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Of course, Alastair had known about the nightmares for years. They haunted him; how could he not be aware of their constant existence, their looming and swirling presence in his life? Sometimes, he would wake up gasping out choked Persian words with tightly-fisted sheets. Other times, his eyes would snap open to darkness and he would lose himself in it until he was nothing at all.
But during waking hours, he had never thought much of the nightmares, because his daily life was no escape from them.
That no longer described his reality.
As he and Thomas planted their roots within the ornately-decorated walls of 102 Cornwall Gardens, Alastair felt himself grow stronger, more secure. He learned what it was to experience joy in its purest of forms, see himself reflected in Thomas’s eyes during countless chess games and poetry read-alouds and horribly stupid and outrageous phrases while practicing new languages. He no longer felt so on edge; sometimes his jaw forgot to clench, his shoulders loosened, he forgot to be on guard. If he had thought about it, he supposed that it was because he knew that he did not need to be. That was a wonderful development in an otherwise dreary, rainy London.
And yet, it made the night terrors all the more jarring.
-
Alastair was fourteen, at Shadowhunter Academy. He didn’t truly conceptualise the venue beyond its oddly-hanging ceilings and the Raziel statue that constantly felt like it was mocking him. He was covered in bruises, but they did not hurt- why did they not ache, at least with a dull pain? Perhaps Alastair’s body no longer belonged to him. Yes, that made sense. It belonged to someone else. He was not Alastair Carstairs; Alastair Carstairs was far away, an observer. The body was knocked about by Augustus Pounceby, and the words echoed throughout the hall. When he spoke, the voice sounded exactly like Elias. “You worthless little fool,” it said, and the body that Alastair still wasn’t sure was his fell to the ground. Through the ground, into nothingness, into a great chasm where it would lay until forgotten.
Elias appeared overhead, and Alastair inhabited the body again. He was still not sore – odd, that. Perhaps he was losing his humanity. He always knew he would. Elias looked down through a hole in blackness that made up the nonexistent ceiling. “I hate you,” he said, sliding it shut.
And suddenly Alastair was alone, painfully alone, knowing that no one was ever going to come for him. His heart beat uncomfortably fast, an odd state for a body that afforded no physical sensation, and when he looked down at his hands, talons took the place of fingernails, and he was a monster, he was a monster, he was-
“Alastair?” Thomas’s voice was filled with concern, and Alastair was surprised that he was able to identify its owner. “Alastair, are you alright?”
Perhaps Thomas would rescue him, pull him from the pit. But more likely than not, he would run screaming. Alastair’s hands were black, now, like a serpent’s, the low, snaky serpent’s, still remembering James’s knife at the hollow of his throat. Thomas would not touch him; he would never touch him again. His heart pounded. He was “ALASTAIR,” Thomas’s voice said, more loudly this time, and the darkness snapped away instantly.
He was in a room, a big room, one that he knew, but he could not think, because his body was shaking so hard and someone was with him and
“What in the Angel’s name are you gawping at?” He asked the figure in front of him.
“Alastair, joon, it’s okay, you’re alright, you’re scared, but-”
“I’m not scared. Don’t suggest something so foolish.” But he was.
“Alright, then, you’re confused-”
“Do not tell me what is before me,” Alastair said, baring his teeth, trying to appear foreboding. “It’s not as though I have buttons where my eyes should be. Don’t look at me all agape. Don’t be stupid. Don’t…”
His hands shook so hard. He forced himself to look at the figure in front of him, glowing hazel eyes coming through the darkness as though an exit to the dreadful existence that he was now facing. His face was beautiful, and he was Thomas, and he needed to escape the dream, but maybe… “Tom?” He blinked, feeling something fall away. “My Tom?”
Thomas scratched his nose, and his freckled face seemed real. “Yes?”
And Alastair leaned into him, and relaxed, and he was solid. Thomas snaked an arm around his back, and Alastair’s hands – gloriously human hands – reached up to cup his hamsar-am’s shoulders. Thomas brushed Alastair’s hair, kissed the top of his head, and Alastair’s face was buried in Thomas’s bare chest.
Alastair rarely cried, but he was crying now. He didn’t intend for it to be true, but he could feel the dampness of tears on Thomas’s skin and knew that they were his own. “To zendegi mani.” Thomas told him, quietly. You are my life. Maybe it was okay; maybe this was safe. Thomas would keep him. He would not throw him in the great pit. He felt comforting circles on his back, right between his shoulder blades, as he sagged into Thomas’s arms; the crying, he decided, must be a release of the same nature as that of the tension. It was ridiculous. He hated every second of it.
He could not stop bloody shaking.
But it was okay, because if Alastair cried that man tanham, he was alone, Thomas would remind him that there would always be love right next to him. Asheghetam, Tom said, over and over, kissing him gently on the temple.
Thomas told Alastair that he was going to take good care of him. Alastair was too exhausted to argue.
It was okay. He fell back asleep, and he did not dream.
It would not feel okay the next morning, when he remembered that if Thomas were anybody else, he probably would not last a day with Alastair.
-
The next morning, Thomas made sure to slide out of bed early. He slipped on a pair of socks and quietly slid toward the kitchen, closing the door of his bedchamber behind him. It wouldn’t do to wake Alastair up, not after such an awful ordeal. He wished for his hamsar-am to get the rest that had so clearly been denied to him for twenty long, bone-tiring years. So he moved quietly toward the icebox and kept digging to a minimum as he pulled out the eggs and yogurt and spinach needed for Alastair’s favourite breakfast dish.
Borani esfenaj only took about ten minutes to prepare, but it should keep quite alright assuming that Alastair woke up within the hour. He’d store it in the oven, if he had to; he would bet anything that Alastair would pad out of the bedroom within the next half an hour. It wouldn’t do to wake him, but he had never been the sort to break out of his usual schedule.
Thomas was right. Just as he was pouring the chili-butter on top of the poached eggs, Alastair’s elegant form appeared in the doorway. His elaborate black-silk dressing gown and upturned chin were as usual, put together and perfect, but they were a sharp contrast to the dark circles under his haunted eyes. Thomas made an effort to show no surprise at these out-of-place anomalies; even when his heart churned at the blank look in Alastair’s dark eyes, he forced a bright smile. “Good morning,” he greeted, and Alastair gave him an awkward little wave before pouring himself a coffee from the pot. He set the drink down gently and dropped onto the dining chair bluntly, as though he were a puppet with cut strings. Then, he seemed engrossed in staring at his own hands as they encircled the steaming mug.
“How are you, mi amor?” Thomas tried to keep his voice light, even when Alastair’s eyes refused to meet his. “Are you feeling any better?”
“Fine,” Alastair said flatly. Thomas picked up the borani esfanaj with sure hands and placed it in front of Alastair, who gave it a blank look before blinking up at Thomas. “What is this?”
Thomas scratched his head. “Borani esfanaj. Oh, no. It’s unrecognizable, then? That doesn’t bode well for the flavour.”
“No,” Alastair said. Thomas realized in that moment why his tone was so heavy; it was clearly an effort to speak. “It looks good.”
“Looking good and actually being good are two very different things,” Thomas said playfully, determined to act normal.
Alastair raised an eyebrow, and Thomas felt his spirits lift. While Alastair still looked rather miserable, it was an expression that belonged to his soulmate and no one else. “I suppose the better question is why you have slapped this unexpectedly delicious-looking food in front of me.”
It did not come out as a question, but Thomas was not going to nit-pick. He shrugged and slid into the chair across from Alastair, who still refused to meet his eye. “I thought you deserved something nice, to make your day start out better than the last.”
“You know how I loathe pity,” Alastair said. “This had better not be pity.”
Thomas blinked. “Alastair, of course it’s not pity, I would never pity you-”
“I would,” Alastair said. “I would look down on me, if I were you.”
“If I’ve ever ‘looked down’ on you, it’s solely because of my horrifying height,” Thomas joked. Alastair did not smile; he just poked at his egg. “Alastair, I’m just teasing you. Making a joke. You are a wonderful person, and there is no sense in thinking that I would ever view you in a lesser light.”
Alastair took a tiny bite of his egg. Thomas thought it was mostly just chili butter, but it was at least something. “I’m sorry, Tom,” Alastair said in a small whisper. “I hate that you had to… to cope with me, while I was like that. I did not know, did not intend…” He trailed off, and Thomas tried to meet his gaze once again. It was a loser’s game; Alastair was determined to evade eye contact, but Thomas felt his stomach sink as he realized that Alastair’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “I did not mean to burden you, or wake you up, or be generally stupid. I am sorry.”
“Stop that,” Thomas said, hoping that his voice was not too sharp. “Stop talking about yourself as though you’re some burden, Alastair. You’re not that. You’re not-”
“I am, though,” he interrupted. “I have such heavy weights on my person, at all times. And it’s unfair on you to force you to carry those burdens.”
“It’s not unfair, and you have forced me to do nothing,” Thomas argued, reaching out to hold Alastair’s hand. It took a moment, but Alastair allowed him to wrap his fingers around the palm, and another moment later he squeezed lightly. “Perhaps you hold burdens inside of you. We all do. But that does not mean you are a burden, mi amor. Not at all.” He paused. “Don’t apologise for showing… ah… showing all of your sides, around me. We are partners, in this life and any other. That is meaningful, I think.” Thomas did not mean to sound so unsure; he was not unsure, but the sentiment was so blunt, so open, that he flicked at his nose with his thumb while heat rose to his cheeks. “Your sorrows are mine, too, just as mine are yours. That is alright.”
“I seem to have a great deal too many sorrows,” Alastair said, sounding oddly angry. It was the most emotion he had shown since arriving in the kitchen, and Thomas felt his heart sink at the tone. “You know,” he said, “I admire you. So very much. And I wish to show you how I can be. I wish for you to see me as I am capable of showing myself, proud and strong and clever, and yet it is because I wish for you to see that so badly that I can’t.” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “I am so tired, Tom, tired of the fact that I cannot be my best self around you, because you strip away every defense that I have ever built up and get to the core of me, anyway.”
“And what a gift that is,” Thomas said. “What a gift, to be the person who gets to love the core of you.”
Alastair chuckled humourlessly. “I’ll wager that you did not think me so weak, when you harboured your schoolboy notions of what loving me would be like.”
Thomas felt himself blanch. How could Alastair ever think that he was weak? He was… “You’re the strongest person I know, just as I always knew you were. Strong and sturdy, like a warrior-king come to conquer new lands. And… and that strength, in the core of you, that’s… that’s so much greater than any stupid fantasy that my school-aged mind could have dreamt up.” He paused, feeling his cheeks warm again. “The truth of you, that vulnerability, I am… I am desperately in love with that, just as I am with the rest of you.”
There was a moment of silence at that, and Alastair took a long sip of his coffee. His egg was probably getting cold, Thomas though dimly; perhaps he could re-heat it in the oven, but perhaps he would just make a new one altogether because Alastair ought only to have the best of the best of everything. But when Alastair spoke, he sounded like a broken doll, and Thomas wished to draw him into his arms and kiss his head and never let go. “I have never been so vulnerable with someone before.” Alastair’s voice shook, as though willing Thomas to understand the intimacy between them. “Not so much as last night, and I do not know how to cope with the feeling of being seen, without being consumed by embarrassment.” He paused, tapping a nail against the mug. “And now, I am doing it again. Pofak sar, that is me.” A cheese-head. In any other instance, Thomas might have laughed, but Alastair looked truly defeated, so it was actually horribly unfunny. “I continue to show you these sides of myself, despite you being the person I would most like to impress. An odd, somewhat self-defeating conundrum, is it not?”
Thomas squeezed Alastair’s hand tightly. “No, it is not.” He paused. “Um. Thank you. For… for feeling safe, with me.”
He remembered Alastair last night, his horrible fevered expression after he had lashed out as he had looked at Thomas for the first time after waking. Recalled the look of understanding and security as he had said, Tom? My Tom?
He had felt touched, in that moment; touched, because his face had been the thing to make Alastair feel safe enough to relax and steady. It was only right that he thank him, thank him for the chance to be the one who got to thread his fingers through Alastair’s black hair. To be the one to kiss the top of his head and tell him that they would get through this, that they would get past this.
Alastair met Thomas’s eyes for the first time, then, and gave him a little half-smile. It wasn’t one of delight, but it was real, and Thomas felt the knot between his shoulders loosen because it was all going to sort itself. “I really do,” Alastair said. “I really… you are my breath, did you know? When I am with you, it is easier for me to breathe. When I am with you, I learn to breathe in a way that I… that I have not known how to.” He looked Thomas in the eye. “Thank you.”