Hey :) so, I kind of got sucked into watching the first two seasons of Teen Wolf and now I am kind of over it because I spoiled myself and I think in future episodes happen things that I don't have the desire to watch and also the main couple annoys the hell out of me ... etc. Of course I didn't forget about Malec during this time, but I kind of had difficulties to write about them again which is why I decided to write this little one shot. It got longer than expected and I hope somebody will like it.

Just see this as my 'Getting back into writing Malec'-thing. :) Hopefully now it'll be easier again to work on my multi-chapter stuff. :3

Disclaimer: Neither Magnus, nor Alec, nor Catarina are mine. Mine are just the words and maybe the pictures, definitely the mistakes.

No beta!

Vernissage

When it came to art Magnus had always wondered 'why?'.

When he looked at modern paintings, he had always asked himself 'What?'.

It wasn't that he didn't like art, paintings, photographs, sculptures, but he pondered the relevance of galleries. For him, paintings and sculptures needed a context, a certain environment, so to say. For him, they didn't breathe on their own, they were a part of a certain life and that's where they should be looked at, instead of being pressed against a cold, sterile, white wall.

Buying paintings for an extraordinary sum of money had always seemed to Magnus as an attempt to buy the painting's sympathy, so it would become part of your own life, although it would always stay a part of the artist's life, no matter how much money was involved.

But maybe it was also due to the fact that Magnus lacked the money to buy the paintings he really liked. Right now, for example, he stood in front of an amazing painting that didn't show much more than clouds with a sun placed in the right upper corner. The canvas was rectangular, way longer than high, but somehow the rays of sunlight broke through the clouds crowding the painting and reached even the farthest, the left lower corner. The clouds were made out of shades of orange and red, like the sunlight set them on fire. A setting sun? A rising sun? Who knew.

There was also a little red dot right next to the painting. It was already sold. Magnus snorted. Of course. And then again ... really?

He looked around the room at all the people wearing fancy clothing, drinking fancy alcohol, looking at the paintings with an expression of utter knowledge, like they could see more between the visible brush marks than even the artist himself. Well, maybe Magnus shouldn't judge so easily, seeing as he himself was also wearing a suit and nipping at a glas of champagne for the past hour. The stuff was simply too dry.

It was the opening of the exhibition and paintings had already been sold? He sighed. And where was Catarina anyway? Or the guy with the food? There had been food before, Magnus was sure ... if you could call those little crackers with some sort of cream artfully spread on top of them actually food.

With another resigned sigh, Magnus turned away from the painting, that he wouldn't have been able to afford anyway, and decided to look for the bathroom. On the way through the next room - filled with some smaller paintings, placed on the wall in a row - he put his glass on the tablet of one of the waiters. Though he didn't come across the one with the crackers.

Another thing about galleries was, that they were so very discreet, so Magnus wouldn't put it past the owners that they'd put the toilet-sign behind one of the paintings. Just so the guests could pretend to be interested in the painting and not looking for the bathroom. But eventually Magnus found a white door - hidden by the white wall surrounding it - that had some washed out sign next to it. It was the first door nearest to the entrance and Magnus decided to take his chance.

He slipped through the door, though it unfortunately didn't lead to the bathroom, but into a dark staircase. Judging by the floor to ceiling windows it was the part of the building which was hidden behind the mirrored glass Magnus had seen from the outside before entering the building. It was late and by now the soft glow of moonlight broke through the windows, showing Magnus that he wasn't alone. The door clicked shut behind him almost soundless.

In front of the window was a low balustrade, probably to prevent anybody from 'accidentally' falling through the window. On that balustrade with his back against the opposite wall of Magnus sat a young man. His face was turned towards Magnus, one leg placed on the balustrade, the other one lazily dangling down, almost reaching the floor. Almost. Long, elegant fingers of a slim hand held a glass of champagne. He had probably fled the event at the gallery, too, though he wasn't exactly dressed for the occasion. He wore washed-out jeans and a white shirt. Over his lap was thrown something that could have been a black hoodie. Or just a dark color, didn't have to be black.

The man smiled and it wasn't exactly cold, but not really warm either, like that first spot of paint on a clean canvas, but the artist still didn't really know what picture he wanted to paint. The brush was hovering over the canvas like the gaze of the young man hovered over Magnus, his blue eyes softly touching his shoulders, brushing the line of his jaw, jumping to his forehead, locking with his own eyes.

The stranger tilted his head almost playfully, almost. The moonlight took the warmth that might have bloomed on the oddly fascinating face in broad daylight. Sharp shadows were painted over high cheekbones, made the strands of black hair appear like ink splattered against the white wall of the staircase.

"Hey there." Cold laughter was hidden between the words and Magnus was sure that if he would have kissed him in this instance, he would have tasted it on the man's lips.

"Hey", he eventually said, taking a deep breath, trying to control the urge of stepping closer. Much closer. The urge to brush away the moonlight from the other's skin.

"Nice suit." Blue eyes swept over Magnus' body in the way that cold water did, or wind maybe ... or just paint, poured directly from the bucket. "Attending the vernissage?"

Magnus nodded.

The next smile was filled to the rim with shards of glass, but Magnus had the feeling that they were just memories of old scars. "So? What do you think?"

"About the vernissage or about the paintings?"

Fabric rustled quietly when the black-haired man sat up. He put down the foot from the balustrade. Now both his feet dangled above the floor, almost touching it. Tension shifted between them, grew more prominent.

"The paintings."

"I like them, but I don't understand the titles." On the little signs next to every painting their titles had been written in black little letters. Always only one word. Desperation. Hollowness. Inside. Outside. Hatred. Not exactly Magnus' first association when looking at the clouds with natural light streaked across them.

There was real amusement lighting up those blue eyes, fireflies already frozen by the cold light of the moon, but still trying to stay alive.

"Maybe there's nothing to understand."

"What do you mean?"

The chuckle turned into a broad smile, that wanted to provoke, but was honest at the same time and Magnus wanted to drink it in, kiss it away from those lips to keep it hidden. A secret only known to him.

"Maybe I just put the titles there to see people speculating about their meaning? Which theories would they come up with? What deep, troubled soul would they see? What connections would they draw? What would they do? What would happen?"

Magnus swallowed heavily and didn't even know why. He was talking to the artist, the one he'd been looking for the whole evening, but he'd never found him. Now his attire began to make sense. It was known, that many creative people weren't exactly fond of dressing up. Not all of them, of course, but quite a few, who Magnus knew.

The artist grinned almost predatorily. "Maybe I like them to question their own understanding of reality."

Magnus nodded again, entranced by the man before him. "Is that why you sign your work with nothing but an X? To keep them guessing?"

The predator vanished as soon as he had come, hidden by dark smoke and boredom. Maybe there was loneliness, but then again, everybody looked kind of lonely when they were drenched in moonlight.

"No", the other man whispered, tilting his head again, but this time to the other side. "It's just everything that is left of my name."

Magnus cocked one eyebrow. "Really?", he asked cautiously, intently studying the artist's face, but there was nothing else apart from shadows and moonlight and a cold flame holding them together

"Maybe."

The next chuckle was born in Magnus' own throat. He felt himself smirk. "I like you." He was surprised, when the other shook his head with a humorless snort.

"No, you don't." The artist's voice was hoarse, kind of, not a change easily noted, but it scratched Magnus' skin and it wasn't pleasant. The next words were pure ice. "You see a mystery, when you look at me", the younger(?) man whispered, his gaze locked with past memories. He looked right through Magnus. "And you like the idea of being the one closest to that mystery, to be the only one, who knows the most about it, to be the one, who has something on all of those people standing in front of my paintings trying to figure me out. That's ..." He raised his hand with the glass - moonlight got caught in the bubbles of the champagne - pointing it at Magnus as if making a toast. "... that's the thing you like."

Silence. One heart was bleeding, another one was waiting to be cut. Tears wanted to be shed, others had already dried. Two souls wanted to scream in pure agony, but kept their mouths shut. Who would listen anyway?

When Magnus didn't make an attempt to break the silence, the artist hopped off the balustrade, his feet finally touching the floor again. One hand prevented the hoodie from falling next to his feet. He lifted the glass to his lips and emptied it without batting an eyelash. He had so many of them. Then he absent-mindedly stared at the bottom of the now empty glass.

"Don't be angry", he muttered and Magnus wasn't sure if maybe he was talking to himself. "I make a lot of people angry, you know." His words were drenched in forgotten tears. "But I like it, I like to provoke them, the people, you know." He looked up. Something had changed in his eyes, but Magnus didn't understand what it was. The artist kept talking while slowly moving towards him, his eyes intently focused on Magnus' own.

"I like to provoke them because they have made me angry so many times ... and I am curious. What if?, I always ask myself. What if I paint the sky at different times of the day and one painting I title with 'Disaster', but another one 'Smile'? What if I'd stay on the street all day long and hug every person that comes by and asks me why I am standing there? What if ..."

He was standing right in front of Magnus now, their height only differed by a bit, their faces only one breath away from each other, his eyes half-closed focused on a point somewhere between Magnus' nose and his lips. "What if I'd kiss a total stranger?"

The artist raised his gaze lazily, a smirk on his lips. Magnus wanted to give some clever remark, wanted to turn the tables so badly, but he couldn't. His head was empty, his mind smothered by blue paint and silence. Every breath they took filled the staircase to the rim, but it wouldn't explode. Tension crawled over Magnus' skin, leaving burning traces.

Then it was over. The slightly shorter man drew back, smiling a little smile that nobody would believe, that Magnus had actually seen it, melting those blue eyes.

"But I am too shy to actually go through with it", he whispered like a child telling a friend how he'd managed to get a cookie before dinner. He stepped back, leaving Magnus surrounded by a sudden emptiness. The artist tipped the rim of the champagne glass against his still smiling lips before he stepped around Magnus to get to the door, but just as he was about to open it, Magnus gained back the control over his body.

He spun around and slammed his hand against the solid wood of the door, sealing it closed for the moment. His hand stayed pressed against the door as he lowered his head slowly, taking his time to brush his nose against the messy black hair that somehow smelled like warm light, grazing the shell of the artist's ear, whispering kisses against the side of the other's neck, feeling him shudder, before moving back to his ear.

"I still like you."

Although he hadn't expected the artist to turn his head, he still enjoyed being able to be this close to him again. If there had been enough space, Magnus was sure, that the shorter man would have tilted his head again, but as it was, he simply let the curiosity shine openly in his eyes.

"Really?" But that wasn't childish disbelieve there, only that teenage kind of mistrust and skepticism.

"Maybe." Magnus was proud to startle a short laugh out of the man's throat.

"What's your name?"

"What's yours?"

There was that smile again, the one of a scheming child, of a satisfied teenager, of a childish adult and Magnus realized that it was the lock to that mystery hidden behind blue eyes.

Then Magnus stepped back and the artist disappeared through the door. He didn't follow. He only stood there, relishing the taste of mystery and moonlight and a little bit of warmth.

A few days later there was another painting added to the exhibition. The canvas was a square of 50 cm on each side and it was filled with clouds in shades of purple, a full moon placed almost in the middle of the painting. Cold light laced the clouds crowding the edges of the canvas.

It was titled 'Stranger'.

Let me know, what you thought and if you want to talk to me about whatever it is, feel free to send me a PM. :) Or just pose the question in a review, if you are not a guest, I promise to answer. (If you want to talk about Teen Wolf, that's fine with me as well.)

Have a great day. :)
-Pumpkin