Invictus

Baboo

Magnus got his first tattoo when he was nineteen.

Growing up watching his mother ink the bodies of perfect strangers had only served to make him want to experience it himself. Sharing this passion with her hadn’t been enough to convince her before, though, and she had always refused to let him get one. When he turned eighteen, she had to face the fact that the idea had stuck with him and was irremediably implemented in his mind.

Then had started a long process of negotiations. It wasn’t until he mentioned the mandala to her that she started changing her mind. He had had to tell her in lengths what exactly it meant to him, how important it was, but even then, she had been reluctant.

“You’re too young,” she had repeated time and time again.

“I’m eighteen,” he had said. “I can have it done by someone else if I want to, but I want it to be you.”

“I don’t need you to have me permanently inked in your skin to know you love me, pumpkin,” she had argued.

Magnus had rolled his eyes with all the verve only teenagers were capable of. “I know you don’t need it. I do.”

“Barbara,” Charles had cut in. “He’s your son. There’s no need arguing with him. He’s just as stubborn as you are. Just do it.”

Magnus had never been more grateful for his stepfather’s existence.

“Fine,” she had sighed, holding out a hand. “Show me what you’ve got.”

They had worked on the mandala together, drawing lines, exchanging opinions and advices and in the end, it had been perfect. Because it didn’t only symbolized their bond, it also was the proof of it.

Magnus had never regretted any of his tattoos, but this one he cherished particularly.

The thing no one is ever told when they get a tattoo, however, is how addictive it can become.

This was why Magnus had very early decided that his tattoos would have a meaning.

“Where is that obsession with flowers coming from?” his mother asked, peeking over his shoulder to look at his sketchbook.

Magnus scrunched his nose up, and leaned back in the couch to look at her. “I’ve been learning a lot about flowers lately.”

“What he means by that, Baboo, is that the shop next to Downworld is a florist and the owner is hot so he’s been coincidentally spending a lot of time there,” Simon chimed in. He was sitting on a stool by the kitchen bar, helping Charles cut lemons and ginger for dinner.

“Pure coincidence,” Magnus confirmed, sending Simon a disapproving glare.

“So that’s why you’ve been offering me all these flowers!” Barbara exclaimed, but there was only mirth in her tone.

“I’ve been offering you flowers because you deserve all the flowers in world,” Magnus argued, and it was only a half-lie. “And you weren’t getting enough.”

“Hey!” Charles protested, his dark eyes shooting up to his stepson. “Don’t try to put the blame on me because you have a crush, son.”

“I don’t have a crush!” Magnus squeaked.

Clary snorted from where she was snuggling with Chairman Meow on the opposite couch. “Please.”

Barbara dropped on the couch next to Magnus, a mischievous spark lighting up her brown eyes. “So, how is he? What’s his name?”

Magnus didn’t reply, pointedly ignoring his mother’s prying eyes.

“Come on!” she blurted, poking him in the ribs. “How is he like?”

“His name is Alec,” Simon mumbled through a mouthful of chips - that was why he usually wasn’t allowed in the kitchen. “He’s tall, dark and handsome. Scruff, messy hair, hazel eyes. Nice ass, too. He’s kinda dreamy, to be honest.”

“Are you sure you aren’t the one with a crush?” Magnus grumbled under his breath.

“He’s also very sweet and kind,” Clary chimed in. “And smart. Just Magnus’ type.”

“Hey, you can talk! I saw you eyeing Blondie,” Magnus asserted, because he had always been told that the best defence was attack.

“He’s hot too,” Simon commented with a shrug.

“You’re so lucky Raphael isn’t here tonight,” Charles said, pointing at him with the knife in his hand.

Simon argued that he was simply stating the obvious, and the conversation deviated from him to focus on Simon instead. It wasn’t enough to divert his mother’s attention, though.

“We’re just friends,” Magnus said reluctantly when she refused to look away. “If that.”

“Maybe you should start with that then,” she said, laying a gentle hand on his arm, just above his tattoo.

And if there was one and only one person Magnus always listened to, it was his mother.