God, Alec just wants to not be here any more. He wants to scramble his way over there and grab Magnus’ hand and bury his face in Magnus’ shoulders and hold him close. He wants to tug Magnus by the sleeve of his jacket and head back down those steps and out into the morning, and just be Alec, a man who has not lost all that he has just found, and not be the Head of the Institute, or a Lightwood, or even a Shadowhunter anymore. He wants to feel Magnus’ mouth again, a grounding reminder of promises shared, because the world feels like shrapnel sometimes and it’s cutting him up the longer he stands here, buffeted by the pyroclastic fallout of the night suffered.

Izzy is a hurricane; Alec is a tree, rooted to the ground and stuck, buffeted by the wind but unable to chase it to better places. Izzy would fight his corner, if he asked. She would, even if he didn’t, resigned to the soil and the dirt.

He feels the hard press of law digging into his stomach, bruising his skin all shades of purple. Rule is the overbearing pressure on his chest; tradition is a cast-iron weight hanging from his neck, even as he’s lying down.

Magnus is so…brilliant. He dabbles in ostentatious colour and toys with words that weigh so heavy on Alec’s sluggish tongue. He waltzes into rooms with a sway of his shoulders and makes everyone stop and stare, whether they will themselves to or not. He commands attention without the indentation of a single word marking the shimmering air. And he has Alec raptured.