Magic. Five letters that made up his existence. Made up a part of him that was as essential to him as every breath he took. Magic. It was in the way he woke up in the morning and didn’t have to rise from his bed. He just thought and with a wave of his fingers, the curtains parted, the sun poured in and his face was bathed in its rays.
Magic. It was in the way after he’d shrugged into his robes and spent ten seconds looking for his favorite slippers, all he had to do was snap his fingers and it appeared, his toes wiggling and sinking into the comfort of those shoes.
Magic. It was in the way all he had to do was splay his hands over the table and Alexander’s face would light up at the sight of his favorite scones, still piping hot, straight from the bakery down the street.
Magic. It was in the way he crooked a finger and could lift a man three times his size straight up in the air and send him crashing into a wall because he’d dared to dream of harming a warlock child.
Magic. It was in the way his hands slashed through the air decimating a demon who had thought he could renege on a payment and attack him. Him? Magnus Bane. How ridiculous.
Magic. It was in the way his hands gentled into a soft touch, searching and sending healing pulses into Alexander’s shoulders to heal the deep gash he’d received when he’d been jumped by a werewolf. It was the same magic Magnus had used to snap the wolf’s neck without a second thought, that he was at the moment pouring into Alexander so those hazel eyes would stop being clouded over in pain.
Magic. It was in the way his hands danced in the air, throwing out ward after ward as he fortified the institute because it was the place Alexander spent his days and nothing was going to touch the man he loved as long as his magic thrummed through him.
Magic. It was in the way a wiggle of his fingers would have Alexander as naked as the day he was born, with the dark jeans and shirt that had made him spend the entire time they’d been in the meeting with the clave, imagining Alexander out of them, pooled together at Alexander’s feet. Alexander would give that soft chuckle and he would wiggle his fingers again, sending the clothes to be neatly folded and tucked in the drawers because Alexander liked his clothes neatly folded and unrumpled.
Magic. It was in the way he twirled his fingers in the air and the lights would dim, the room would cool and he could slide into those cool sheets with his arms wrapped around his Alexander as they fell asleep together.
Magic. Those five letters that made up his existence. He was it and it was him.