Alec pushed away the image of Camille in his mind, chained to the pipe, looking at him with those fierce green eyes.
“Never mind,” he said. “She doesn’t matter. I know you were just trying to help. I’m not angry with you for leaving the party, anyway.”
“But you were angry,” said Magnus. “I knew you were. That’s why I was so worried. Running off and putting yourself in danger just because you’re angry with me—”
“I’m a Shadowhunter,” Alec said. “Magnus, this is what I do. It’s not about you. Next time fall in love with an insurance adjuster or—”
“Alexander,” said Magnus. “There isn’t going to be a next time.” He leaned his forehead against Alec’s, gold-green eyes staring into blue.
Alec’s heartbeat sped up. ”Why not?” he said. “You live forever. Not everyone does.”
“I know I said that,” said Magnus. “But, Alexander—”
“Stop calling me that,” said Alec. “Alexander is what my parents call me. And I suppose it’s very advanced of you to have accepted my mortality so fatalistically—everything dies, blah, blah—but how do you think that makes me feel? Ordinary couples can hope—hope to grow old together, hope to live long lives and die at the same time, but we can’t hope for that. I don’t even know what it is you want.”
Alec wasn’t sure what he’d expected in response—anger or defensiveness or even humor—but Magnus’s voice only dropped, cracking slightly when he said, “Alex—Alec. If I gave you the impression I had accepted the idea of your death I can only apologize. I tried to, I thought I had—and yet still I pictured having you for fifty, sixty more years. I thought I might be ready then to let you go. But it’s you, and I realize now that I won’t be any more ready to lose you then than I am right now.”
He put his hands gently to either side of Alec’s face. “Which is not at all.”
“So what do we do?” Alec whispered.
Magnus shrugged, and smiled suddenly; with his messy black hair and the gleam in his gold-green eyes, he looked like a mischievous teenager.
“What everyone does,” he replied. “Like you said. Hope.”
"Jace rolled his eyes. “It’s fascinating,” he said. “You know all these words, and they’re all English, but when you string them together into sentences, they just don’t make any sense."
— Jace Wayland; The Mortal Instruments, City of Fallen Angels (by Cassandra Clare)
"No.” Magnus strode toward him. “I didn’t call you because I’m tired of you only wanting me around when you need something. I’m tired of watching you be in love with someone else-someone, incidentally, who will never love you back. Not the way I do."
"He moved toward her, almost tripping over his feet-Jace, who never stumbled, never tripped over anything, never made an ungraceful move. His hands came to cup her face; she felt the warmth of his fingertips, millimetres away from her skin; she knew she ought to pull away, but stood frozen, staring up at him. “You don’t understand,” he said. His voice shook. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I didn’t think I could. I thought-the way I grew up-my father-“
“To love is to destroy,” she said numbly. “I remember.”
“I thought that part of my heart was broken,” he said, and there was a look on his face as he spoke as if he were surprised to hear himself saying these words, saying my heart. “Forever. But you-“
“Jace. Don’t.” She reached up and covered his hand with hears, folding his fingers into her own. “It’s pointless.”
“That’s not true.” There was desperation in his voice. “If we both feel the same way-“
“It doesn’t matter what we feel. There’s nothing we can do.” She heard her voice as if a stranger were speaking: Remote, miserable. “Where would we go to be together? How could we live?”
“We could keep it a secret.”
“People would find out. And I don’t want to lie to my family, do you?”
His reply was bitter, “what family?"
