Chapter Fourteen: Magnus

It took the better part of three days for me to convince Alec to meet up with me somewhere that wasn't my apartment. Only after I had begged, pouted, and threatened to withhold any physical contact whatsoever did he finally acquiesce. I hadn't brought it up, but truthfully, the things that Josh had so unceremoniously dumped on me in my kitchen were having an effect. Everything he had said about being Alec's dirty little secret was slowly eating me up. I'm Magnus fucking Bane, for Christ's sake; not a slutty mistress. Not that I wouldn't play the slutty mistress…but that is completely beside the point. It's not nearly as sexy when it's real.

Even so, it's hard to stay mad at Alec; he's so pure and so good that I refuse to believe that he's enjoying the secrecy. I'm sure it's affecting him in some way. Plus, everything is so hard for him already that I can't bring myself to be the cause of any extra stress. I can still see the hollow look that was in his eyes whenever I close mine, can still feel the shuddering of his chest against my hands, and can hear his strangled sobs in every prolonged silence. I don't think I'd be able to handle being the cause of pain like that; it would do as much damage to me as it would Alec.

Not wanting to overload his fragile system, I suggested that for our first official outing as a couple, we just go to the Ridgewood Center and catch a movie. There are a dozen places I'd rather take Alec – the Park, a museum, or just for a walk down the side streets, looking for old books and funky jewelry – but all those options are too "couply". This way, Alec and I can enter the theatre separately, buy our respective tickets, and then sneak to a seat in the back where no one will notice us. Not exactly the date of anyone's dreams, but a small step in the right direction. Josh was right – I am acting like a crazy person. And the craziest part is that I wouldn't change it for anything.

For someone who obviously doesn't spend a lot of time primping, Alexander Lightwood is not very punctual. I've been sitting on a bench in front of the Ridgewood Cineplex for twenty minutes, watching hordes of people walk by, wondering for the few brief seconds that they're in my field of vision what their lives must be like. I see a few couples walking by; hands interlaced, shoulders brushing, feet moving in inexplicable tandem. I wonder if they even appreciate what that means, the closeness of it all.

I was always a slave to public displays – not even displays of affection, just displays. Kissing, touching, anything really. The more over the top, the better. Some of it stemmed from a brazen desire to flaunt my conquests, to have people know that I could have anyone I wanted. Another part was attention, I suppose; anything to turn a head. Now, I couldn't care less about attention. I look back and see those displays for what they really were: empty. Now, I'm jealous of the hand-holding. Of the arms around shoulders. Of the smiles and whispers and inside jokes. Now, I just want quiet affection, the same kind of comfort that I see on the faces around me. I want it so bad it hurts.

Lost in my thoughts, I don't realize that someone is approaching until they're sitting beside me on the bench. When I jerk my head up, I'm face to face with an extremely attractive man.

"Hey," he says, a dimpled smile lighting up his face. "You looked a little down, and I thought you might need someone to talk to."

If this encounter had taken place a month ago, I know what my reaction would have been: flirty smile, suggestive reply, fleeting touch. We would have walked away together, to the nearest bathroom, to the parking garage, to a car maybe. I would have fucked him – they never fucked me – and then left. I would have appreciated, in the buildup and even into the heat of the moment, his wiry frame, his dimples, and his slightly crooked teeth. I would have enjoyed touching the muscles of his arms and tasting the watermelon flavored gum he's chewing. But now, all I see are flaws: how he falls short of the person I want on this bench. His hair is two shades too light, his forehead just a little too prominent. His eyes are storm clouds when they should be a clear sky.

"I'm flattered," I reply. "But I'm just waiting for someone."

As soon as he leaves he's forgotten. The number he insisted on giving me sits in my palm, and when I reach over to dump it in the trash, it's snatched away.

"Did that guy just gives you this?" His voice is soft, almost too low to hear, but I recognize the ripple of hurt.

"He did," I reply, stealing the piece of paper back and throwing it away. "Even though I told him it wouldn't do him any good."

The lines in Alec's face smooth out, his eyes brighten, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

"Jealous?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Alec flushes, but the small, nervous smile doesn't disappear. I love all of Alec's smiles, but that particular gesture embodies his personality so well – shy, sweet, self-deprecating, and a little insecure – that it never fails to send a warm current through my chest.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he says. "Izzy made me change before I left."

I notice that there's no baggy sweater hanging from his frame, and I can't stop a small laugh. The sweaters, like so many of his other quirks, are adorable, but I'm definitely thankful whenever Isabelle forces Alec into something a little more fitting. It makes it a little less easy to concentrate, but it's definitely worth it.

I smile and have to hook my fingers into the loops of my jeans to keep them from reaching out toward him. "Don't worry about it. Should we go get our tickets?"

Alec glances toward the box office for a second before shaking his head. "I was thinking," he says, "that maybe we could just hang out here for a while. You know, shop or something?"

"Shop?" I repeat, more than a little skeptical.

"Well, you know," Alec mumbles, diverting his attention to the opposite side of the mall. "You can shop and I can keep you company. I only get to spend a couple of hours with you, and I'd rather be able to actually be with you." I can see the flush creeping up the back of his neck, and can barely keep myself from squealing.

"I can deal with some shopping company," I reply, resisting the urge to gloat.

Alec sighs, and with the exhalation his body relaxes a little. Content to let me wander wherever I want, he falls into step beside me. Before we round the corner, I turn back to look at the bench, only to see a young girl – probably no more than sixteen or seventeen – watching us walk away. I wonder what kind of story she's thinking up for us, how it all unfolds.

Alec is actually not a bad shopping partner. Though he has no sense of style himself, I can tell by his posture, the way his eyes light up, and the faint color that creeps across his cheekbones, how much he likes whatever I'm trying on. Every time he grabs something off the rack for me he lets his fingers linger just a second too long, and the sensation dances across my skin for minutes afterward. He also develops the most curious eyebrow twitch whenever any of the cute salesmen attempt to help me. For his sake I brush them off quickly, but the selfish part of me wants to keep them around as an added incentive for him publicly admit that I'm his.

Ever the gentleman, he carries my bags in one hand, while keeping the other free and ready to rub up against mine whenever we get lost in a crowd. Truthfully, the rush of excitement I get during those stolen seconds makes me rethink the secret relationship angle. I'm lost in an elaborate daydream about secret love affairs when the gentle cadence of the shopping bags thumping against Alec's legs comes to an abrupt halt. When I turn to ask him what's wrong, there's a look of pure panic in his eyes and his face has been leeched of any color; he looks much like he did that first night at my party.

Worried that he might be having some sort of attack, I reach out to touch his shoulder, only to be glared at with such ferocity that I take a couple of steps back. Snapping to attention at my sudden movement, Alec thrusts my bags toward me without any explanation, and then backs away as if I'm some sort of rabid animal.

Before I can ask him what the hell is going on, a portly middle-aged man is lumbering toward us, a lopsided grin on his face.

"Alexander," he croaks out, slapping a beefy hand onto one of Alec's shoulders. "Good to see you out and about, my boy."

Alec still looks shaken, but his smile is genuine. "Colonel Roberts, it's good to see you again."

When the Colonel draws away his eyes stray from Alec over to me. I can see the derision on his face as he takes in my clothes and my hair. I refuse to cower under his scrutiny, however; I gave up caring what people like him thought a long time ago.

"Friend of yours?" he asks Alec, his prodigious eyebrows knitting together.

Alec seems frozen, and my heart speeds up a little while waiting for his answer.

"Uh, this is Magnus," he spits out, his words jumbling over one another. "One of Isabelle's fashion friends. I needed help finding a birthday present, and well, I'm not very good at that sort of thing."

As opposed to me, the big flaming fag – which is essentially what Alec is saying, just in not so many words. Though I knew he wasn't very well going to admit that I was his boyfriend, I thought at the very least I could be introduced as his friend – not some shoe-in gay consultant.

A booming laugh escapes from deep in Roberts' gut, and he shakes his head at Alec. "Well of course not, no real man is."

And what am I? A fucking turtle? Before the acid-burn of betrayal can creep its way up from my stomach to my throat I excuse myself from the conversation. Alec just looks on, seeming as helpless as a kitten, and I'm torn between the urge to grab his hand and kick him in the balls. Since a good kick in the balls is winning, I walk away as quickly as I can, putting every ounce of strength I have into keeping the bile and the tiny, prickling tears away. I don't get a goodbye from either of them.

As I hurry away, I'm overwhelmed by shame. I hate that Alec has this hold on me, that I can be reduced to tears by his actions. I hate that Josh was right, that Alec has no intention of ever telling anyone about us. But what I hate most is that I just want to turn around and find him running after me.