Fandom: The Mortal Instruments

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Mortal Instruments, nor do I benefit financially from using Cassandra Clare's characters.

Rating: PG-13. Some minor explicit language and non-explicit sexual situations.

Pairing: Magnus/Alec

Prompts: (Thanks to SexxxCupcakes/missastoria19 for the prompts!)

An item of food: orange

A type of fabric: satin

A music genre: jazz

Timeframe: Vaguely at the beginning of Magnus and Alec's relationship, before they go on their trip around the world. We're assuming they haven't had sex yet.

Summary: Magnus thinks he's figured out all of Alec's little patterns, but he turns out to be more complex than expected. A picnic, a steamy shower scene, and a naked cuddle session.

Word Count: ~ 4200

"Oranges and All That Jazz"

People, for the most part, operate in a predictable way. They have a pattern to their actions. For some, this pattern is not apparent unless one steps back and looks at the span of weeks, months, or even years. For many, the pattern of their life is so glaringly obvious, their behaviors and actions are as predictable as time itself. To Magnus' astute, cat-like eyes, the patterns in mortals' lives are as easy to read as the New York Times.

Magnus watches Alexander. The young Nephilim is very methodical about everything he does. The patterns of his life are intricate, down to the most minute, daily task. But Magnus doesn't find this boring. He thinks it's fascinating.

Deciphering Alexander's patterns is akin to looking at one of those photo mosaic puzzles with thousands of tiny pictures that form a larger picture when viewed from a far. Magnus thoroughly enjoys the act of piecing together these little pictures. When he captures one in his mind, he tucks it away to fit it into the larger map of Alexander's life, which he's been assembling since they met. He cherishes each little glimpse into this complicated boy's life.

Right now Alexander is sitting with his long legs sprawled out inelegantly in front of him over a red-and-white-checkered picnic blanket on the sunny lawn of Bryant Park. Magnus knows Alexander prefers this little park, with its perfect, rectangular, flat patch of grass that serves as a small oasis amongst the towering office buildings of midtown. Though Magnus finds it unremarkable and pedestrian, Alexander somehow likes it much more than the matrix of winding paths, rocky outcroppings, and mysterious forest of Central Park. Not to mention, there's no fae to pester them here.

Alexander is meticulously preparing an orange for their shared consumption. He takes the tip of a knife and pierces the rind along an indent radiating from the point where the fruit had been attached to the stem. He makes a precise cut, no more than an inch long, and then abandons the knife. His lithe fingers begin to strip off the rind, and as the skin separates from the juicy flesh, the strong citrus scent tickles his nose and makes it crinkle in a way that Magnus finds utterly adorable. Alexander manages not to break the peel as it comes away in a perfect spiral pattern. When he finishes peeling the orange, he presents the corkscrew rind to Magnus with an accomplished grin.

"That's lovely, Alexander," Magnus commends from his leisurely repose on the picnic blanket. He takes the rind and, with a flash of blue sparks, lets it spring up from his palm like a Slinky. "But why bother taking the peel off in one piece if you're not going to utilize it?" He lets the peel bounce off his hand and fall onto the blanket.

He's not really questioning the point of Alexander's hard work. Nor is he curious about Alexander's motive. Magnus knows why his boyfriend does these things – why he consistently squeezes the toothpaste tube from the bottom so that the cylinder is always perfect, why he puts his clothes on in a precise order, why he takes them off in the reverse of that precise order, why he takes an equal bite of each item on his plate at dinner so that everything is consumed evenly. Alexander was never trained or taught to do these things this way. He is self-driven to strictly follow meticulous routines for dressing, personal hygiene, training, and eating. It has to do with control, order, and perfection. But Magnus asks why anyway, if not just to make conversation, but to make Alexander really consider how peeling an orange is a reflection of his personality.

Alexander contemplates his answer quietly as he carefully separates a section of orange. "I don't know," he shrugs, "I guess it just looks cool." He offers Magnus a piece of fruit.

Magnus raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. This was not the answer he expected. "Cool?" he repeats, prodding for more of an explanation, as he takes a bite out of the jewel-bright fruit directly from his lover's hand, slurping the juice, however daintily, around Alexander's fingers. As expected, Alexander blushes slightly.

Timidly, he answers, "Yeah, it's kind of pretty." He plucks the spiral peel from the blanket and dangles it in his fingers. Magnus thinks it does look like a bright piece of pop art, like one of those Mondrian mobiles hanging from the ceiling of the Museum of Modern Art.

"L'art pour L'art," says Magnus, "Art for Art's sake. I never took you for an aesthete, Alexander."

Alexander manages a superior grin, the one Magnus knows is usually reserved for people like Clary, and he could just pinch him for his cheekiness. What he does next could drive Magnus to jump him in the middle of the park and kiss him to pieces. He holds the orange in the center of his palm and the sun illuminates it like a miniature of itself. "Ceci n'est pas une orange. Anything can be art."

"Renee Magritte!" Magnus gasps dramatically with astonishment. "Well, I'll be damned," he drawls with an amused grin, "Our little Shadowhunter appreciates the arts."

Alexander blushes as his grin turns humble. "I try to be well-rounded."

Magnus doesn't know how this odd snapshot fits into the greater picture of Alexander, but he files it away anyway to assemble later on. He takes special care to display it in a prominent place in his mind. He thinks it's terribly sexy.

Magnus and Alexander pack up the remnants of their picnic as the sun starts to set behind the skyscrapers. Arm in arm, the two of them stroll to the 5th Avenue edge of the park, towards the New York Public Library, as the street minstrels begin to come out. In front of one of the giant marble lions at the steps of the library is a man wearing a fedora, playing the trumpet.

"Chet Baker," Magnus recalls with a reminiscent glimmer in his yellow-green eyes.

"You recognize this?" Alexander asks.

"It's fairly famous. My Funny Valentine." Magnus sighs as a memory warms his chest. "People forget that some good Jazz came out of the 1950's, not just the Roaring Twenties."

Alexander looks uneasy. Magnus knows that Alexander is aware that he isn't just an aficionado of old music, but that he lived through it, and comprehends it more than Alexander ever can. Magnus understands that his lover is entitled to his bitterness, though he wishes he wouldn't harbor so much. Alexander's lips form a straight line and he glances away. "I don't like Jazz. It all sounds the same to me."

Magnus tips the minstrel more than he would have, had Alexander not made such a discourteous remark loudly enough for the musician to hear. "To each his own," he says, flipping a few bills into the man's trumpet case on the step in front of him.

They walk uptown as the mad rush of office tower workers spill from the glass and steel edifices. Nobody notices them, despite Magnus' conspicuous glittery spiked hair and sequin-fronted vest, not just because these suit-clad mundanes are jaded New Yorkers. They don't particularly want to be seen, so they simply aren't visible.

Magnus asks, trying to fit the pieces of the Alexander puzzle together, "How is it that you are able to appreciate Surrealist art, but you dislike Jazz?"

Alexander doesn't take this question as criticism, and Magnus is thankful. Instead, he worries his bottom lip thoughtfully before answering. "I just can't get my head around Jazz. I like music that has structure to it. Like rock music. It has verses and choruses that form a pattern. Jazz doesn't. When I listen to it, every song just sort of blends into the next without any distinction between them."

Magnus nods with understanding. Alexander likes his music as Magnus likes his people – puzzles that vary in complexity, but that can always be figured out. Magnus is beginning to see that Alexander's puzzle pieces have startlingly varied shapes that are quite difficult to fit together. It is hard to find the broad, overall pattern. But Magnus rather likes it this way. What fun is a puzzle with all square pieces?

They are in Brooklyn now, at Magnus' loft apartment. Noshing all day has left no room for dinner, so they retire to the bedroom. Magnus is not a stranger to routines and personal patterns, though they've changed with cultural shifts and evolving domestic arrangements over the centuries. He prefers to bathe at night. In the summer, when steamy baths are not optimally comfortable, he showers to refresh himself in the evening. When Alexander spends the night, he's adopted into this routine.

In his enormous en suite bathroom,Magnus has a fairly large, fancy shower with different spray heads, separate from the antique claw-foot tub. There is enough room for two or three or even four people, if one is feeling rather frisky. The walls of the shower are finished with exquisite ceramic tiles inlaid with Venetian glass accents in various jewel tones. When Alexander joins him in the shower, there is usually no chance of either of them getting clean, even when they do manage to keep their hands off each other. They both have a very particular way of washing themselves and neither method can accommodate the other, even in this spacious shower. They end up bumping into each other a lot and neither time nor water is saved. So they have come to understand that shared shower time means hot shower fondling, but actually getting clean is a routine best done separately.

Tonight, Alexander has made it clear that he isn't in the mood for a slippery romp in the shower. He's been sweating all afternoon under the summer sun's draining rays and just wants to get clean before bed.

"Let me watch," Magnus suggests when it's Alexander's turn to take a shower.

Alexander seems reluctant, but not annoyed. "I don't know, Magnus," he glances down coyly as he absently scratches the back of his neck. "I doubt it would be very entertaining for you."

Magnus is wearing a silk kimono robe. It is a shimmery turquoise color, with cherry trees that blossom in pink and white along the wide sleeves. He's freshly scrubbed and has let his blue-black hair lie flat on his head with the fringe swooping at a stylish angle across his forehead. He's not wearing any makeup, but his facial moisturizer has a bit of a sheen to it that makes his high cheekbones look faintly sparkly, and his lip balm tastes like cherry. He hangs his arms on Alexander's shoulders and regards him with a persuasive look – a look that Alexander had once questioned if it were a sort of mind-control technique. Magnus would never do that to him. Seduction is much too fun.

"I find you to be a fascinating creature," confesses Magnus. He tilts his head to the side and leans in closely to ghost his lips over the side of Alexander's neck. He smells of sweat and oranges, a sensual combination that fondly reminds Magnus of Victorian Turkish baths. Oh, even in those morally repressed times, there was still decadence to be found.

"You know I'm no good at performing," Alexander mumbles sheepishly.

"Just be yourself. I want to see you," Magnus reassures him gently with his adoring eyes as much as his words. Alexander agrees to let him watch, but Magnus can tell he's nervous. "Just pretend that I'm not here."

Alexander finds his cheeky grin and says, "You're a voyeur, hm? Kinky."

"No, Alexander, I am not so much a voyeur as I am an observer of life." Magnus gestures dramatically with a hand as he talks. It can't be helped when the sleeves of one's robe beg to be swooshed around like the wings of a humming bird. "A connoisseur, if you will, of human nuances. Like an Impressionist painter."

Alexander caresses his back through the thin, smooth silk of the kimono. "If you hack off your ear and Fed-Ex it to me, I am so breaking up with you, Van Gogh"

They giggle together. Magnus loves how effortlessly humor flows between them and how it always diffuses their awkward situations.

Magnus sits in a padded chair brought in from the dining room and makes himself as unobtrusive as possible – a veritable fly on the wall, though he looks more like a resplendent dragon fly. Chairman Meow slinks around his bare legs, but he's ignored. His owner is too preoccupied with a human to pay mind to a cat.

Alexander does not deviate from his routine. He doesn't even try to make undressing appear sexy, and that's just fine with Magnus. His shoes are already off, having been removed upon entering the apartment - a habit that Magnus was pleasantly surprised he didn't have to force upon him. He yanks off the left sock before the right sock, which is probably consistent with the opposite way Alexander had put them on. His charcoal gray tee shirt comes off next, followed by his jeans, and both join the socks on the terracotta floor. He glances at Magnus over his shoulder as if to confirm that he's watching, perhaps fleetingly hoping that he's not, before he hooks his thumbs into the elastic of his briefs and pulls down hesitantly.

"What, are you waiting for me to shove some cash down your pants?" Magnus jokes as he crosses his legs and leans an elbow on his knee. His chin rests in his palm, propped up on the honey-colored pedestal of his arm.

Alexander drops his underwear, and quickly sweeps it up from the floor before Magnus has a chance to check out his ass. He tosses it at Magnus with a chuckle. "I'm hardly making it rain."

"Making it what?" Magnus looks perplexed.

"Making it rain dollar bills like a stripper." Alexander steps into the shower. The clear glass panes of the sliding doors are specially coated so that they never get foggy, offering Magnus a perfect window through which to observe his boyfriend.

"You boys and your ridiculous twenty-first century slang." Magnus faintly recalls hearing this term before and adds making it rain to his ever-changing modern lexicon.

Alexander turns one of the knobs on the shower wall and yelps as water comes shooting out hard from the lower detachable spray. "By the Angel, Magnus! How do you shower like this? Do you really need to power wash yourself?" He fumbles with all the dials and knobs while trying to avoid the spray.

"I always end my shower with a cold shock to close the pores," Magnus answers, letting Alexander struggle with the complicated shower settings before coming to his aide. He pulls back the sleeves of his robe, slides the shower door open, twists a brushed nickel dial, and grins. Warm water comes sprinkling down pleasantly from the overhead shower spray. "That's how I make it rain." He presses a swift kiss to Alexander's embarrassed grin before returning to his seat where he watches.

Alexander is the sort of person that hides beneath his drab clothes, hoping to go unnoticed, downplaying how striking he really looks. With his street clothes on, he gives off the impression that his arms and legs are too long for his body. But beneath all that, he's actually perfectly proportioned. He looks like a boy when he's clothed and a man when he's not. When he's naked, Magnus finds him to be a glorious human specimen. He's lean, subtly muscled, and perfectly toned. His pale skin is a flawless canvas for the intricate lines of runes. The permanent marks stand out starkly on his snow-white flesh like new tattoos. The remnants of old and fading runes swirl and coil like delicate flesh-colored lace.

Alexander doesn't know how beautiful he is, which makes him even more breathtaking.

Magnus inwardly moans. He can't wait to put his hands and his lips all over his lover's body.

Alexander tilts his head back, letting the water rain down on his face and cascade down his hair. The dampness takes away the dark violet, raven-feather-like sheen that's normally there. He brings several shampoo bottles to his nose, trying to figure out what's what amongst Magnus' expensive herbal products, which were concocted exclusively for him at a specialty boutique in Hong Kong.

Magnus advises him, "Use the blue one to strip the pollutants from the hair, rinse, then use the green one to cleanse, rinse again, then use the pink one to clarify, and then finally the white one to condition and replenish the natural oils. Let that last one sit for 10 minutes before rinsing it out."

Alexander returns the bottle in his hand to the recess in the wall where the other products are lined up like a creamy rainbow. He gives Magnus an incredulous look. "You're freaking kidding me, right?"

Magnus doesn't answer. He just smiles amusedly and moves to the vanity cabinet to retrieve a plastic bottle of drugstore-bought, all-in-one shampoo and conditioner. "You could just use this rubbish, but it's really not doing your hair follicles any favors." He slides open the shower door once again and hands the bottle to Alexander, who takes it graciously.

"Awh, how did you know what kind I use?" He grins and blinks the water out of his eyes. His lashes are damp and thick, and make his cobalt blue eyes look as deep as the sea.

"I have my ways," Magnus shrugs and kisses him again, but lets his lips linger this time. Alexander is delightfully wet, making their kiss succulent. He parts his lips, inviting Magnus' tongue inside. He still tastes like oranges, and now like cherry lip balm.

"Maybe you should join me," Alexander mumbles against Magnus' mouth.

Magnus pulls away with a slight pout and crosses his arms over his silk-clad chest. "I've already showered and have gone through my after-shower skin moisturizing routine. I don't particularly feel like doing it again." Perhaps Magnus is being a bit petulant because Alexander had originally been so adamant about not wanting to shower together tonight.

Alexander gives him a wry grin and playfully flicks water at his boyfriend.

Magnus gasps dramatically as he steps back, pretending to be upset over his wet robe. "Alexander! This is genuine Ahimsa silk from India that you're wetting!"

Alexander's grin turns into a smirk. "So take it off, if you don't want it to get wet."

Magnus leans towards him, lips parted and moist, eyes shining with desire. Instead of kissing him, he slowly slides the glass door shut just before their lips meet and flashes a smirk of his own. He knows this will encourage Alexander to finish his shower quickly. But to give him added motivation, he turns around, unties the sash around his waist, and slips the robe over his shoulders, letting the turquoise silk cascade down his back. The kimono now hangs loosely on Magnus' body, the only thing stopping it from gliding to the floor completely are his bent elbows. He glances over his shoulder, and sure enough, Alexander is watching him through the glass as he shampoos his hair. Magnus walks away, trailing the robe behind him like a bridal train, before finally letting it fall into a soft puddle on the terracotta. With a snap of his fingers and some blue sparks, the robe finds it's proper place, hanging on a hook by the vanity. He turns the chair around and straddles it, hiding most of his nudity behind the lacquered wood back of the seat. He folds his arms on the top of the seat back and says nothing.

"You're evil," says Alexander with soft chuckle.

"You're making me wait," says Magnus with a feigned bored sigh as he glances away.

"So? I had to wait an hour for you to come out of the bathroom." Alexander is rinsing his hair now, roughly pulling his fingers through it, blinking hard in the stream of water. Magnus feels pity for his hair follicles again.

"This," Magnus gestures theatrically to himself, "can not be rushed."

"Yeah, well, neither can this." Alexander mimics the gesture mockingly and makes a haughty face that just looks silly. Magnus giggles. His boyfriend is so damn cute sometimes. "You didn't, by any chance, happen to get me my soap?"

"I can tolerate your awful hair-care products, correction, product," Magnus annunciates the final T in product to emphasize that Alexander uses nothing else in his hair – no styling gels or anything. "I can not allow you to ruin your glorious skin with harsh soap."

Alexander raises a dark eyebrow. "Glorious? My skin's not glorious. It's scarred." He settles on using the bar of creamy lavender French milled soap and lathers up a fresh washcloth.

"If I may use such vulgar terms, your scars are fucking hot," says Magnus.

Alexander snorts with disbelief and faces away to scrub himself. Magnus decides he will have to prove to him later how very sexy he finds his scars.

Magnus watches how meticulously Alexander scrubs his skin in precise circles that leave no patch unwashed. He does it in a methodical way, as if he's consciously thinking about it, whereas most people absently, randomly scrub.

"Alright, you can look away, now. I need to wash my, uhm… nether regions." Alexander is standing awkwardly in the rain-like shower spray.

Magnus criticizes teasingly, "You've touched yourself in very dirty ways in my presence. You don't need to feel embarrassed to touch yourself in an entirely clean manner. There's also no need for silly euphemisms around me. It's your cock, Alexander."

Alexander's cheeks flood with color. With an exasperated huff, he says, "Magnus, go away."

Magnus knows he's not angry. He doesn't mind giving Alexander his privacy. When he saunters away, he pauses at the doorway to confirm that Alexander is indeed watching him admiringly. He jokes, "Stop staring at my nether regions, Alexander. It's unbecoming of a gentleman."

Alexander doesn't have a long post-shower routine like Magnus'. He simply towels himself dry, ruffles his hair with the towel to get off most of the moisture, and leaves it to air dry. He doesn't even comb or brush his hair. He simply runs his fingers through a few times and it sits properly on his head, such is the precision and ease of his haircut.

When Alexander comes into the bedroom, wrapped in one of Magnus' paisley printed towels, his hair is still damp and his skin looks moist and dewy. Magnus wants to slip him into his mouth like a juicy piece of fruit. Ceci n'est pas une orange, he thinks to himself. Alexander is a work of art. Magnus hasn't figured out all of the patterns, nor has he completed the puzzle, but what he's seen of Alexander so far is beautiful.

He tells him so as they lay on Magnus' bed with all the covers pulled back, naked, facing each other. Magnus' glitter varnished finger lightly traces over a permanent rune on the skin above Alexander's collarbone. "You're exquisite," he says softly.

"You're kidding," Alexander replies, tipping his chin down as if to hide the blush on his cheeks.

"I have no motive to lie. I've already got you in my bed, naked." Magnus moves closer so that they are flush against each other. Alexander hooks a leg over Magnus' hip, bringing them into even closer contact. Magnus notes how well their bodies mold into one another. Each curve and angle of Magnus' body has a corresponding curve and angle on Alexander's body in which to nestle. They fit like puzzle pieces. As they kiss, firmly but not without tenderness, Magnus begins to understand why this boy is so special, why he's not just a passing amusement to be discarded and forgotten amongst the blur of hundreds of past lovers.

Alexander was meant to fit into a greater picture that is the puzzle of Magnus' life, and Magnus was meant to fit into Alexander's. To say that they complete each other would be terribly contrived, Magnus thinks to himself. But in this moment in time, as Alexander's warm body undulates softly in perfect synchronization with Magnus', it is undeniable. They are becoming two halves of one being. Magnus looks forward to the day when he can fit deep inside of Alexander, when the two halves can lock together, when he can tell this sapphire-eyed Nephilim boy that he loves him. He's fairly certain that that day will come soon.

Perhaps that day is already here.