Malec fan-fic.

So this is a really depressing fic about Alec drunk dialing  Magnus and him missing him and stuff and it’s kind of bad so don’t hate me.

Also, please laugh at the fact that the fic is called ‘Straight’ and they are gay. kbye


Shadows and a lonely heart have this way of brewing together in that terribly morbid fashion that is only good for kindling thoughts of the future and the past and the universe and him. Always him. Which is to say, not good at all. But it’s true, and it’s there, and as he’s staring into those familiar slit cat eyes which seem to stare right back at him, right through him, upside down and still as piercing as ever, all he can think of is him.

The more that he tries to tell himself to think of other things, the nicer things, the more he forces his mind to wander as far as possible from that direction, the more it consumes him. His face floods his view. His laughter chimes in his ears. The ghost of his touch grazes his skin. There is no escaping, there is no running or hiding or wallowing away in the darkness for that only rouses more memories from the pit of his stomach, the ones he’s tried so hard to forget.

Always and forever, him.

His head hangs off the edge of the bed, neck aching under the uncomfortable position he’s craned it in for hours. Motionless, empty, eyes rolling over the cracks in the picture frame. They absorb the black tousled hair and the broad smile and all that was him, and all that he has lost.

Twilight is painted on the clouds outside the window, and the end of another day is whispering in his ear. Another night is beginning to manifest in his heart, threatening its presence, smirking at him from the shadows. He takes another swig of the vodka bottle that’s settled on the hardwood below him. Some of it trickles across the stubble of his cheek. He pays it no mind.

His gaze is relieved from the burden of color that is his picture momentarily as it wanders about his room, a perfect embodiment that is all he’s become. It’s chaotic and scattered and nothing is in its right place. The perpetual monochrome has devoured every hint of life. The grayscale of his reality. Muted tones and dull, faraway sounds that all seem to be too distant, only echoes of what had once been, hazy like a dream.

The line between reality and his nightmares has become too blurred and too obscure for him to tell the difference. And he has become too numb to care. If this is fact or fiction, his mind can’t tell them apart.

The only truth burning behind his teeth, the only honesty that he knows, the only absolute in his life is that Magnus is gone. It was always him.

Placed on the dresser, his picture is staring him down again. This routine he entertains every week. This unforgiving cycle he clings desperately to because it’s all he has left of him. Despite the fact that the world is upside down and the ceiling is his floor and the floor is his canopy, hanging above his head, his mind knows better than to be fooled by simple tricks. Around and around it turns his pale lips and his thick black hair until they are just as they were on that day, and the resurrection of abandoned memories seeps into the weak blockades he’s created. They destroy the walls that are feebly trying and pathetically failing to keep him sane. A tsunami of all that is his.

The rim of the clear bottle touches his lips and he feels the familiar burn as the alcohol dribbles down his throat, the only indication that this is real, and that this is happening, and that he’s still alive. He cringes as the flames of vodka scorch his esophagus. Straight.

There is no sound spare the ringing of his ears that has become a bitter companion to spend his nights with. Silence because they all left him to wallow in his pity. Silent. Almost as if the silence is so thick, so deafening that his mind can’t bring to bare it, and so fabricates anything to break the quiet. If this sound is real or fake, his brain can’t make the contrast.

This is his Friday night. This is his life. This is everything he’s become, despite the fighter he was raised to be.

The alarm clock on the dresser is glaring at him with it’s 7:03 and everything appears to be washed out, bleary and murky like those old movies Magnus used to watch. Lovers set upon French cinema screens. Romance displayed in a black-and-white mirage. The alcohol is disagreeing with his stomach again.

He swallows, and finally sits up.

The lack of control is crawling through his veins, and all the edges of the universe are beginning to blur. One after another, his face is sprinting across his vision, reminiscing of those days when he would breathe down his neck and he would trace his fingertips along his jaw line and he’d say, “Do you suppose Mona Lisa knew she was beautiful?”

I’d ask and laugh, “Do you think that Michelangelo would find beauty in Victoria Secret Angels?”

Magnus would breathe out, “Do you wonder if maybe we’re just too addicted to our suffering?”

These were his raisins of wisdom. His nuggets of truth. His hazelnuts of whatever.

His words are swirling around my head again.

Fumbling hands grope the cool wood beside his bed before they make contact with hard plastic, instinct and quivering fingers pressing the buttons to create a phone number. Apprehension is creeping up his throat, or that could be the alcohol, but he swallows it down with the help of drunk resolve.

The ringing is piercing in contrast to the quiet he’s become acquainted with. It’s blaring and destroying his eardrums, reverberating against the insides of his skull, but he won’t close his eyes because his face has already been burned into the darkness.

“… leave a message!”

At the familiar sound of his voice, recorded on that answering machine that seems to have become a new person entirely in his life, he can feel his throat swelling. Invisible hands are chocking him again, squeezing tightly onto his flesh, leaving him gasping for breath. Tears are swimming in his eyes again. The trembling has taken vengeance on his fingers again. The tightness in his chest returns again.

There seems to be a distinct lack of color in everything he knows.

“Home… s’come to me Magnus… please.”

The words sound foreign, as if his soul is merely a spectator to pity what has become of the poor, wretched body he used to own. The slurring as his words rush together, sliding off his tongue, the ringing is deafening in his ears. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. This is only a dream.

But he doesn’t think that his mind could make up the festering pit that’s eating at the remains of his stomach, the unbearable emptiness that nothing can fill.

He’s wondering to himself, maybe, had he something charming to say if he’d still be here. Had he been more of what he wanted, what he needed. Had he given him a reason to stay.

And he’s gasping again, and he’s staring at the ceiling again, and he’s all alone again.

This is fact not fiction, for the first time in weeks.

“To send this message now, press pound. To play your message again, press one…”

  1. thestrayprince reblogged this from shadowhuntersunite
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  4. agt-parker reblogged this from wishingiwasfangirling and added:
    this is not ok…I’m not ok…
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    I think it’s funny…
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