Work Text
“Welcome to Garroway’s Emporium of Wonder.” Mr Garroway pushes forth the heavy wooden door, extending his arm as Alec slinks past. The old museum has been transformed, appearing more like a theatre; sprawling rows of seats extending towards the roof, a circular stage within the centre, set to be lit by spotlights that spin and swirl in wayward sweeps, once the sun sinks down and the people flood the space. “I thought it was an exhibition of talent,” Alec crosses the threshold gingerly. Mr Garroway shrugs, rolling up the sleeves of his mauve button-up as the door swings shut behind them. “It’s a showcase. Calling it an ‘emporium of wonder’ tends to drive up ticket sales much more than a bland general statement claiming ‘talent’ as an attraction.” Alec hums, thinking of the subtle phrases he’d slip into his plays, the kind that would go unnoticed by anyone who wasn’t looking for it - a way of telling the world who he really is without compromising his family’s respect or status in society. Living as a shadow of who he really is, tends to feel a lot like dragging behind a ball-and-chain with every step, and there’s a rickety balance between subtlety and and a spotlight. He can’t imagine that it’s the same, for the crew that Mr Garroway has taken beneath his wing, for all the weight they carry must feel like dragging an ocean liner from knotted rope around their shoulders and sails squeezing against their ribs. “You know,” Alec let his gaze wander, let the anticipation in the air inflate his lungs, expanding above the layers of heavy lead. “I don’t recall you mentioning what my role at your, showcase , would be Mr Garroway.” Mr Garroway laughs, a soft chuckle that reverberates into the air like dust motes. There’s so much brightness to the man, it’s hard to imagine him anything but smiling - Alec knows he doesn’t smile all of the time, nobody does, and a man of Mr Garroway’s position in the world would have had to grit teeth and nip cheeks to keep from acting out in a way that would only prove worse for him. He must have pushed so hard, so relentlessly, to get to where he is. That’s the kind of man that Alec wants to be, one day, the kind of person he wants to embody; the kind he can be proud of. Not like his father, who would scorn at Mr Garroway’s face before his name, who would make haughty remarks about the dust and the darkness, about the lack of social profile, who’d burn everything Alec ever loved if he knew the truth. Alec’s father is not a kind man, let alone the kind to look up to. Mr Garroway, however - Alec hasn’t known him long, their acquaintance limited to a stifled one-way offer at a bar where Alec had chosen to sink his worries at the bottom of a whiskey bottle, and stare against the paper’s review of his most recent play until the words blur together, thick and indiscernible. It was sober Alec, a few days over, who contacted Mr Garroway with hesitation and enquired if his offer was still on the table. A week later, he finds himself within the cavern of wonders itself, still tearing himself at the seams in his search for answers - in his attempt to discover if this really is the right decision, if the path Mr Garroway is leading him down is one he’ll look back on with pride, or if he’ll scrape his blunt nails along the dirt, to try and tear himself back to his prior standing. There’s no societal value to joining Mr Garroway’s circus. Alec can only hope for something meaningful, at the end of all things. Else he’s made a very grave mistake. “You’ll have a say in many things, Mr Lightwood.” Mr Garroway hops over the barrier circumventing the main stage. “Costumes. Ticket prices. Additional attractions and exceptional deals. Least of all, the financial side of things, the way the narrative of our showcase is expressed towards the audience.”
He glances over his shoulder, back at Alec, his eyes an intimidatingly dark shade. “You will not treat my crew, my family like anything less than they rightfully deserve - you will have no say, in how they run their individual acts, nor what they should be doing in their free time. This is a test, Mr Lightwood, a trial; if you are not the right fit, if you are anything less than perfectly respectful, I will personally kick your behind onto the dark streets myself, preferably right in front of an oncoming horse-and-carriage.” Alec swallows, thickly. “Yes, sir.” Alec doesn’t believe he’ll ever forget the first second he laid eyes on Magnus Bane. Mr Garroway been showing him around, explaining the different acts, introducing the talent and generally expanding Alec’s previously naive ideas of what the showcase contained, when his gaze was drawn in by a flash of gold, a figure dancing above his head. There’s no chance that Magnus saw him, and at the time Alec didn’t know who he was, simply that there was a gorgeous man spinning in the air above, all long legs and elegant hands and the kind of grace that has Alec’s jaw knocking to the floor. It’s terrible, the thoughts that spring in his mind, but for a moment, a fleeting, foolish moment, Alec lets them be; he never lets himself feel, because there’s nothing healthy about his thoughts, but there’s everything beautiful about the man above him. “Incredible, isn’t it?” Mr Garroway whispers, hovering behind Alec. “It’s almost as though the air curves around him, welcomes him; he belongs up there.”
It’s beautiful, Alec thinks, skin burning. He’s beautiful. “I hope you realise you’re not being paid to be a hotshot if the audience isn’t present,” Catarina finishes tying off the end of her braid with a ribbon as bright a red as the blood boiling beneath her skin. Magnus dusts chalk on his hands, contemplating another run-through, glancing cheekily at his adopted sister - that being, that they, as independent orphans, adopted each other. “A few months ago, Cat, I wasn’t even being paid to take care of Arthurs’ horses. Being a hotshot, as you put it, is simply part of the fun, the freedom-” The sound of hefty boots breaks through Magnus’ sentence, calling their attention to the gap in the curtains separating the practice area from the offices. There’d been hustle and bustle almost an hour ago, but Catarina isn’t one for gossip, and Magnus had promised that they’d train together, so he hasn’t the chance to look further into things. Until now, that is. Luke is leading through a rather tall man, incredibly handsome and incredibly wealthy if the cut of his navy-and-white suit, and matching tie, is anything to make an observation about; Magnus isn’t one for judgements, having been on the bitter receiving end his entire life, but there are some things that can’t be budged by gentle politeness, and the status of a rich white man in the company of those who’ve only dreamt of privilege, is certainly one of them. Magnus quirks an eyebrow in Catarina’s direction, a silent exchange passing through them, broken only by the pointed cough that sounds behind them. Magnus spins on his heel, flashing a blinding grin that is only real in it’s direction towards Luke, the only man who’s been anything like a father towards him. Not the frustratingly attractive man hovering beside him. “Catarina,” Luke inclines his head. “Magnus, I’d like to introduce you to my newest hire, Mr Alexander Lightwood; Mr Lightwood, these are two stars of our show, Ms Catarina Loss, and Mr Magnus Bane.” Catarina offers a mock curtsy, a smirk painted across her dark red lips. Magnus scans a quick gaze down Mr Lightwood’s long frame, allowing himself a second to admire the cut of his tailored pants, and how snug they fit, before traipsing his gaze back up towards the man’s sparkling forest eyes. “And what exactly is, your act Mr Lightwood?” Magnus asks, unwinding the tape from around his agile hands. Mr Lightwood blinks, the corner of his mouth twisting as he searches for an answer. Magnus hadn’t been aware that it was a difficult question. “I-I don’t,” Mr Lightwood’s lashes flicker in rhythm with his stuttering words. “I don’t have, an act.” Luke clears his throat, but Magnus is faster than that, he’s quicksilver slipping through minute cracks and fissures. He doesn’t trust Mr Lightwood, even if it appears that Luke does. “Everybody,” Magnus winks, admiring the heat that courses up Mr Lightwood’s cheeks. “Has an act.” He slips away, making sure to brush his shoulder against Mr Lightwood’s as he passes, smiling coyly to himself. He’ll test Mr Lightwood, push his boundaries, learn exactly what it is that makes him tick, so that he’s prepared for any outcome, before he lets himself trust the man. This is his family, and he will do anything to protect it; until Mr Lightwood proves himself, to Magnus, he’s little more than a pretty distraction.