sighed with difficultly, straining. "Yes. Go," She pushed her brother in front of her and walked after him to the cashier.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

The phone was still. Magnus had finally given up after an hour of calling, telling himself that Alec's cell was either dead or out of reach—it didn't ease his worry. Alec had left the apartment in the middle of one of the worst storms New York had seen in a while, and after supposedly hearing a gunshot? It didn't help to wash away his concern.

Now, hours and hours later, the sun was peeking from the grey clouds, dawn spreading over the horizon. He held the phone against his chest, watching out the window from his bed with bloodshot eyes and smeared eyeliner; it was dry on his face, cracking and leaving red blotches over his cheeks.

Another pound filled his ears. Chloe had been banging on his door for the past hour, trying to get him to come out of his room, eat something, and tell her what was going on. She claimed she had something important to tell him about, but he wasn't coming out—forever if he could. The knocks were coming fewer and farther in between, and he assumed she was backing off, giving him space. It was only seven thirty anyways. He normally wouldn't be up at this hour.

He let his eyes shut, wishing the images away, wanting them to stop from flashing in front of him; Alec below him, completely at his submission, clawing at his hipbones and moaning. It was quite possibly the sexiest most eye catching thing he'd ever seen. And he blew it. He pushed his limits too far, satisfying (not really) his own needs and not waiting for Alec to catch up, to find and set his boundaries. And making out was never the purpose of that night. In fact, he hadn't intended to tell Alec about his feelings at all. It was Alec's fault, he tried to pin the blame, for being so damn seductive in the moment before the lightening; for running his fingers over his lips and biting his own and looking at him with curious and wandering baby blues.

But after his tiny speech, all he'd wanted was a kiss. Just something to calm his erratic heartbeat and to reassure Alec that nothing was final or permanent, that words could always be twisted and regretted so that they didn't have to worry about him not reciprocating his feelings.

And then that happened. His wants took over his needs, and things escalated quicker than anticipated.

"Fuck," he groaned out into the pillow, rolling it up and over his head as if he could block out all his problems. It wasn't Alec's fault at all. He was innocent in every way as he always was; this was Magnus' issue, his wrong doing. Then he heard Chloe shout from the kitchen, something about watching his language. How she could hear him all the way across the apartment was a dead end. He really didn't care.

Screw this, he thought. He needed to get out of bed. Letting out another groan, he tossed the pillow across the room and rolled over so he could sit up. His muscles protested from being crouched up for so long, and his clothes were wrinkled and in dire need of being wash washed. He was in dire need of a shower.

But before anything else could proceed, he needed to try one more time. Then he would back off until Monday when they would be forced to see each other whether Alec liked it or not.

Magnus played with the Blackberry in his hands, twirling it around with his fingers before holding down '1' and putting the speaker to his ear.

He wasn't that surprised when nobody answered.


A/N: Jesus, I actually like this chapter. I'm a horrible person though. Two weeks without an update? I have no excuses.

Please Read—that small mention to rape up there? I was in Alec's disturbed, un-medicated mind for a moment and that's what popped up. In no way is it meant to be offensive :)

xxShar [is thinking: School starts in two weeks. I'm just going to sit here and be depressed about it]