For Ella (the second) and her muse, from Harry and Clara.

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Sometimes, the way Magnus says his name makes Alec falls in love with him all over again.

He says it like it's something precious, like it is the only thing in the world that matters. It's solemn and deliberate and it makes Alec feel like he is totally and completely special to Magnus. It isn't a feeling he thinks he'll ever get used to.

Alexander.

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Sometimes, the way Magnus says his name makes Alec want to jump him right that moment, location and audience be damned. It gets a low, seductive note that Alec knows Magnus is doing on purpose, even when he knows it's inconvenient — because Magnus knows exactly what he does to Alec with that tone of voice. Blood flow immediately redirects from his head to more vital areas — even with just one word. Four syllables. He probably only needs one.

Alexander.

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Sometimes, the way Magnus says his name makes Alec want to throttle him where he stands. That infuriating note of know-it-all condescension, as though just because Magnus has been around about 800 years longer than Alec has means that Magnus is always right — and always smug about it.

Not that it isn't usually true. But it's the tone of it. The infuriating superiority of it.

Alexander.

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Sometimes, the way Magnus says his name makes Alec want to cry. Magnus' voice has always displayed his emotions when he's stressed, and whenever Alec is hurt his voice is always laced with stress, suppressed panic, pain.

Don't you dare die on me, Alexander. Not now. Not yet.

And Alec wants to say that he won't, wants to promise, but his breathing is ragged gasps and he doesn't have room for words.

Instead he just looks at Magnus, waits for Magnus to meet his gaze, promises with his eyes where he can't with his mouth.

And Magnus, sweat-dampened hair dangling in his eyes, takes a moment, just an instant, and rests a blue-sparking hand on Alec's cheek.

His voice is stress-roughened and low.

Please, Alexander.

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Sometimes, the way Magnus says his name makes Alec want to never stop scowling. No matter how many times Alec tells him not to call him Alexander — that's what his parents call him, only ever his parents, and he really doesn't need to be thinking about his parents when he's with his boyfriend — Magnus doesn't listen.

But there's that peculiar sort of melody to his name when Magnus says it, something about the natural flow of his voice and the slightest remnants of an unplaceable accent, and it isn't something that belongs to anyone else. It's uniquely Magnus.

So he scowls with his mouth but he knows it doesn't reach his eyes, which are dancing.

Alexander.

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Sometimes, the way Magnus says his name makes Alec want to freeze time in this very moment and never let it start again. When those sleep-darkened green-yellow eyes look at him and soften, melt, Alec absolutely stops giving a damn about anything else. Magnus's hair is only ever messy when he's just woken up and it makes Alec want to wind his fingers through it and never let go.

Drowning is supposed to be a bad thing, he thinks. But he would drown in Magnus's eyes again and again and again, would drown in the quicksilver-smoothness of his voice forever. And every time, every damn time he wonders how he got to be so lucky.

Alexander.

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Every single time Magnus says his name, Alec feels at home. Because no matter what the tone is, the voice is Magnus, and that's really all that matters.