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Water trickled between the cobblestones and the air was moist and foggy. Matthew Fairchild stumbled and leaned against a lamppost to get his bearing in the last hours of the evening. He attempted to blink away the now settling sleepiness from his night out at the tavern. The alcohol wasn’t helping matters, he felt as if his family home was much farther than realized, although it was normally an easy walk for a glamoured shadowhunter. He reached into his pocket for his stele, and applied a shaky night vision rune. Still the fog persisted although he was able to walk towards his home easier without the help of the lamps. The rows of townhouses were starting to become more and more unfamiliar and eventually Matthew sat on a bench to rest. He swayed a little and heard something shift next to him, and a small note grow hushed.
Matthew would reflect that he was much more intoxicated than intended, for being near such a disturbance should have kicked his warrior instincts into gear. Instead he stared besides him into the eyes of the last person he expected to be sitting on the bench alone. Well, now he wasn’t alone any longer, but that did not wipe the scowl off the bleach blonde man’s face as he regarded Matthew’s rumpled and wet state.
“Allo, fancy seeing you here, Alastair ‘Eyebrows’ Carstairs,” Matthew greeted with a sloppy grin. Alastair arched his aforementioned dark eyebrows upward at Matthew’s presentation, and seemed to realize his own actions and the words Matthew had spoken. He wiped his brow, in a sad attempt to mask it as wiping the rain but was a self conscious acknowledgement of his contrasting complexion. He turned away from Matthew and frowned at the darkness beyond their lamppost illumination.
“Where is your party, and dare I say, my sister?” He asked. Matthew sighed and lolled his head back to let the drops drip down his face.
“I’m out alone, everyone’s in bed I assume.” Matthew admitted. He tilted his head towards Alastair. “You have a nice voice.”
“Pardon?” Alastair sputtered, and even in the mist Matthew could catch the faintest blush on his face.
“Your singing? You were singing yes? Or humming…” Matthew closed his eyes and yawned, before nodded his head at an unspoken agreement. “Yes, it was quiet but lovely, it could lull me to sleep.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about Fairchild,” Alastair spat, getting up suddenly.
“Still as incorrigible as ever,” Matthew muttered, but then pouted at the other man’s actions. “No wait,” He snatched Alastair’s coat and tumbled off the bench, his knees landing in a small puddle. A pair of arms reached over belatedly to help him stand up.
“Hey…” Alastair pressed his hand on Matthew’s cheek and neck to right his head and get Matthew to look at him properly. “You’re intoxicated.”
“Duly noted,” Matthew slurred with a chuckled, and leaned against Alastair’s warm coat. “And lost… I’ll admit I’m also lost in the maze that is London.”
He heard a harsh swear in a foreign language that sounded derived in the same sort of root as the soft sounds he heard earlier. Alastair wrapped Matthew’s arm over his shoulder, and began to walk with Matthew leaning languidly against him. Together they began to take steps, Matthew would recall he was utilizing muscle memory that Alastair conjured from leading him to the right path. “You ought to present yourself more decently than this.”
“Ought I?” Matthew glanced up at Alastair’s mopped hair, covering half his face from its dampness. “You of all people would be elated that I’m presenting less than admirably.”
“Why should my opinion be of any use to you?” Alastair grumbled, flipping his hair off of his eyes and squinting in the mist. “You wouldn’t even be bothered by it.”
“On the contrary,” Matthew drawled and paused, in realization. He grimaced and managed to shift his weight so Alastair wouldn’t be hefting the brunt of it after all, sobering slightly. “Forget it.”
Alastair was silent for a moment, as they reached an intersection, before he turned and led Matthew onward. “I bother you that much.”
It wasn’t a question, and Matthew could feel the incoming wave of guilt that he was used to drowning in absinthe and not rainwater. He hadn’t realized they’ve stopped again until he felt an oddly reassuring hand on his back, and he suddenly leaned up against a wall and vomited into an alleyway.
“Matthew,” He could faintly hear Alastair’s warning, but he collapsed against the wall and upchucked some more before wiping his face with the back of his hand. He heaved, but had nothing left to empty, and coughed.
“There goes supper,” Matthew moaned sorrowfully for a moment as he stared at the mess. He was met with silence, and had a sudden panicked thought that Alastair has abandoned him. He glanced up to see Alastair standing underneath a roof collecting rainwater with a kerchief. He clutched it and hurried back, before thrusting it in Matthew’s face.
“Wipe, you’re filthy.” He murmured, and despite his vocabulary his tone was kind. Matthew simply stared in bafflement at the cloth and Alastair grunted in frustration before beginning to wipe Matthew’s mouth and cheeks himself.
“Wh…why?” Matthew breathed as Alastair held his hands and began to wipe them as well.
“If your parabatai caught you in this state under my care I’ll never hear the end of it from my sister.” Alastair explained. Matthew was at a loss for words, he could only stare at the worry wrinkles in Alastair’s forehead and the knot of concentration in his expressive dark eyebrows. Matthew cleared his throat, and Alastair suddenly looked up as if in realization of whom he was doting upon.
“That’s not… what I meant.” Matthew confessed. Alastair could only stare as Matthew leaned closer to inspect the water droplets upon his face. “I meant… why am I bothered by you of all people.”
Alastair opened his mouth, probably in an attempt at a dismissive retort, but Matthew shushed him with his thumb. Alastair swallowed and Matthew was aware of their foreheads touching. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from his once arch nemesis, the one that clouded his thoughts nearly once a day.
“Matthew,” Alastair spoke with a pained noise and gently pushed Matthew against the sturdy wall and repeated, “you’re intoxicated.”
Matthew’s head thumped at against the stone and he could only see the vaguest sense of longing from Alastair’s forlorn expression before everything went black.
Some time since then Matthew found himself grumbling and fumbling, and was cocooned in a bed sheet. He felt familiar hands grasped his own and he unleashed a dopey smile. “Jamie? James is that you?”
“What priced head have you parabatai?” Matthew fluttered his eyes open to see James Herondale peering at him with a mixture of genuine concern and disappointment. Matthew groaned in realization and put a hand to his throbbing head.
“Enough so that I cannot recall coming to bed.” Matthew admitted. James shook his head with a slight chuckle.
“I swear on the angel that I never thought I’d see the day Alastair Carstairs arriving sopping wet with you in his arms. I nearly walloped him right then and there if Cordelia hadn’t restrained me.” James described how he awoke with unexplained apprehension before rousing Cordelia and Lucie to inquire about Matthew’s last known whereabouts. They were dressed to brace the rain when Alastair barged into the institute with his unconscious body.
“That would have been a sight to behold,” Matthew smiled and then winced. What an unfortunate turn of events that would have been for the shadowhunter who guided him (and apparently carried him) home. The longer he was awake the more he began to remember the events of the night past.
James had continued fretting and then Lucie and Cordelia arrived with Thomas and Christopher. Matthew could hardly muster the energy for his fools facade, that he had a bit too much ale, that it was merely a rare occurrence. Hardly anyone seemed to suspect a thing was afoul, although initially Christopher was under the impression that Matthew was gravely ill, and Thomas seemed cheered at the fact that his school boy hero had actually committed a kind act. Lucie was peppering Matthew with questions about why on earth Alastair was out and about, but he feigned ignorance. James was too preoccupied with a medical journal and applying runes to his arms to help him disguise last night’s events from the prying eyes of their parents. Only Cordelia seemed to have a much harder, perhaps suspecting stare at Matthew throughout the morning.
Eventually Matthew had the ability for a moments peace, and lumbered his way to getting dressed. He snapped his suspenders on and was brushing his hair when he heard laughter outside the institute. He peered from the curtains to see his very own brother Charles Buford Fairchild with his fiance, Ariadne Bridgestock on his arms, accompanied by none other than Alastair Carstairs. Gone was the dour, melancholy man from the night before. Here he was cheered and even laughing in unison with Mrs. Bridgestock. Matthew frowned, suddenly overcome by a twisting feeling in his gut. He didn’t have time to waste, obviously Alastair had informed his brother of his whereabouts, since the couple happened to be spending a short time visiting his parents in the town house.
Matthew threw on a dull brown jacket he’d left around, his entire wardrobe was usually at his home and the club room. He thrust open his door only to collide into Cordelia. After taking a moment to gather his bearings, and fix his hair, Matthew gave Cordelia a look of astonishment. She glowered uncharacteristically back at him, and Matthew felt the knot in his stomach tighten further.
“What happened between you and my brother?” Cordelia inquired, frowning up at him.
“I haven’t the faintest idea.” Matthew answered with a crowd pleasing smile.
“I am aware that you were faint last evening, but I am referring to the Academy.” Cordelia amended. Matthew narrowed his eyes and leaned against the wall of the corridor. Cordelia could be an enigma, she was Lucie’s parabatai but she was also a Carstairs, and due to family circumstance her brother and she were now living at the institute. She either had no idea what transpired between Alastair and James at the Academy or she knew it all, and Matthew wasn’t sure which was worse.
“Why do you ask?” Matthew decided to find out what she knew, if anything.
“Because the way you gaze at each other is like how Anna and Mrs. Bridgestock do. I simply mean to know what the context is.” Cordelia softened her hard stare, and was staring at him with a curiosity and understanding of a younger sister. Unfortunately for Matthew he was never made aware that Anna had also confided in Cordelia regarding her… history.
“Are you implying that Alastair and I were-” Matthew’s voice was raised an octave he never thought to achieve when the bell of the institute rung, announcing the arrival of his brother. Cordelia’s eyes widened in shock at Matthew’s demeanor, and Matthew realized his grave error.
“I didn’t mean to speak of any offense?” Cordelia’s voice echoed down the hall in confusion, but Matthew had briskly made his exit. Matthew’s mind was buzzing as if it were a hive containing a thousand bees, after the implications of Cordelia’s words and last night he was forced to reexamine many things. He simply did not have the time to analyze every interaction he had with Alastair since the Academy days, but now what was he to do? Matthew brushed a shaky hand through his quaff and took a deep breath before displaying yet another facade for a different type of crowd.
“Well I thank you again, Alastair, for your prompt notice about my brother,” Charles Buford Fairchild could be heard in the foyer. “I need to have a word with the head of the institute regarding a request from the Consul. I trust you to attend to Mrs. Bridgestock while we’re here.” Matthew had almost stepped out to greet his great bore of a brother but he was already walking elsewhere, presumably to Uncle Will’s office.
“I doubt you need ‘attending’ to,” Alastair said in a smart yet dejected tone, and Ariadne let out a cough into her gloves. She then gave Alastair a gentle pat on the arm, and Matthew squinted suspiciously. He had no tolerance for the enemies of his friends, and Anna didn’t delve to much into detail, but Matthew understood heartbreak when he saw it. Alastair he was forced to tolerate, also it was much easier to fume from afar and potentially eavesdrop.
“He’s a gentleman, and you are his closest confidant.” She assured him. “What more can I ask for?”
“Perhaps he could give your prowess credit when it’s due.” Alastair reminded her with a scowl. This comment made Matthew arch an eyebrow, he’d never known Alastair to criticize his brother, at least in his presence. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one compelled to act in a certain manner for the politics and propriety obsessed Charles Buford.
“Indeed.” Ariadne agreed, and nodded in the direction Matthew thought he was cleverly hiding in. “I thought it was Mister Herondale who blended with the shadows.” Alastair made a uncharacteristic noise upon noticing Matthew’s presence. Matthew frowned and stepped out from his corner, making no secret of his distaste with Ariadne for the time being. Ariadne only tore her eyes away from Matthew’s for a moment to glance at Alastair, but she held her head high.
“Clearly I didn’t blend in enough,” He observed, and gestured to the grand windows shining the early afternoon sun upon his golden head of hair. “Must be my complexion.”
The pair shared a painstakingly obvious look of solidarity and disbelief, but they said nothing and raised their equally dark eyebrows at each other. Alastair cleared his throat and the moment was forgotten. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Pardon?” Matthew faced Alastair so he wouldn’t have to dwell too much on Ariadne’s presence.
“I informed your brother that after cards you spent the night in the Institute,” Alastair explained.
“I… did?” Matthew was at a loss as to why he would tell such a fib.
“He failed to mention your hair powdered escapades last night.” Ariadne added. Matthew’s jaw dropped at Ariadne’s crass. “Which you would be grateful for Mr. Fairchild.”
“I am grateful!” Matthew argued.
“Splendid!” Ariadne shot back. At her raised tone, Alastair placed a hand on her shoulder and she took a breath, produced a fan and fanned herself with it. Matthew huffed and cast a sidelong glance at Alastair’s atrociously attractive mug before stomping away from the pair. He marched straight out the door, paused and turned back to them.
“Do us all a favor and stop interfering.” He stared pointedly at Ariadne, since he could not stop Alastair from coming and going as he pleased. With the final words he slammed the front door shut. It was hardly noon and he was aching for another swig.
The following week was wrought with strife between the Fairchild’s wedding preparations and the typical business of the London Institute. Matthew could hardly stand being in a home shared by his brother and Ariadne, and the club room was only accessible during business hours. He lamented spending any time at the institute for fear of encountering his nemesis Alastair. Cordelia attempted to initiate a continued conversation but Matthew busied himself with excuses.
His luck had run its course, because as he was sneaking away from his home once again he encountered Alastair on the same bench as the rainy night. Alastair bore his signature scowl and regarded Matthew apprehensively.
“I’d ask why you are out here all by yourself, but I remember you have a habit of drowning your potential in liquor.” Alastair sneered. Matthew rolled his eyes and waved his hands vague at the near empty streets.
“At least I don’t brood out in the open with such a ridiculous head of hair.”
“What is your grievance with my hair? You never fail to mention it, yet your hooligan friends bear unruly mops.” Alastair pointed out.
“It obvious that you as much effort as I do with my hair, and yet it’s so atrocious.” Matthew countered.
“Forgive me for not aspiring to your incongruous standards, Fairchild.” Alastair turned away and crossed his arms. “Don’t you have sordid business in the tavern to attend to?”
Matthew plopped himself onto the bench besides Alastair, to his dismay. “Define ‘sordid’, mon cherí.” He carelessly rested his arm across the back, knocking against Alastair’s jacket. He jolted and scooted away, to Matthew’s surprise, and for a moment Matthew was compelled to sooth the fear he thought had flashed in Alastair’s eyes.
“Don’t speak to me like that.” Alastair croaked. Matthew frowned and relaxed his poster, recognizing that their feud wasn’t sustainable. There was an uncomfortable stretch of silence, it was usually Matthew’s expertise to fill it with his trusted companions. He was very hyper aware of silence, although there were distant noises of carriages and people about the night, he yearned to fixed it even with his nemesis.
“That’s right, you spent some time in Paris with Charlie and his fiance.” Matthew murmured.
“Mrs. Bridgestock is my closest friend, you best withhold your scorn in my presence.” Alastair warned.
Matthew sighed and rested his head against his palm, staring up at Alastair under the illumination of the street lamp. “Why do you suppose I scorn her so?”
Alastair gave Matthew a sidelong glance, his frown deepening. “You scorn me, so you scorn anyone associated with my circles. Perhaps you even scorn your very own brother as well.”
Matthew raised his eyebrows and let out an awkward chuckle, covering his eyes a moment. “I don’t simply scorn people willy nilly.”
Alastair’s fist clenched on his laps, and he looked away from Matthew for a moment. “I’m aware of that as well…”
Matthew uncovered his eyes to catch Alastair’s distant expression. He reflected back to Cordelia’s inquires, despite how awkward it was to hear perhaps there was a truth. He yearned to please people, it took much of his energy to spite. He imagined how exhausting it must seem for Alastair, walking around as if he detested the very ground he walked upon. Why was it that he singled out Matthew of all the people he sneered at?
“Do you scorn me?” Matthew asked of Alastair. Alastair’s mouth opened quickly as he started to perform what Matthew could now see was as much of a facade as his own regarding his pretense of cheer and tomfoolery. “…truly Alastair?”
Alastair stared into Matthew’s eyes and paused, his mouth reworking itself from whatever he had been about to say. “I…” He got up suddenly, the spell Matthew hadn’t realized they were both under dissipating with the action. “I must attend to… to… my sister. It much too late for me.”
Matthew narrowed his eyes and got up, frustration flaring. “Answer my question.”
“Is that a demand?” Alastair stared challenging towards Matthew.
“Yes! … no! I mean…” For once Matthew what at a loss, but Alastair had already begun to storm away. Matthew ran his hand through locks, befuddled and now alone. He groaned and kicked the lamp post before shuffling away to do exactly what Alastair expected of him.
Later that evening Matthew fumbled around the corridor, pressing his hands against the walls to balance himself. The stone cold walls of the institute kept him from falling asleep right on the floor, but he desperately needed to be anything but conscious. His mind spun with the memory of his very Mama collapsing before his eyes, and the stricken expression of his dear Papa. He reached the door to the bedroom and pushed it, blindly reaching for the covers. He didn’t even kick the shoes off his feet, but when he landed on the mattress the world spun. He coughed and found himself moist in the face, but could not comprehend his tears until the sobs emitted from his mouth. He buried his face into the linen to muffle himself, and eventually he lost all senses, finally escaping his torment consciously
Alastair stared owl eyed at the broken boy in his arms, who had barged into his room and bed. He knew that Matthew had no idea where he was or what he was doing, but when his nightshirt became stained with tears he mustered up enough wakefulness to rub Matthew’s back and murmur the tunes of his childhood, eventually rocking Matthew against him. He blinked away the sleepiness to concentrate on the lyrics.
“I’m so sorry…” Matthew whimpered, but Alastair could tell Matthew was experiences some sort of a night terror. He intellectually knew that Matthew was not speaking to him, but he still answered.
“I’m the one who’s sorry Matthew.” Alastair confessed. He brushed Matthew’s deflated hair back into place and sighed, thinking of the state of his own hair. He was torn between his desire to have such looks or simply appreciate them upon the aesthetically attractive Matthew Fairchild. Alastair knew that it was the latter, but he couldn’t let it be known. Matthew despised him, with good reason, and he found himself so infuriated with Matthew himself, only founded on the jeers and perceptions of him from the Academy. That time seemed as if it were a dream, so much had occurred since his school boy days.
The London Institute was much more isolated than the residents realize. Alastair found the tight knitted enclave disconcerting at best, but they were kind enough to take his sister in. He supposed they had no choice but to allow Alastair as well, despite his behaviors towards their children in the past. No doubt it was Charles influence that he weren’t dragged down alongside his father…
Alastair sniffed and rubbed his eyes to rid himself of the treacherous tears threatening to escape. His quiet fury against his so-called patriarch festered but because of who he was holding against him, he wouldn’t allow the grief to release. Instead his trembling lips concentrated, beginning to sing again. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but Matthew’s cries lowered into sniffles and eventually settled completely. They nestled together, both relaxing within the hold. Alastair’s stubborn resting frown softened, and Matthew’s restlessness calmed, his expression settled down to a content smile. Despite everything, the pair slumbered peacefully through the night, for the first time in a long while.