Darkness, cold, snow and strong arms. A frightening feeling of losing control of my body creeps over me. It eats under my skin, penetrates muscles and tendons, breaks through bones and takes possession of my quivering body. Cotton wool envelops me, blackness and rushing blood in my ears.
'Magnus', I hear a voice calling out to me in panic. Despite the worry and my desolate state, the voice sounds beautiful and I close my eyes to let myself slide into the strong arms and the warmth enveloping me. The scent of the aftershave is familiar, soothing my agitatedly beating heart. The tango beat dies away and changes into a gentle slow waltz. My skin absorbs the warmth of the coat, storing sensation and texture for a later memory.

Just close my eyes for a moment and listen to the merry-go-round in my head. Quickly the metal monstrosity spins, dull pain pressing against my skull.
'Magnus, can you hear me?' I hear you my hero, my saviour in shining armour. I feel strangely safe and secure, my subconscious trying to tell me that nothing is safe and okay. The merry-go-round in my head is still spinning. Bright flashes of light behind my closed eyelids take away my view of dark valleys full of deepest blackness and unfathomable vastness. My legs feel as if they don't belong to my body and I just let myself fall, because it doesn't matter where I land as long as the merry-go-round finally stops doing its rounds. I brace myself for the impact on the ground covered in cold snow and wonder how long it will take for a passer-by to trip over me. But I wait in vain. No hard painful impact, no swearing passer-by, no shadows or fear. Instead, a firm grip, warming wool, whispered words, lips cold from shock on my temple, and when I push the roaring in my ears to the back alley of New York, I hear a reassuringly strong pounding.

At least that's what I imagine, and I grumble pleasantly as a question demands my attention. I would rather listen to the beat of the pulsating heart. Its unique melody overcomes the dark valleys of blackness and chases away the cotton wool clouds in my head.
"Magnus," Alexander's voice sounds close to my ear and I snuggle even closer to his chest. He hugs me tightly and breathes a kiss on my hair.
"Let me examine you. Are you feeling nauseous? Do you have any dizziness? Can you please open your eyes for me?" he asks, concerned.
"No," I murmur absent-mindedly.
"What no? To what question? No vertigo?"
"Hmmm," I mumble again. The melody of his heart sounds so beautiful. I need more of it, it soothes me and a gentle smile moves to my face.
"Magnus. I need to take a look at this. Not that you have a concussion. Then I'll take you to the clinic."
"No," I reply and hear Alexander sigh. Once more his grip on my body tightens and once more I press myself closer to him. Again that lovely melody. At this moment only I can hear it.

"I'm fine," I say softly. With strength and insistence, Alexander loosens his grip and pushes me a little away from him. Coldness takes the place of heat, uncertainty replaces well-being. The melody at my ear stops and I look into excited and worried roving blue eyes.
"Are you feeling sick?" he asks, gently feeling my forehead and temples. I follow his gaze, frowning as his thumb slowly glides over my hairline.
"No," I answer. But I am not dismissed yet. Doctor Alexander breathes a kiss on the tip of my nose. His lips tickle my skin and I feel his warm breath gently brush my lips. But they do not join.
"Dizziness?"
"I'm fine. The carousel in my head is already spinning slower. Can't we just stay like this for a bit?", I ask, leaning my forehead against his chest. Momentarily, I take a deep breath, inhale the tart masculine aroma of his after shave and make a mental note to ask for the name. That way I don't have to beg Alexander to roll around in my sheets and worry that he'll think I'm a crazy person.

"That would be nice. But you have a slight head injury. Let's go to my place. It's not far now and I can clean the wound and look at it in the right light." Alexander calmly runs his hands over my back, his touch and gentle voice making me sigh deeply.
"Okay. Kidnap me. I'll follow you wherever you take me," I reply and immediately feel his hand in mine and smiling we look deep into each other's eyes.
"So you trust me blindly?" he asks and I nod. Yes I do. I trust him, feel safe and secure at Alexander's side.
"Then let's finally go. The snow is getting more and more too. Your hair is already white."
"Yours is too," I answer softly and look at the coat of white water drops covering the night-black head. It is so beautiful in the soft light of the street lamp and my little heart can no longer calm down.

We walk leisurely along the street and don't talk much to each other. Alexander keeps asking how I'm doing and somehow there isn't room for another topic. I can clearly hear the concern in his voice. He tries to hide it, his thumb drawing incessant circles on the back of my hand and I never wish to let go of his hand again.
"We're here." A red-bricked row of houses stretches out in front of us as we turn the next corner. Even in the darkness of night, I can see the beauty of these buildings. A classic New York image, apartment buildings to the left and right of the narrow street lined with trees whose foliage provides soothing shade in summer. But today the green has given way to bare branches laden with snow. Cast-iron lanterns, beautifully shaped relics of a bygone era. Metal balconies and ladders for the heroes of the fire station. A staircase with few steps to climb and the black-painted door blends harmoniously with the rest of the image of an affluent hip New York neighbourhood. Quite different from the street in which my hole, which is called a flat, is to be found.

Every corner reeks of all kinds of bodily excretions, used syringes, condoms and the remains of lunch are companions and an absolute horror to me. I would love to escape this, to leave the miserable room and the nightly disturbances caused by heavy trampling police boots or screaming neighbours behind me. Unfortunately, my budget doesn't allow for anything else and there is no campus with properly furnished rooms and warming heaters at my university.
"This is where you live?", I ask, feeling like the typical clichéd beggar-poor foreign boy wooing an older rich guy for a better life.

"Yes, this is where I live. It's close to the hospital and Clary lives a few blocks away. Charlie's school is at the end of the street behind the big yellow house. Clary has a key to my flat and Charlie also knows she can wait for me here anytime." That's really nice. The cohesion in the family is strong. That his best friend's widow and his goddaughter are part of it, I quickly realised. Alexander mentioned that he was not only a friend but also a brother. I only know this from stories. I spent most of my time alone and apart from a few acquaintances during my school years, I never had a best friend or a huge circle around me. Even now my social contacts are rather fleeting and not regular.

We climb the four floors to Alexander's flat with ease. He still holds my hand, even though opening the front door wasn't easy. Pressing the key into the lock with one hand and turning and pressing it with the left at the same time as a right-hander is not quite as easy as you think. I know the problem. But for me it's the fact that this world was built for right-handers and I am therefore often faced with challenges. Actually, it's no wonder, since an estimated 10.6 per cent of the world's population are left-handed. A more than clear advantage for the right-handed fraction. I smile as the same game is played at the front door. I could also let go of Alexander's hand and thus spare him this humiliation. But who would I be to voluntarily release myself from the grip of my dream man?

He smiles triumphantly at me, opens the door with a flourish and with the first glow of the ceiling spotlights I enter Alexander's kingdom in amazement.
"Wow," I barely manage to say, feeling so unspeakably poor right now. This flat is like a palace compared to mine. A spacious room stretches out before us. The walls are lined with old stones in a beautiful warm terracotta red and the high ceiling shines in a brilliant bright white. Floor-to-ceiling windows with dark frames let the shadows of the night dance across the walnut-coloured floorboards. To my left, a newfangled kitchenette, high-gloss dresser hit and a counter with two bar stools. It is breathtakingly beautiful and the large cosy-looking corner sofa completes the harmonious picture of a home. A home you love to come to after a long hard day's work. Where a loving husband is waiting for you, the food in the oven smells wonderful and the children jump around joyfully and excitedly tell you about their day.

Fascinated, I stare at the wall opposite the sofa and where a black cast-iron staircase leads to the upper level of the flat. A young man with a serious expression looks at me and his gaze is worth a thousand words. 'I love you' Jace. The photographer behind the camera is insanely talented. I feel like Alexander's best friend is looking straight into the depths of my soul. The black and white photograph exudes a hint of pain and a pinch of gentleness. But something about the picture irritates me. Slowly I move closer, pulling Alexander behind me. The footsteps of our shoes echo through the room with the high ceilings and with my mouth open I stop in front of the picture. His eyes. Blue. Brown. And blue again. I've heard of it, read about it to be exact. But I've never seen it in nature.
"Who took the photo?", I ask and hear Alexander sigh behind me. His head rests on my shoulder and lightly his body presses against mine.

"A comrade. Lucien Graymark. He likes to take pictures in his spare time. He was there when it happened. The photo was taken a few minutes before Jace died," Alec whispers and I hear pain and love, despair and grief.
"It's beautiful. Those eyes. I feel like he's looking right into my soul. The image is incredibly real and clear. I really like the technique of highlighting only his eyes in colour. Wow, he is breathtakingly beautiful in this picture," I say. Alexander breathes a kiss into my neck and releases our hands, which are still linked. As he did in the restaurant, he helps slide the coat off my shoulders after somewhat awkwardly undoing the buttons. I still stare at the photo. Jace is wearing a combat uniform, the rifle is in the crook of his arm and the helmet covers his hair. I wonder what colour it was.

The picture is huge, dominating the wall, yet giving enough space to not be oppressive.
"Will you show me your photographs sometime?" asks Alexander, and I flinch, startled.
"Alexander," I call out in panic, pressing the flat of my hand against my chest to calm the excited thumping.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you," he replies, putting his hands on my hips and spinning me around to face him. Immediately my arms are around his neck and we gaze deeply into each other's eyes. This moment is not exactly conducive to silencing the drumfire in my chest. Alexander's gaze wanders up to my forehead and he insistently examines the site of my lantern collision.
"How bad is it, Doctor Alexander?" I ask, having to force myself not to sound too agitated. His face is so serious and for a moment he scares me. But then the concern turns to relief and smiling he breathes a kiss on the tip of my nose.
"Doctor Alexander? Does this turn you on?"
"And how," I breathe. Yes it turns me on. I would hardly have thought it possible. Alexander and his voice, the way he speaks and moves, his gestures and the things he does turn me on immensely.

"It's not as bad as you might think. You don't have a laceration, we don't need to stitch or tape it. Nevertheless, I would like to clean the wound. It was bleeding slightly and I strongly suspect that you haven't been vaccinated against tetanus. You should really, really get that done." Laceration? Teta-who? I look at him, slightly confused. Won't a plaster do?
"Can't we just put a plaster on it?", I ask.
"I will. You'll get a plaster too, of course. One with magical healing powers." And before I can say another word of protest, Alexander pulls me through the living area towards one of the two doors at the end of the room. Again my breath catches and again the beggarly Indonesian boy inside me screams quite loudly. The wet cell in my flat is just that, a cell that is wet. Alexander's bathroom simply blows me away. Here, too, the walls are decorated with the same stones as in the living area, white ceramics and glass create a picture of harmony. The shower is huge, a glass partition does not protect from glances and the mirror above the kilometre-long washbasin is more than impressive. Who cleans all this? Opposite the washbasin is the toilet and Alexander places me unerringly on it. On the wall to my right is a huge picture of the Empire State Building, in black and white of course, with a yellow taxi in the foreground, a New York cliché. The tiled floor under my feet reminds me of the beach and the sea.

I watch Alexander fetch an emergency medical bag from the cupboard next to the sink and place it next to me. His slender long fingers open the clasp and I watch his every move with anticipation. Concentrating, he spreads a cloth on the floor and places some items. A pack of gloves, a brown bottle which I know from the hospital and is filled with a pain-inducing liquid that bites my nose. A gauze cloth joins the other items and the magic healing plaster is an extreme contrast to the uniform white. Irritated, I blink a few times, hoping my senses are deceiving me. But they're not and I'm almost certain that the unicorn isn't magical and is grinning at me like hell.

He's not serious now, is he? Is he? I fear bad things and before I can think about it any longer, I hear the latex of the glove slide over Alexander's skin and the typical slapping sound promptly follows. I smell the disinfectant and brace myself for the pain. With the utmost concentration, very professional and immensely sexy, Doctor Alexander devotes himself to my wound. I haven't looked in the mirror, so I can't tell how bad it really is and whether Alexander is just taking advantage of the moment to play a few doctor games or really treating a gaping flesh wound. No, he already said it wasn't that bad. The medic is clearly coming out and I'm enjoying the care and.... Ow...
"Ow, that burns," I hiss and pull my head away from the death-bringing white monstrosity in his hand.

"Yes, it's supposed to. We doctors do that on purpose," he says, chuckling.
"Why is that?", I ask indignantly. Is he revealing his sadistic side to me now? Am I ready for this? Do I already want to know all of Alexander's preferences? I am not averse to certain toys. Not at all. Every visit to Steven at Rainbow Passion is a new revelation.
"So we can apologise," he replies, licking seductively over pink lips and I literally melt at the sight.
"Like this. And how?", I ask curiously. I have my very own idea of an apology. A romantic candlelight dinner and an exciting night. That would be nice.
"With this," Alexander breathes and the kiss on my lips is more than a mere apology. It is gentle and tingles, a pleasant shiver runs over my skin and I feel heat beginning in my heart. Gossamer, the tip of his tongue glides over my lower lip and I moan softly. The heat continues to move from my heart to my stomach area and gathers in my loins. This is new and excitedly I just follow my inner voice whispering softly, 'It's him. He is there. The moment. The man. Just everything fits.' Surprised at my reaction and perhaps a touch worried if he has hurt me, Alexander's lips leave mine. 'I don't want him to. What is he trying to do? Why does he stop caressing my lips with his? It was so beautiful just now.

"Let me finish this. And then you'll get your promised dessert," he answers my silent questions.
"Okay," I croak and let a soft clearing of the throat follow. It could be fun if an innocent kiss triggers such a reaction. Doctor Alexander routinely cleans my wound, the burning does not subside and I contort my face painfully. Escape is not an option. Smirking, he goes about his work and with a satisfied look, he brushes off his gloves and wraps all the waste in the spread cloth.
"Done my brave warrior," he says, smiling lovingly at me. I sit on the toilet seat in my dream man's bathroom with my arms folded in front of my chest, sulking.
"What's wrong?" he asks and I snort disdainfully.
"Magnus."
"Do you hate me?", I ask and Alexander jerks back, startled. His hand brushes my cheek, he was about to touch me and I'm promptly sorry for my outburst.
"No. Why would you think that?" he asks and I point to the patch on my forehead.
"Those are the magical Lightwood healing patches. Not everyone gets them. Only people who are very dear to me and whom I love," he answers gently.