Bloodloss: An Alec and Magnus (Malec) Fanfiction

Chapter 13

I wake up with a thumping headache and eyes sore from my outburst last night. I’m exhausted, and I no doubt look like hell, but I do feel better. At last, the heavy burden I’d been bearing has been lifted. Well, perhaps not lifted, but I’m no longer bearing it alone. I have at least one person who knows the entire truth; what’s happening and how I’m feeling. I can’t remember the last time I cried before last night. Probably months ago, when Magnus and I were fighting. It feels like the tears washed away all the fear along with the tears. It feels…good; albeit with an accompanying pounding headache.

Over the next week or two, Magnus keeps his promise. Each night, when Anya and Matt are asleep, I go into the bathroom and call Magnus. We tell each other about our day, reminisce, then we tell each other stories from our past. Clearly, being eight hundred years old, Magnus has more stories than I do, but I’m happy to listen for hours on end to Magnus’s voice in the darkness. Honestly, I’d be happy listening to him read his grocery list. He tells me of his travels, of wild adventure, of a girl he once knew called Tessa. I tell him of Idris, of racing through streets at midnight with Jace, of nights with Izzy when we read by firelight in the library after we were meant to be asleep, of countless days alone in Central Park.

For those few hours each night, the rest of the world melts away. They’re what I look forward to when I wake up. And if I close my eyes, I can almost pretend he’s there beside me.

That first Saturday after talking to Magnus, the first letter arrives.

“Mr Loss?”

I look up, now accustomed to my new name.

“You have mail.” A Praetor guard says, and hands me a thick, padded brown envelope.

We’re all eating breakfast, so this sparks curiosity around the table.

“Who’s it from?”

“What is it?”

“How come he gets mail?”

I slide the envelope onto my lap and take another sip of blood.

“Hey, Loss!”

I lean back on the bench to see Chris, hollering at me from the other end of the table. He reaches his hand out to me.

“Let’s see.”

“No.” I reply, placing a hand protectively over the envelope in my lap. God, you can’t have anything of your own in this place without some sort of mass protest.

“Come on, whatcha got to hide?” he presses, hand still out.

Nothing, I think. But this isn’t any of your business. Can’t I just get mail without causing chaos? But I don’t say that, of course. I don’t reply at all, just continue drinking, my face blank.