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“Do you have any other secrets, Thomas Lightwood?”
It was a throwaway line, meant to be humorous, but in the split second of silence after it, Thomas stood rigid, mind blank. Then just as suddenly he threw himself against the great force that was trying to drag immeasurable, untellable, things out of him. Perhaps one thing in particular. It was like trying to hold back a wild horse, or a tidal wave: impossible and dangerous all at once. The ferocious pressure of it bore down on Thomas, pulling words out of his throat at the same time as he desperately tried to swallow them down.
Before he could even cry out, before Will could take back what he said – eyes already widening in response to the panic in Thomas’s eyes – Thomas blurted out the words, each one dragging like a claw on the inside of his throat.
“I prefer men. Romantically,” he gasped out as if he had run from Chiswick to here in the two seconds after the question was posed.
The silence was deafening. Will seemingly frozen mid-sentence, eyes apologetic and shocked. His hand was halfway to being buried in his head of dark and grey hair, in an action Thomas had seen James do countless times when in distress. The lines etching his face created a grimace.
His eyes darted around the small group in the Sanctuary, jumping from sympathetic, if a little surprised, winces – Aunt Cecily, Charlotte, Tessa –, to the red-faced Inquisitor, shaking with barely contained anger, disgust displayed plainly on his face. A wave of cold rushed over Thomas, even as his palms prickled with sweat from holding the sword and everyone’s gazes. He knew this would happen eventually, and he knew it would not be pretty. Thomas was glad that his mother and father were not here; at least he could still tell them on his own terms, something he planned – and failed – to do frequently. Unless someone in here gets to them first. He thought miserably.
After what felt like a century but must have been about a minute of shocked silence, everyone seemed to have begun leaning toward Thomas’s left side. In a moment of absurdist confusion, he wondered if he had a bug on his face, or if his expression was skewed as he secretly worried it was. Until realization hit him like a brick in the face. Alastair. He has been with Alastair in the Sanctuary, alone, all night.
He could feel himself turning beet red, begin to stutter something like It’s not like that-. Because he had just roped Alastair into this mess he created by not keeping his mouth shut. Guilt rushed to claim all other emotions, his mind conveniently forgetting the detail that he had been - and was - under the influence of the Mortal Sword. Alastair could still get out of this unscathed, he could pretend to hate him again, he could never talk to him again, he could-
His mind scrambled blindly to find a good enough explanation, a good enough excuse that could remove Alastair from any scrutiny, scrutiny Thomas knew he hated with all his being. In his panic, he didn’t even hear footsteps approaching him, breaking the silence with neat clicks.
Will had begun to stutter an apology, begun crafting a recovery of the situation in the smooth way he always did – a flash of understanding in his eyes telling Thomas he knew a lot more of what was going on than just the face value of Thomas’s words, or everyone’s assumptions. But before he could finish his first word, Thomas felt a warmth pass over and cover his hand. Surprised, he looked down to see someone was holding his hand determinedly, someone with light brown skin and deft fingers, someone he recognized from just his hands since he spent so much damn time looking at them.
Alastair.
Alastair had looked on as the situation unfolded in silence, as he usually did. Dark eyes sharp and observant. Thomas never really forgot where Alastair was in a room, he was always painfully aware of that, but after the events of a few seconds ago the thoughts of Alastair in his mind – how to protect him, how to save him from this - had blocked out his awareness of the flesh-and-bone Alastair now standing beside him as if preparing for battle. Holding Thomas’s hand. Staring defiantly at anyone still looking at Thomas in shock.
“Well then. I believe this interrogation is over,” he said with a quiet authority Thomas knew he reserved for when things have truly gotten out of hand. Alastair had an intensity that few people wanted to challenge when he put his mind to something.
Thomas glanced over, shock and gratefulness, guilt and panic, all mixed up – the only way he could think to communicate it to Alastair was by squeezing his hand tightly. Alastair squeezed back minutely without looking his way – giving him strength, giving him armor.
As that strength spread along his veins, Thomas was filled with a strange sort of warmth. He no longer cared if everyone could read at a glance what he was thinking of when he looked at Alastair; he had never been good at hiding things from his expressions, and it was tiring. In a way, it was a relief to be able to hold the hand of the boy he loved in front of the adults he cared about without the weight of shame hovering over him. The doubts he had about Alastair’s feelings whispering in the back of his mind were silenced. Alastair was here for him now. Was standing by him in defiance now. It did not matter to him at that moment if Alastair thought their arrangement was temporary, if he thought Thomas was not enough, that their love was doomed, impossible, because he was with Thomas in this moment, and he could treasure that forever.
At that, Will sprang into motion. Gently lifting the Sword from Thomas’s tight grasp, herding the Inquisitor away with deft words and gestures, stating loudly that Thomas was clearly not guilty and his work here was done. The Inquisitor held Thomas’s gaze for a few moments, saying everything he needed to with the anger burning in his eyes like hot coals. Before Thomas could let it truly cut him, he was surrounded by Cecily and Charlotte, and Tessa, being hugged left and right, being reassured, being told that he was loved no matter what.
“You have been incredibly brave, Thomas. And do not let anyone take that away from you,” Aunt Cecily whispered to him, her eyes sparkling with emotion before casting a dirty look to the door through which Bridgestock had disappeared.
It was quite overwhelming, and Thomas could feel a great ball of warmth grow in his chest as he let the words of love and reassurance wash over him. He realized belatedly that Alastair was no longer holding his hand.
In the confusion of family members, Alastair had drifted on to the side of the group, away from the cacophony of embraces and talking, vaguely uncomfortable and unsure whether to join in or slip away. He had just begun to turn when he felt someone catch his hand. Thomas. He knew instinctively from the feel of the rough calluses, the strength and steadiness of the fingers.
When he turned, Thomas was staring at him with a searching gaze; his family was behind him, pretending to be interested in something else, while all clearly trying to listen in. Alastair took a moment to shake his head and blow air through his nose in amusement – the Lightwoods, Herondales, and Fairchilds, all so lovingly nosy.
As the moment between them stretched on, Alastair began feeling antsy waiting for what Thomas had to say. Probably some sort of variation of “Thank you very much but I did not need your help, and now people think I’m associated with you of all people and my friends will hate me for it, so kindly walk away from my life and never step foot into it again.” He shook his head.
“Just hurry up and spit it out Lightwood. The quicker we get through this, the quicker I can leave your life in peace.”
Thomas’s gaze turned sharper then, something that always made Alastair’s stomach swoop a little. He seemed to be reformulating what he was going to say. Alastair impatiently decided that the best course of action, as it always was with Thomas, was to give him room to think out his words. He peevishly rolled his eyes anyway just to show his annoyance.
But underneath all that was an unsettling feeling of displacement, like a carpet had been unceremoniously pulled from under him. It made him feel exposed and raw in a way he fought viciously against every day. He knew that whatever he and Thomas had was temporary. There was a ticking clock there. For when Thomas found someone better, someone more convenient, he thought bitterly. He was hoarding these moments they had together desperately; them kissing in the Sanctuary finally finally, the coldness of Thomas’s hand when Alastair took it just a few moments ago, warming up, giving them both strength.
It had been like jumping off a tall building for Alastair, everything in his body screeching to keep safe, to hide away. A voice Alastair refused to call Charles in the back of his head whispering it would be the end of my career, to be known as this. It is shameful. And yet Alastair had set his jaw, had stepped forward, had taken Thomas’s hand, and stared anyone down that was glaring at him because it was Thomas. And he did not deserve that, no one did. And if Thomas needed strength at that moment, then Alastair would have jumped off one thousand buildings to give it to him. Because he knew what it felt like to be alone, so alone you could feel it cutting into you, strangling you, and still have to bear the weight of everyone else’s scrutiny. He would not contribute to making anyone feel that alone, never again.
Thomas had finally found his words and said, “Thank you, you did not have to do what you just did. It was very brave.”
Before Alastair could think twice about it, before the voices in his head could object, he grabbed Thomas’s other hand and held it lightly. He couldn’t help brushing his thumb over the back of his hand.
“I would do it again. For you.”
Thomas’s eyes widened in surprise, a pleased tilt to his mouth. Alastair stared determinedly away from it.
“I am sorry that this happened to you. And I understand if you would like for me to keep away. The rumors will disperse and you can go back to your old life quite soon I am sure,” Alastair added. Might as well give him an easy way out.
Thomas shook his head, expression bemused, perhaps irritated, their closeness was preventing Alastair from thinking straight.
“I am sorry you got involved with this in the first place. And Alastair, at this point you must realize I certainly do not want you to keep away,” Thomas murmured, flushing slightly with the confession. He seemed to gather his wits with a deep breath.
“I like you. And I am quite done pretending that I do not. To you and others. I can spend my entire life shrouded in shame, hiding away, but I would much rather spend it in joy surrounded by people I love that know the whole of me and accept it. And damn anyone else that thinks otherwise.” He smiled ruefully.
As Thomas spoke, a strange sort of unsteady hope had risen in Alastair’s chest. He was not used to the feeling - this lightness, this relief. It was a strange emotion to bear solely because it was so much easier to breathe around than any other he had sat with before. Maybe Thomas was right. Maybe there was hope for people like them, families and communities that would continue embracing them if they knew all the facets of their being. An image of Sona floated through Alastair’s mind, and for once it did not bring a sinking feeling but a spark of hope – his mother had such kind eyes, why would he think they would turn cold towards the son she loved so much? Perhaps he hadn’t given the people around him enough credit all these years. Or, he thought slightly savagely – thinking of Augustus Pounceby, even Charles - he had spent a good too many years surrounding himself with people whose love was conditional.
“As I said before, Thomas, I would do it again.” He hesitated. “And I happen to like you too. Quite a lot. So perhaps I will not keep away, as you have asked. If that is alright with you.”
A grin was already spreading on Thomas’s face. Alastair felt himself flush, honestly how was Lightwood allowed to be this beautiful? He was taking in shaking breaths, the toll it had taken to admit what he just had was making him feel a little lightheaded. Perhaps it was not too late to run away. But then Thomas, beautiful, sturdy Thomas, leaned in and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Right there in front of everyone. Alastair felt his eyes widen as he heard little cheers and whoops from across the Sanctuary. Thomas’s family were terrible eavesdroppers.
He let himself smile a little, let himself be dragged into the chaos of Thomas’s family. Let himself take in the words of welcome and pats on the shoulder and the glances full of admiration and humor. Let himself hold them to his chest. I deserve this. A phrase he used often, bitterly, now transformed into something altogether more bearable, more hopeful.