A Splash of Color

Alec Lightwood glanced wearily at the stack of papers that had been dumped on his desk. He knew this was essentially the garbage pile—the collection of abandoned research and half-developed article topics that had been traded for new, more exciting ones. Most people avoided this pile unless they wanted to add something to it, and only a journalist desperate for something to do would actually go through it. Now the stack had become his problem, only because he was the only one who hadn't been able to say no.

Sighing to himself, he slowly started to sift through the various assignments, trying to find something worth picking up. The journalists at Pandemonium were many, most of them middle-aged or older, and they were used to their ways. Alec was one of the few under the age of 30 who wasn't a freelancer. Among the younger writers, he was by far the least outspoken. This meant he was usually handed the jobs no one else wanted to do. He didn't object because he didn't want to cause a conflict.

A book was thrown down onto the desk beside his, startling Alec out of his thoughts. Emil Pangborn, the loud and rather sullen man in charge of the culture pages, was in a foul mood. "I don't see why I have to keep reading this crap," he complained to no one in particular. "I'm a book reviewer, not a love-struck teenager. Don't we have freelancers for this?"

Alec quickly returned his attention to his pile. Freelancers cost more than having our own people write for us, you of all people should know that, he wanted to say. How can you complain about getting paid to read all these new books and write about them? he wanted to say. I'd love to have your job, he wanted to say.

He said nothing.

His reflection stared back at him from the mirror, unimpressed. Alec let his gaze sweep over the subtle changes that had come over him lately—he had lost a bit of weight, so his features were sharper than usual, and his hair, naturally black, had become just a little too long for comfort and fell into his eyes. He remembered how his sister used to rave about his blue eyes, claiming it unfair that he got the, quote, "exotic", end quote, combination of blue and black while she had to make do with brown. He'd never understood the appeal. The only thing that was noteworthy about his eyes right now was how empty they seemed.

His cat walked in, and he picked her up, grateful for the distraction. She had actually been one of the family cats, but Alec had always had a soft spot for her, as the only one whose company she tolerated. It hadn't been a hard decision to let Alec take her with him when he moved. She was his sole companion now—at least for the times when she'd allow it.

He looked back at his reflection, suddenly disgusted with his own thoughts. It was too stupid, dwelling on his looks. He didn't use to be that shallow, but there he was, inordinately bothered by how... disconcerted he'd become with something he used to simply shrug off.

Cradling the cat just a bit tighter than she was entirely happy with, judging by her hissed protest, Alec left the bathroom in search for something more worthwhile to worry about.

What did it matter when no one saw him anyway?

Alec was on his usual route to work when the normal grey and black of the asphalt suddenly gave away to color. First, Alec thought someone had spilled a can of yellow paint on the ground, but when he took a closer look, he could see that it was merely intended to look that way.

He went to the side, away from the throngs of people, to be able to take in the full picture. The seemingly random burst of color flowed out into an intricate pattern that held everything from bright blue cigarette stumps to a dropped wallet – red – and even a banana peel, heavily shaded to stand out in the midst of the already yellow background. Everything looked physically real, as if he could simply lean down and pick up each item from the ground, but Alec realized it was actually street art. For some reason, the thought made him want to smile. Apparently, someone other than him had noticed how everything was always black, white, and grey, and had made it their business to do something about it.

Perhaps this day wouldn't be so bad.

Alec was at his desk looking over an article he'd been working on when a door slammed, making him look up. The woman who had entered the office was short, her long hair a fiery red that matched the look in her eyes as she surveyed the room.

"Good morning, everyone," she said. "My name is Clary Fray. Starting today, I'm your new editor."

This announcement caused loud whispers among the staff. Alec knew that their previous editor had been looking to find a replacement after a back injury had forced his early retirement, but he hadn't expected someone permanent to be hired so soon. Neither had the other staff members, judging by their reactions. The choice of replacement was a surprise, too—this Clary couldn't be much older than Alec. He could see the skepticism in his co-workers' eyes, and felt unease creep into his stomach. He hoped no one would say anything rude.

If Clary noticed the staff's less than favorable reaction to her, she didn't show it. "We'll do proper introductions at the staff meeting tomorrow. I'll spend some time catching up today, but I'll be happy to answer any of your questions if you come by my office."

As soon as she left, people's conversations turned up to regular sound levels. Alec listened as Jace Herondale, whose desk was across from him, went off on a dramatic rant about how they should all watch out for red-haired people and their notorious tempers.

"She's so tiny though, how much damage could she possibly do?" Samuel Blackwell, another co-worker, said with a snort.

"Just wait and see," Jace replied sagely.

Pangborn, the head of the culture pages, crossed his arms. "Well, regardless of her temper, I'm not sure I like the idea of a little girl ordering me around."

Alec bit his lip and stared down at his computer screen, intensely uncomfortable with the situation now that tension polluted the air like a disease.

"Careful, Pangborn," Jace warned.

"Or what? You gonna tattle to itsy, bitsy Red Riding Hood?"

The conversation only went downhill from there, and Alec had to fight the urge to run off to the bathroom or anywhere where he didn't have to listen to what followed. It always went like this at their four-desk group; Jace, who was actually a nice person once you looked past the sarcasm, would start to talk about something, and Pangborn and Blackwell would disagree with whatever he said, eventually saying something that provoked name-calling, and an argument would be inevitable. Alec didn't understand why Jace even tried anymore.

Once the arguments started, Alec would pretend to be busy with work in order to not be dragged into anything, but it was hard to completely block out something that went on right in front of him. He usually didn't speak, though, so his desk mates seemed all too willing to go along with his pretended deafness. Actually, when he thought about it, he couldn't recall the last time he'd exchanged more than a nod of greeting with either Blackwell or Pangborn. They mostly didn't seem to remember that he was capable of speech, or notice his presence as it was.

Resigned, Alec went back to his writing.

As he walked home that day, Alec found himself distracted to the point that he almost walked into someone on more than one occasion. Unsurprisingly, nobody paid attention to him either—people were busy getting from one place to the next and couldn't care less about someone bumping into them unless they were flat-out knocked to the ground.

He thought about how he had worked at Pandemonium for half a year now and still hadn't befriended any of his co-workers. Sure, he knew them—he had listened to them, watched them interact for months now, and thought he had a fairly good idea of who they were by now. But it was like watching characters in a TV show, because while they were familiar to him, they didn't know him. He was just a face they saw every day but didn't talk to. If they knew how much he'd learned about them over the past months, they'd probably find it weird. If he ever talked to them, he'd have to pretend not to know anything the first thing about them. They were strangers to the point that even addressing them directly would feel awkward.

Alec was so occupied by his thoughts that he almost missed the flash of color in the middle of the square. Expecting to find more of the street art he'd seen a few days ago, he glanced over, and was surprised to see the painter himself. People gave the man a wide berth as they passed on the street, and Alec could see why—he was something of an anomaly in this place. The painter's clothes and skin were stained with colorful streaks of paint, causing him to stand out like a sore thumb among the myriad of suits hurrying past. Intrigued, Alec stopped for a moment to take a closer look.

The man looked to be roughly Alec's age and was wearing holey jeans and a stark yellow shirt, which had rolled-up sleeves that revealed tan wrists and hands adorned with jewelry. His almond-shaped eyes were smudged with sooty make-up that glittered in the sunlight, and his messy hair was dark and stained red with paint, obviously the result of his painting taking a frustrating turn. It was rare, Alec thought, to see someone be that occupied with his work. The painter was currently kneeling over a piece of art, his bare feet wriggling in time with the movements of his paint brush and the melody of a song only he could hear.

Shaking his head, Alec resumed his walk. It wouldn't do to stare; God knows he would hate it if someone did that to him. But for the rest of that day, Alec didn't think more about his alienation from his co-workers; instead, he couldn't quite shake the image of the painter. Much like his art, the man had been a splash of color in a world of grey, but that wasn't what held Alec's attention. There had just been something so honest and real about the way the man had immersed himself in his art to the point that his surroundings fell away. He hadn't seemed to notice the stares—he didn't seem to care what people thought of him at all.

Alec wished he could do the same.

"You know, I wish you would have at least warned me about this," Isabelle said over the phone.

"I told you to start early," Alec reminded.

"But you always say that! I didn't think you meant it for real!"

Alec bit back a smile. His sister had decided to pick up a literature class over the summer in order to boost her resume, but had failed to realize that studying literature was different from meeting with her book club once a month. The list of required reading was long, and Alec, who had a minor in American Literature, knew how much time and effort literature classes took. But of course, Isabelle had chalked it up to him being his usual straight-A student self, and decided to wait until the week before classes started to pick up the first book. Now, it was apparently Alec's fault that she was overloaded with work.

"I like reading, but not when I have to," Isabelle complained. There was a muffled noise, and he heard his sister shout away from the phone. "Oh, shut it, Simon!" More muffled sounds. "I'll show you 'funny'!"

Amused, Alec pictured the look of frustration on his sister's face, the way her eyes would flash with annoyance at her boyfriend. Not for the first time, he wished that he lived closer to her. They had, at first, when they graduated from high school. Then Isabelle had left to work in France for a few years, and Alec had gone to college to get his journalism degree. Ever since, they had lived in different parts of the country—Alec had moved wherever he could find work and his sister had done the same with her boyfriend. With their physical distance, regular phone calls were their best shot at staying in touch.

"Anyway, enough about me," Isabelle said. "Have you met anyone new lately?"

"No," he replied cautiously, knowing what was coming.

Her tone had been innocent enough, but Alec knew her question was anything but. Isabelle was always pushing him to go out more, meet people, and perhaps find someone to settle down with. She worried that his habit of shutting people out and shying away from social interaction would end up with him alone and isolated from the world. Too late for that, Alec thought, not entirely without bitterness. Back in the days, his sister had kept dragging him to parties, setting him up with various girls until Alec, fed up and more than a little drunk, had informed her that he wasn't into girls. That hadn't had nearly the effect he had hoped for—from then on, she had simply moved on to setting him up with various boys instead.

He braced himself for her outburst; she didn't disappoint.

"But Alec! I know you don't like parties, but you have to at least try. I think you'd like it if you just… tried to talk to more people. Just try to go out more—it can't be that hard. I know you'd get along well with people if you just put yourself out there. You have so much to give."

Everyone can't be as outgoing as you, Isabelle, he wanted to say. Can't you understand that I'm not like you, that I won't ever be, and that there is nothing wrong with that? he wanted to say. Can't you see that I'm having a hard enough time getting along with myself right now? he wanted to say.

"I guess I'll try," was what he said.

"Great! I know you can do it, brother!" Isabelle enthused.

Sometimes, it felt like she didn't know him at all.

On Friday afternoon, two days later, Alec saw the street painter again. He was working on the other side of the square now, closer to Alec's path from work, and he seemed to be as engrossed in his work as last time. Today the colors of his designs were green and blue; both his hair and clothes attested to that. Alec only allowed his gaze to linger for a moment before moving on, but he couldn't keep a small smile from appearing on his face.

On the whole, Alec thought that Clary's influence on the magazine so far had been a good one. He quite liked the direction in which they were taking the latest issue. It would have been even better had her decisions not been met with such resistance from some of his co-workers.

"That woman is driving me crazy," Alec heard Pangborn mutter, not for the first time.

Blackwell hummed in agreement, which was all encouragement the head of the culture pages needed to continue. "Now she wants us to feature more art in the magazine. Art! How am I supposed to make room for something like that when there's a new Tarantino movie coming out?"

"Not to mention the vital news of Brangelina's fifty-seventh adoption," Jace added dryly.

Alec tensed up as Pangborn turned to glare at Jace, the only thought in his head being not again. He managed to shut out the sound of the quarreling and name-calling for a while until Pangborn stormed off.

Jace looked very pleased with himself. "I'm just saying that I think it's a good idea to actually feature something more substantial than that celebrity crap on the culture pages now and then," he said. "People might start to think we're a gossip magazine."

"You write gossip articles," Blackwell pointed out.

"Doesn't mean I'm opposed to writing something else," Jace said with a shrug. "Afraid she's going to make you write outside your comfort zone, Blackwell?"

With that, round two of the quarrel started up. Alec resisted the urge to groan.

It had become a habit. Every day after work, Alec would catch a glimpse of the colorful painter, and he'd allow himself to stay and watch him for a moment. It became a bit of a refuge to him—no matter how tiring and tense his day had been, his mood would always brighten when he saw the street painter in action. Some days the painter would be moving his brush in wide, easy strokes; other times he'd move with a careful precision, his tongue peeking out at the corner of his mouth. A few times he hadn't been painting at all, instead going over his work with critical eyes, looking for things to improve or perhaps deciding on his next step.

Alec found himself fascinated by the subtle shifts in the man's expression, the way his brow would furrow in thought or his eyes narrow in concentration, and the way a smile would tug at his lips when something pleased him. Alec realized that the amount of attention he was paying to the man was getting out of hand, but since no one knew about it, he didn't stop.

One day, two weeks after he had first set eyes on him, the painter finally took note of Alec. It was a particularly busy afternoon, suits and coats pushing each other around, and somehow Alec ended up on the sidewalk where the painter was currently working. He looked up from his art the exact moment when Alec was about to pass, and their eyes met.

Today's paint was purple and red, and as the man's eyes fixed upon him, Alec was startled to find that his eyes were a mesmerizing shade of gold-green. They only looked at each other for an instant, but Alec felt his heart speed up. He couldn't help but glance back once he had passed, only to find that the painter was still watching him. Alec flushed and turned away. There was something about the way the man had looked at him—as if he could see right past his defenses and into the depths of his soul. As if he could see him. It didn't escape Alec's notice that that moment of interaction had thrown him more than anything else had in a long time. He didn't dare to think about what that meant, and resolved to go on about his day.

That night, Alec dreamed of gold-green eyes.

Over the next week, Alec made sure there was some distance between him and the painter whenever he passed him on the street. Sometimes he thought he could feel those eyes on him, the gold-green irises that haunted his dreams, but he never turned to see if he were right. He didn't know why he suddenly wanted to avoid the gaze of the man he had been surreptitiously watching for the better part of a month—he just did.

Still, he couldn't deny that it felt good to actually be seen.

Their first real meeting was unintended. Alec was walking past the place where the painter worked when someone pushed him, causing him to drop his briefcase. In the extra few seconds it took for him to pick it up, he was noticed. The painter saw him, and smiled. Alec's heart fluttered, and before he had time to talk himself out of it, he had approached until he was close enough to see the spark in those gold-green eyes.

"Hello, blue eyes," the painter said, his lips still curved into a smile. "Finally. I was starting to think you didn't like me."

Alec blushed, but raised a defiant eyebrow. "What says I do now?" As soon as the words were out, Alec froze, shocked at his own audacity. But the man's grin only widened.

"Touché." He held out a paint-smeared hand. "I'm Magnus."

Feeling himself relax, Alec crouched down so he could shake the out-stretched hand without bending awkwardly. "Alexander, but I go by Alec. Nice to meet you." He turned to look at the ground. "What are you painting?"

Magnus looked back at the ground as well and made a pleased sound in his throat. "This, sweet Alec," he gestured widely to the artwork in front of them, "is the world."

The design was, for lack of a better description, an explosion of color. Painted over the surface of the pavement was a distorted landscape of greens, pinks, reds, blues, yellows, and turquoise. The distortion was obviously intended, giving Alec the feeling of standing on the outside, watching through a cracked mirror. The feeling was all too familiar, and made a lump form in his throat.

"You don't like it," Magnus concluded, misinterpreting his silence.

"It's not that," Alec assured. "It's just... I wouldn't call that color." He nodded in the direction of the suits, the usual sea of grey, black, and white that blurred together.

"Look at me," the painter coaxed, and Alec reluctantly did. They were sitting close now, close enough for Alec to clearly see the flecks of gold in the greens of Magnus' irises. Taking in the man's purple shirt, the brightness of his smile, the paint in his hair and on his clothes, Alec knew what he was getting at. Here, in the company of this man, the world was lush with vivid color. He also noticed other things, such as the way the man's shirt was only half-buttoned, revealing tan skin and lean muscles beneath, the fine trails of hair left on his chin that hinted at a rushed morning shave, and the pleasant scent of sandalwood hidden beneath the one of paint and turpentine. Alec felt his cheeks burn; the painter was incredibly attractive.

"Can you see it?" Magnus asked after a moment.

"Yes," Alec managed, his voice suddenly unsteady. "Yes, I can see it."

The next day it rained. Alec had brought his umbrella—black, like most other things he owned—and pulled it out once he left work. Magnus wasn't painting on the square that day, which he didn't think surprising. His line of work was rather dependent on the whims of the weather, after all. Nonetheless, Alec felt a stab of disappointment at the lack of his colorful presence.

Walking under the grey sky, he already missed the sun.

A tap on his shoulder broke Alec out of his writing mode. He turned around to see their new editor, her red hair pulled into a ponytail for the day.

"May I have a word?" she asked, gesturing to her office.

Alec followed her inside, a bit apprehensive, but fairly confident that he hadn't done anything that warranted a private word with the boss. Then again, maybe that's the problem, he thought.

Clary sat down at her desk with a small smile, which eased his nerves.

"We haven't really had time to talk yet, you and I," she started. "I have read some of your work; you're a good writer, even if I wish you would challenge yourself more."

Alec nodded, knowing it was true but unsure what to say to that.

"This is why I asked you in here." She leaned forwards, an eager look creeping onto her face. "How do you feel about art?"

Alec hesitated, not sure what to say to that either, but then he remembered gold-green eyes and color-streaked asphalt and that smile. "I like it," he said, before he could stop himself.

"Good!" Clary looked delighted, and handed him a sheet of paper. "Because I want you to write an art feature for the coming issue."

"I- But I…" he cleared his throat, frustrated with his inability to find words, "I don't know…"

Clary's tone was gently encouraging. "I have written down some suggestions for you, but I'm basically giving you free reigns here. Anything you want, though I'd prefer something modern or at least of current interest as to not 'turn the magazine medieval'." She rolled her eyes at the last part, and Alec figured it was a direct quote from a certain co-worker.

Despite his feeble protests, Alec left her office a while later with an art feature on his hands.

After work, Alec hurried down to the square, hoping to find his favorite painter there. Magnus' face lit up as he spotted him. "Alexander, what a pleasant surprise!"

Alec promptly blushed. "I told you I prefer Alec."

"I know, but Alexander is such a lovely name." It was, too, when he said it. Alec had always disliked his full name because it reminded him of the way his parents – the only people who ever used it – normally said it. "Alexander", in their voices, equaled disappointment. When Magnus said it, though, the way his smooth voice tugged at each syllable made it sound almost like a caress. Not that Alec would ever tell him that, of course.

"I wanted to ask you something," he said instead.

Magnus' raised his eyebrows. "Shoot."

Alec took a deep breath. "I write for this magazine. My boss wants me to run a feature on something with an art theme, so I was wondering if you'd be interested."

"You want to write about me?"

Alec felt his face heat up, but didn't break eye contact. "Yes. I mean, if you want to."

Magnus went quiet for a moment, considering, which caused doubt to seep in and nervous butterflies to erupt in Alec's stomach. He was just about to open his mouth to dismiss the idea and ask the painter to forget he ever said anything, when Magnus' face broke out in a wide grin.

"I'd love to," he said.

Oh.

Two days before Alec would have his scheduled interview with Magnus, they had a staff meeting at work. Clary was just finishing going over the progress of past week and was about to move on to discuss their upcoming projects, when she was interrupted.

Pangborn was, as had become the norm these days, in a state of uproar. "For the last time, I'm not cutting the reviews for some inane art drivel! You might be in charge here, but I'm in charge of the culture pages."

"Keep that up and you won't be much longer," Clary muttered under her breath.

Pangborn narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "What was that?"

"Oh, nothing," Clary assured, her voice sugary-sweet. Alec saw Jace hide a grin.

"What will the people at The Circle think!" the enraged man continued, referring to Pandemonium's top competitor. "If we start adding these artsy things that no one actually cares about, they'll think we have given up! We'll be the laughing stock!"

"The Circle had a feature on contemporary art in their latest issue," Alec said without thinking.

There was a moment of complete silence in the room while people stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. Alec felt his face redden—this kind of attention was why he didn't normally speak in the first place. It felt like an eternity passed before Jace broke the silence:

"Alec's right; they did."

And everyone moved on, going back to the conversation as if nothing had happened. Alec let out a silent sigh of relief, but noticed in the corner of his eye that Clary smiled to herself.

As if she was proud.

Magnus' loft was colorful, the logical expansion of his art. The place mainly consisted of one large living area that held a variety of mismatched furniture – furry pink couch, blue armchair, purple satin pillows – and a smaller kitchen with countertops in such a bright shade of yellow that Alec's eyes hurt when he looked at them for too long. On the other side of the room were two red-painted doors, presumably leading to the bathroom and bedroom. The entire loft was cluttered with seemingly random decorative items, balls of crumbled-up sketch paper, stray crayons, paint cans and jars, and books. Here and there were traces of spilled paint that hadn't been washed away in time, and everything carried a faint smell of sandalwood.

After taking his jacket off, and greeting a tiny grey-white ball of fur that Magnus introduced as his cat, Chairman Meow, Alec was led to the small kitchen area.

"Coffee?" Magnus asked.

"Black, please," Alec replied.

The painter chuckled as he turned to start a fresh pot. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"Well, coffee is coffee," Alec said. "If I wanted to taste milk or chocolate, I'd have that instead."

Magnus grinned. "You are so wonderfully straightforward. I like it."

This made Alec blush, but he defiantly crossed his arms over his chest. "I just don't see why someone would want to dilute the taste of perfectly good coffee."

"Of course you don't, sweetheart." There was nothing patronizing about the way Magnus used the term of endearment, which only made Alec blush harder.

"So," Alec started as he was handed a steaming mug, "how long have you been into painting?"

"Since I was old enough to hold a brush, I suppose," Magnus said with a shrug. "I always loved creating; drawing, painting, anything I could do that involved color. Whenever things became… hard, I'd immerse myself in my art. It was my happy place."

Alec swallowed. "What do you mean, 'hard'?"

Magnus' gaze turned distant. "I didn't have the easiest upbringing. I don't know who my biological father was, but my mother died soon after I was born, so I was raised by my step-father, who was as conservative as they come. He didn't approve. Of anything."

"I think I know what you mean," Alec mumbled.

Magnus nodded, leaning back against the kitchen counter. "In hindsight, though, I guess it wasn't all bad. His disapproval made me even more eager to pursue my interests—I'm not sure I'd be here otherwise. I worked for a few years after graduation to save up for art school, and since then I've probably done all kinds of painting there is. I was never much for portraits, though—human faces tend to be less suitable for extreme color combinations."

"Unless you're Picasso," Alec said just as Magnus finished with "If your name isn't Picasso."

They stared at each other for a moment in surprise, before Magnus couldn't take it anymore and giggled. The sound was contagious, and soon they were both laughing, and Alec couldn't remember the last time he'd actually laughed together with another person.

At long last, the laughter died out, and Alec knew his face was flushed again. He cleared his throat. "So, how come you ended up getting into street painting?"

There was still a glimmer of amusement in Magnus' eyes, but he quickly sobered up. "Well, using the ground as my canvas was sort of a natural extension of what I'd done up to that point. Until then, everything I put color on was my own. But, as you have pointed out, Alexander, we do live in a rather colorless world. Painting is my way to color it, one street at a time. I realize it's a long shot," here Magnus looked almost shy, "but as long as it sometime, somewhere, manages to paint a shred of hope into just one person's life, it's worth it."

A myriad of feelings rushed through Alec at the painter's admission, but the ones that took precedence were fascination (I'm glad there's someone like this exists in this world) and understanding (I know exactly what he means). After a moment of consideration, though, what he voiced out loud was a confession of his own.

"You already did, you know," he said.

Magnus' eyes flew to his. "What?"

Suddenly hesitant, Alec stared down at the floor. "To me, I mean—you… The first time I saw one of your paintings, I was feeling rather… tired of… well, everything. Time passed, but I was a spectator. I was just there, unaffected by it all. When I saw your art, all the colors, it was like… a crack I could actually see through. It sounds so weird when I say it like this, but I just wanted you to know that you—I mean it—it gave me hope."

When he finally dared to look back up at Magnus, the painter's mouth was slightly open, his gold-green eyes wide with an emotion in them that Alec hadn't seen before. "Beautiful…" he thought he heard the man say under his breath..

Embarrassed, Alec started rambling. "I'm sorry if it's stupid, I'm sure you don't care either way—after all, I'm just like the black-and-white suits out there, I mean all I ever wear is black, and there's nothing colorful or even slightly interesting about me, not like you, and I know I'm just supposed to interview you and not make you listen to me, but I thought—" The rest of his words caught in his throat when he realized that Magnus was now standing right in front of him, invading his personal space. In a moment, their coffee mugs were gone, and long-fingered hands rested on Alec's shoulders.

"Alexander," Magnus said, his voice soft, "I don't think you see yourself clearly at all."

Alec's breath caught as the painter leaned in close to his face.

"See, this is red," Magnus said, cupping Alec's flushed cheeks, "this is pink", he continued, gently caressing Alec's bottom lip with his thumb, "and this," he whispered, staring into Alec's eyes, "this is the most stunning shade of blue I've ever seen."

Magnus' eyes seemed to be asking a question, and before Alec knew what his had answered, the other man's lips were on his. The kiss was warm, sweet, and soothed a desperate need for closeness that Alec hadn't known he had. Magnus' arms wound around his neck, holding him tight, and Alec had to grab at the painter's silky green shirt to keep his knees from giving out as the kiss turned deeper, more intense. Magnus' tongue caressed his, and everything else fell away until all that remained was the two of them, together.

When they pulled back at last, Magnus looked as flushed as he felt, lips swollen and eyes shining. He cupped Alec's cheek again, holding it like he was made of glass.

"You, my dear, are beautiful," he breathed.

And, when Magnus said it like that, looking at him so tenderly, as if he'd just found something infinitely precious, Alec believed him.

"The white, snowy scenery as a metaphor for the racism in New England…"

"And the pickle dish."

"I know!" Alec heard Isabelle's laughter through the phone. "Sometimes the theories are so far-fetched I can't decide whether these people are geniuses or insane."

"Sometimes it's both," Alec said. This line of thought made him think of Magnus, as most things seemed to do lately. After the interview, Magnus had told him about how he'd been met with a lot of prejudice because of his choice of profession. People tended to peg him for a loon or a raving lunatic simply for being a street painter, and while Alec could see why some people would associate such color combinations with insanity, there was absolutely nothing wrong with Magnus' intellect. His artwork was brilliant, too—in Alec's rather biased opinion.

The sound of his sister's voice brought him back to reality. "True that. But I'm glad I'm taking this class; it gives me an excuse to catch up on all these classics that I haven't gotten around to read. Although I suspect I could have gone through my life without reading Ethan Frome and still not suffered too much for it…"

Suddenly, Isabelle let out a gasp.

"I almost forgot! Guess what! I have this friend of a friend who has moved to your area, and he's single and supposedly really nice, and I thought I could set you up—"

Alec's heart sank. "Iz, I don't—"

"—I know you don't want me to do these things, but I swear it's not like last time—"

"Will you just lis—"

"—out of your comfort zone, but I think if you—"

"Isabelle!"

Going by the silence that followed, his sister was as surprised as he was by his outburst. He rubbed his temple with his free hand, cursing his uncharacteristic lack of patience.

"I'm—I'm kind of seeing someone. His name is Magnus, he's an artist, and I… really like him, Iz. He makes me feel…" visible, more comfortable in my own skin, alive "… special."

The silence dragged on for so long that Alec started to wonder whether the connection had been lost, until he heard the unmistakable sound of a sob on the other end.

"Isabelle?"

There was another sniffle. "Oh, Alec!" she said, "I can't even tell you how happy I am to hear you say that. I'm just… so happy for you, big brother." He heard her blow her nose in the background, and then her voice was back to its usual self.

For the rest of their conversation, Alec couldn't have stopped smiling if he'd wanted to.

"That is a horrible choice for her!" Magnus exclaimed, aghast as he watched the proceedings on the TV screen. "Whatever happened to his 'spandex belongs at the gym' policy?!"

Alec snorted softly, deciding not to comment on that.

They were sitting together on Alec's couch, their hands entwined, watching a clothes designer show that Magnus insisted was the best thing ever. Alec's cat had joined them for a while before deciding that the silence of her human's bedroom was better entertainment than the noisy TV show. Alec was inclined to agree with her; he had given up watching a while ago, and was now not-so-subtly watching Magnus instead.

It was a bit surreal, seeing him in his apartment. Earlier that day, Alec had put the finishing touches on his article, and Magnus, upon hearing the news, had insisted they celebrate together. That's how they were now at Alec's place, surrounded by empty takeout containers and watching crappy TV. Despite the slightly surreal quality to the situation, hanging out with Magnus felt strangely normal, like they had always been doing this.

"I don't have something on my face, do I?" Magnus asked him after a moment.

"No, but it's more interesting to watch than this show," Alec said wryly.

Magnus gasped theatrically. "But it's Project Runaway!"

"And I'm sure it's great, if you're into that sort of thing," Alec shrugged, amused. He didn't know when it became natural to tease Magnus back, but somehow with him it was easy.

"You're no fun at all." Magnus gave him a fond look. "But I guess we shouldn't watch this all night. I did say we were going to 'celebrate', after all." With that, he caught Alec in his arms, and proceeded to kiss the breath out of him.

A long moment later, Alec pulled back. "So," he started, gasping for air, "what did you want to do to celebrate?"

At this, Magnus stared at him in disbelief, and then burst out laughing. It was a startling, joyous sound that warmed Alec's insides even though he didn't know what had prompted it.

"Oh, darling," Magnus finally managed, breathless from laughter. "My sweet, innocent Alexander. Please say I can keep you," he said, before pouncing on him again.

Alec still didn't know what had been so funny, but Magnus proved to be very determined, and soon he stopped wondering as his mind, and lips, were busy with more important things.

Most staff members were starting to leave for the day when Alec overheard Pangborn and Blackwell's conversation; it was hard to avoid since they weren't exactly quiet and, going by the way they kept glancing at him over their shoulders, he was supposed to hear.

"I can't believe she cut your reviews to publish that piece of crap," Blackwell was saying.

"Yeah, it's like we're doing charity work now," Pangborn replied, "writing about homeless people who vandalize the streets and pretend it's a legit career. Is that even legal?"

Alec knew they were only saying those things to hurt and because they were confident he wouldn't dare to say anything about it. He was the quiet one, so he was supposed to just sit back and take it. He would have, too, but that was Magnus they were talking about…

"And who cares about his sob story?" Pangborn continued, scoffing. "It's not even proper charity work when the subject obviously is a stoner anyway. There's no saving other than the loony bin."

"Will you shut up?" Alec finally exploded.

The two men slowly turned to look at him.

"So he does talk," Pangborn mocked. "What are you going to do about it, boy?"

Alec's anger made him lose his normal inhibitions. "I want you to shut up about things you don't know a thing about. He's not a loon, or a stoner, or homeless, or any of the other things you said. Street painting is also completely legal when you have permission—which he has. How can you call yourself journalists when you can't even read an article properly and don't bother to check your facts before running your stupid mouths?"

Alec knew his face was probably redder than a tomato, and was faintly aware that the remaining half the office was now staring at him with their mouths open, but at this moment, he didn't care.

He had never felt so empowered in his life.

Alec's righteous anger kept him going until he was back in the safety of his apartment. There, he finally calmed down, and started to realize the implications of what he had just done. I told my co-workers off, he thought. I told them to shut up and insulted their journalistic abilities and oh my god they're going to kill me. There was a small voice in his head that told him he did well and had only spoken the truth, and it sounded suspiciously like Magnus, but he ignored it in favor of freaking out. As much as he had grown in some aspects of his life lately, he'd never taken a conflict head-on before, and now he was feeling the side-effects.

He curled up on the couch, clutching his legs close to his body, and cried and shook until it was dark outside and his stomach ached empty. Eventually he got up, heated up some leftovers and fed his cat, who was giving him the stink eye for ignoring her all through the evening. Then he fell into bed, exhausted by the emotional turmoil, and tried not to think about tomorrow.

Perhaps it was only Alec's imagination after tossing and turning all night, but it felt like everyone was staring at him at work the day after his outburst. He spent most of the day feeling intensely uncomfortable, avoiding people's eyes and spending an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom, hiding in a stall just to be able to escape the looks and breathe.

Pangborn and Blackwell had been ignoring him so far, but after the afternoon coffee break, they turned his way, Pangborn with an extremely satisfied look on his face. Alec panicked, feeling cornered, and cursed Jace's timing for deciding to have the last few days off—now he really didn't have anyone who was likely to stand up against those two other than himself.

"I'm going to suggest to the editor that we pull your article from the magazine, boy," the man informed him. "I have decided that it's not up to our standards and that the topic is irrelevant. I'm in charge of the pages it's supposed to be on and I won't stand for publishing such crap."

Alec's mind raced, and he attempted to use his old coping method to handle situations when needed an outlet that didn't put him in trouble: You can't do that, it's not up for you to decide, he wanted to say. There's nothing wrong with that article, he wanted to say. You're just mad because I called you out on being an asshole and you know it, he wanted to say.

"Why would she pull it when she was the one who asked me to write it?" was what he said.

As soon as the words left his mouth, Alec wanted to kick himself for failing to keep them in the way he had always managed in the past. He braced himself for another onslaught of panic—but it didn't come. Instead, he found that talking back was… liberating. Just like it had been the day before, only less intense. Even the rather nasty glare that Pangborn bestowed upon him couldn't deter his sudden sense of calm.

"Because I'm going to talk sense into her, that's why," the man said, and turned away from him, signaling that the conversation was over.

Alec bit his lip, wondering what exactly talking "sense" into someone entailed.

On his way home that day, he hurried past the square and the streets, not paying attention to his surroundings. It wasn't until he walked straight into someone—a very tall and paint-covered someone—that he looked up, only to meet Magnus' mesmerizing eyes.

"Alec, sweetheart, are you okay?" he asked. "I was calling for you but you didn't hear…"

Magnus' purple-streaked hair stood on end as if he had pulled his hands through it repeatedly, and he looked so cute with it, and sounded so genuinely worried, that Alec couldn't resist. He threw his arms around the man, hugging him close.

"Magnus," he said, breathing in the familiar smell of paint and sandalwood. He felt Magnus' arms wrap around him in return, and they stood like that, not caring that they were in the middle of the street.

"Alexander?"

Alec pulled back slightly so he could speak. "Well, there are some people at work that said things about you and I kind of told them off for it…"

He barely finished getting the words out before Magnus kissed him, passionate and sweet and tasting of warmth and comfort. "My blue-eyed knight in shining armor," he said fondly, once he let Alec go.

Alec blushed, smiling for the first time that day. "It was oddly liberating, actually. But I wasn't going to let them speak of you that way, or insult your art, because it's amazing."

Magnus's gold-green eyes were smoldering as he kissed him again, cupping Alec's cheeks tenderly between his long-fingered hands. When they finally parted, Alec was breathless.

"The thing is, now they are threatening to make our editor pull the article."

Ire flashed in Magnus' eyes. "They wouldn't!"

"They would," Alec sighed.

There wasn't much that could be said to that other than pointless reassurances, so Magnus simply hugged him once more, supporting him the one way he could.

When Clary called Alec into her office the next day, the entire room went quiet enough that they could have heard a pin drop. Alec wasn't anxious anymore, only resigned to the situation. It didn't help that Pangborn in particular currently wore the smuggest smirk he'd ever seen.

They closed the door and sat down. Clary opened her mouth to speak.

"I think you—" was all she managed before they were interrupted by the door slamming open again. Alec was shocked to see Jace storm in, in full battle mode.

"You can't pull Alec's article! It's exactly what we need for an art feature—it will also reach a wide audience because chances are that people in the area have already seen this painter at work. I don't care what Pangborn threatened you with, you can't—"

"JACE HERONDALE!" Clary finally shouted, which promptly made Jace shut up.

"I'm not going to pull the article," she said.

"Oh," was all Jace managed, blushing for what was probably the only time in his life. If Alec hadn't been so taken aback by Clary's statement, he might have laughed.

Jace left without another word.

"You're not pulling it?" Alec asked, disbelieving.

"Of course not," Clary said, and now she smiled. "Between you and me, let's just say a certain head of the culture pages won't be that anymore unless there are some major changes to that deprecating attitude of his. I brought you in here to tell you that I'm very pleased with your work on the art feature. I hope to see more of these written by you in the future."

"Thank you," he managed.

"You're welcome. Ah, and while I have you here, there's this idea I had…"

Alec and Magnus were cuddling on Magnus' furry pink couch, foregoing the fashion TV shows in favor of watching their cats size each other up. It was the two felines' first meeting, and Magnus had popped popcorn for the occasion. So far, though, the encounter had mostly consisted of hesitant paw-poking and a whole lot of staring. Alec's cat seemed to suspect that her new companion was actually a rat in disguise, and rightfully so—the contrast between her adult Maine Coon stature and Chairman Meow's kitten size was comical.

Magnus was watching the proceedings with trepidation. "She's going to sit on him! She's going to sit on him!"

"No, she's not," Alec replied automatically. At least he didn't think she would. He was busy playing with Magnus' hair, which was wind-blown after his day out painting. Today's color was blue, as he'd noticed it had been a lot over the past few months.

The larger cat took a step forwards, and Magnus hid his face in his hands. "I can't watch this."

"She's not going to sit on him, Magnus," Alec said.

"My poor Chairman," the painter wailed.

Alec rolled his eyes at Magnus' theatrics, but couldn't help but smile a bit too. One thing that could be said about his boyfriend was that, while he could spend hours in complete silence when working on a piece of art, nothing was ever boring when he was around.

Magnus peeked through a gap between his fingers. "By the way, how was your meeting?"

"Um, it went well." Alec said a little shyly. "My editor said she wants to keep me on the culture pages permanently from now on."

"I knew it!" Magnus flew up from the couch in a small victory dance, startling both cats into taking cover beneath the coffee table. He engulfed Alec in a big hug. "You deserve it, sweetheart."

Alec blushed, but smiled. "I'll get to write things I want to write every day now."

He knew that with his qualifications, it should have been natural for him to have covered literature and other culture-related subjects from the start. However, this was the first time Alec actually felt that he could do it. And he fully intended to keep doing it from now on.

Magnus stroked his cheek, and was just about to lean down for a kiss when a soft meow interrupted them. Cautiously, they peered beneath the coffee table, only to find the cats curled up together. Chairman Meow was snuggled up against the much bigger cat, who had her tail wrapped protectively around them both. It was easily the cutest thing Alec had seen.

"So they do get along, despite their outward differences," he said, smiling.

"Hmm, why does that sound so familiar," Magnus teased, before sitting back down on the couch and tugging Alec along with him. They lay there together for a long time, mimicking their cats, until they were both sleepy enough to want to drift off right there.

As they eventually moved to the bedroom, Magnus pulled Alec in by the front of his black sweater until he was tightly wrapped in his arms.

"Black will work with all colors. Did you know?" Magnus murmured against his lips.

Alec kissed him softly.

"I do now," he said.

"Sometimes I just feel invisible. And I heard someone say something recently, that it just takes one person, you know. Just one person to make you feel like you belong. To make you feel special."
- The Giant Mechanical Man