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anarmorofwords · 3 years

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uhm... I don't even know. this is the most angsty I can do, I'm sorry

tw: mention of abusive relationship, alcoholism, mentions of racism and, uhm, poor mental health state

You try your hardest to leave the past alone

When Alastair was very little, he wished he could be more like his father - even as he learnt his father was sick and spending hours in a dark room, resting. It didn't change anything. The tale of his legendary battle against the Yanluo demon was the story Alastair remembered told most often in their home, and it always left him in wonder. Cordelia was the one that dreamed of slaying monsters and helping people, living up to the reputation of their family sword - he never much cared for being a hero. But the man that brought down the frightening demon seemed more than that - he was loved by the victims of this tale, and respected by every Shadowhunter. Whenever the story was told, usually around bedtime, Alastair's heart filled with pride, and he hoped one day he would grow up to be like that. He would stare at their family portrait, the one thing they took with them each time they moved, and worry his lip, tracing the differences between his father and himself, wishing they looked more alike. He's always found his mother beautiful - what little kid didn't? - but sometimes, when they were among mundanes, people would smile at his father and then grimace when their gaze turned to one of them, and it bothered Alastair. Maybe it was his fault - it couldn't have been his mother they despised, and surely not his little sister, so fierce and adorable. Even then, Cordelia seemed like she was born of fable, a warrior queen reincarnated in a little girl. He adored her.

Now that he looked at that same painting, hanging in a dimly lit library at their house, he still thought she looked like a heroine, born to wield Cortana and slay monsters. But he noticed more now - the way the spark in her eyes looked a little like desperation if you looked at it from the right angle; the way her hair mirrored flames, as if she was about to be set ablaze. He noticed the distance between himself and Elias, taut lines of his father's smile. Was he drunk then? Alastair wondered. Did the painter ignore the dark circles under his eyes on purpose? He saw himself as well, with those big, naïve eyes. Risa used to tell him his eyes were wells that could fit all the stars inside them.

After he found out about his father's real illness, when he dragged Elias back home from a bar, he would sometimes lay at night cursing her words, wishing his eyes were shallow instead. Perhaps then they wouldn't be able to store so much pain - and it must have been the eyes where the pain resided, he was too little to keep it anywhere else.

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, smoothing it absentmindedly. It wasn't as if anyone would notice the state of his hairstyle - the house was silent, apart from the crackling of the fireplace. Cordelia was still in Paris, and sent no letters. After his mother was taken to the Silent City ahead of her birth, he sent Risa away, so she would take some time to relax before they all dived into a whole new routine. A screaming new routine, supposedly. The thought of his baby sibling made his heart clutch with worry, and his gaze wandered to the portrait again, to two little kids with hopeful eyes and hearts worn on their sleeves. Was this child to grow up like that, too? And if so, would he be able to protect that ungarded light inside them, the way his parents never managed to protect him, or Cordelia?

Casting the thought away, he headed for the nearby table, where a worn copy of a book had lain, for days now. The Prince. He caressed the cover thoughtfully, recalling the day Charles had given it to him, as a parting gift when he was leaving Paris. He held onto the book for weeks, desperate to find comfort among its pages, repeating the lines he knew by heart, as if they could replace Charles's touch. He managed to convince himself they mattered, but neither the book nor Charles were what he wanted them to be, and in the end, it was time to say goodbye to illusions.

He thought back to their conversation in the infirmary, Charles whispering urgently. "I almost died. And all I could think of was you. I don't want to lose you."

But Alastair knew it was a selfish statement, just like everything Charles had ever promised him.

"How is it you only say this when I resist, and when I'm with you, you can offer me nothing? You had over a year to think about me, do as little as pretend you cared. I would have believed you."

I did believe you.

"It's too late now, Charles. I don't- I don't love you anymore."

I don't think I ever did. Was it love, what he felt for Charles? That desperate need to please him, to push back his needs in favour of Charles's demands? The constant worry that at some point, he will make a mistake, and Charles will have had enough. It'll be over, and Alastair will be alone again, hating the person in the mirror, with no one there to distract him from the sight.

The day they had first met was scary, but hopeful, overwhelming in every possible way. Alastair's just arrived at the Paris Institute, free as he could ever be - from his father, from the shadows of the Academy - and anxious, so terribly he felt he might be ill. He tried to appear confident and trustworthy, prayed to every Angel he's ever heard of that no talk of his family's reputation made its way to this place. It was perhaps the only city he remembered liking, during all their years of constant moving.

His opinions on cities tended to depend on his memories, and those from Paris were the only ones his father didn't manage to taint. He had old friends there, who turned a blind eye whenever he left their houses on wobly legs, sometimes even had servants help him to the gates. Alastair could just walk alongside him, and sometimes, on rare occasions, he didn't need to go out at all.

And there was the city itself, in all its glimmering glory, orderly elegant streets and art museums. Alastair soaked all that beauty, translated it to music when he got back home. He would sit at the piano, drown in the sounds. His father's room had thick walls, and he could play for hours, not interrupting his sleep. Paris was like taking a breath, a soothing balm of beauty on Alastair's soul.

He longed for more of that remedy, so for his travel year, that's where he headed. They welcomed him warmly, unaware or unbothered by Elias Carstairs's sins. Alastair could feel something sprout to life inside him, something he hadn't known for years and could now barely recognise. Hope.

And then there he was, a proud figure with unwavering gaze, radiating determination and order. Alastair's heart raced when he saw Charles, the older man greeting him with easy confidence. When he stared Alastair up and down later that day, making a casual comment about France inspiring romance, it felt as if Angels suddenly decided to bestow Alastair with a blessing. A miracle in the shape of a man, with ruddy hair and sure hands. It didn't matter they were rarely gentle - they were firm instead, which was even better. Alastair secretly hoped they could hold him together, keep him from breaking apart. Charles's rules could keep his life under control.

He remembered the first night they spent together, Charles urging him to keep quiet, Alastair's heart racing in worry, desperate not to dissapoint. He looked at Charles afterwards, his content expression, and thought, I'm worth something. I matter to him. He wasn't sure it was ever true, though he wanted to believe Charles loved him, in his own way.

As a toy. No - not a toy. Charles treated him as a person, but never an equal.

Thomas noticed him talking about Charles during the days they spent together - as if he was all there was in the world. The truth was, that's how it felt. Charles would go on about his dreams for hours on end, about his goals, about the politics of whatever country interested him at the moment. And Alastair drank every word, convinced himself they mattered to him, as long as it implied the two of them would stay together.

Charles wasn't interested in his words, unless they were helpful, so Alastair read The Prince, and Utopia, and every other book he found relevant, and put his brain to use. He's always been smart - too smart, even. People didn't like proud boys who were smart, when they wore his skin and his father's reputation. But Charles did. Upon hearing an interesting theory, an observant remark about a politician, he would smile and praise him and promise to reward him in private. Always in private, whether it was a kiss or a laugh, or something more entirely. And Alastair thought, this is happiness. Perhaps, after all, he wasn't unloveable. No matter what he did, no matter how many nights he sacrificed, how many months he took care of the household, his father still got home drank, muttering about his useless son. But Charles? He could earn his love, he could mold himself into a person Charles wanted.

When he first met Thomas in Paris, it was like a an electric shock - and for a moment, he felt unfamiliar in his own mind, lost. Despite everything, he didn't think of the Academy - instead he felt like snapping out of a dream, suddenly aware of his surroundings. The sensation was sobering, and as he talked to Thomas, he slowly found his way back to himself, dusting off the thoughts and desires he recognized as his own. Still, he'd mention Charles's, out of habit, and because his life came to revolve around him for so long - a lot of his memories about the city were tainted by Charles's presence, and it must have been obvious in his voice.

And yet Thomas listened. With his warm curious eyes and shy smile, he truly seemed like a piece of art, a relic of another world. A demigod, made of ichor and strength, pure and heroic. Made for grand things, the kind of love people wrote poems about. Alastair should have known then - by how calm spread through his body at the mere sight of Thomas, or how, in turn, his heart sped up when the other boy's smile caught him by surprise. But he knew so little about gentle things, was so used to Charles's hungry lips, he didn't think twice about it.

None of it mattered now. He made his way to the fireplace, the book in his hands. Maybe he should have agreed, should have let Charles touch him again, made his peace with being desired but not wanted, admired yet unknown. But it wasn't possible anymore. Not after he knew what it felt like to be touched by Thomas, with care and tenderness that relaxed the ropes holding him together, threatening to undo them. And for some wicked reason, he wanted it. Even in pieces, he knew he would be safe in Thomas's arms. And that might have been too much, a luxury he didn't deserve. Those few hours spoiled him, relight the spark in his stubborn heart. A whole lifetime of dissapointment, and he still didn't learn.

I'm hopeless, really, he thought as he tossed The Prince into flames. He watched it burn, the lifeline he held onto for so long. An illusion of a bond, of a feeling. Reduced to ashes, like the hollow palce in his heart that he dedicated to Charles.

The smoke got into his eyes. The tears might have already been there.

He wanted to toss the painting into the fire as well, to see it devoured, destroyed. To finally erase the picture of the happy family that never was. But it would upset his mother and his sister, so he held back, just like he always had. His hands gripped the edge of the mantel, eyes fixed on beautiful vases that decorated it.

For the good of his family.

He always held back for them, always clenched his teeth. He wanted to snap, if only to see how it felt. To leave everything behind and run until all he could think of were his feet, one step after another.

But there were things he couldn't outrun, no matter how much he tried. His father's dead body. His smelly breath. The words he whispered sometimes, carried by alcohol. You're useless.

He shut his eyes, his breathing picking up. What a sorry excuse of a Shadowhunter you make. His mother, looking- away

over him

afraid

The images flooded his mind, and he felt a shout form inside him, a raging sound.

His father, again and again. Thomas - his warm eyes, loving eyes, the eyes he left behind-

The scream tore itself from his throat, and he swung blindly in front of himself, porcelain vases flying to the floor. He slumped to his knees, landing on the shards. It hurt. Blood stained his trousers. Everything around was a picture of disaster.

The vases, the burnt leather cover of the book, his torn trousers. Broken things, all of them - himself included.

Tag list (yeah I'm treating it as a regular fic, even though it's so all over the place, I'm sorry!) If you wanna be added/removed, lmk! @foxglove-airmid @andreils-bitch @mariflorenceisabella @satanisanauthor @ohcoolnice @nott-the-best @monalo4 @stxr-thxif @shadowqueendiangelo @annabeth-clace @jennyleedream @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @jennyleedream @sapphic-in

#so ugh i know its not really Tragic #but itll have to do for #alastair pain day 2021 #i suck at angst and pain #alastair carstairs deserves the world #alastair carstairs #tlh #the last hours #chain of iron #chain of iron spoilers #i dont even know im sorry #im sleep deprived #charles (derogatory)#elias (derogatory)#anti charles fairchild

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rainingpouringetc · 3 years

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but god i want to feel again

written for alastair pain day 2021 (even though it’s two days late) title from ‘touch’ by sleeping at last, which i listened to on repeat while writing

tw for brief implied period-typical racism, abuse, alcoholism, bullying, toxic relationships

read on ao3

all i want is to flip a switch before something breaks that cannot be fixed.

invisible machinery, these moving parts inside of me well, they’ve been shutting down for quite some time, leaving only rust behind.

well i know, i know- the sirens sound just before the walls come down. pain is a well-intentioned weatherman predicting God as best he can, but God i want to feel again, oh God i want to feel again.

~‘touch’ sleeping at last

---

Alastair rolled his shoulders back. He’d done this a hundred times before. It never got easier.

“Come on, now, Baba,” he groaned, lifting his father’s arm across his shoulder. Elias mumbled something incoherent and drooped further, stumbling over his own feet as he was dragged over the cobblestones. “Time to go home,” Alastair murmured, silently tallying how many times he had taken this exact route from this exact tavern in just the past month.

Twelve years old and he knew the location of every pub in every city he’d ever lived.

Their house was visible just up ahead—the third they’d lived in this year. Alastair noted that all the lights were out and thanked whatever god was listening. He couldn’t deal with redirecting Cordelia’s questions on top of getting his father cleaned up. Tonight was already draining enough.

He managed to get Elias up the steps and into the washroom with less trouble than usual, a sign that his father was perhaps more lucid than he’d originally believed. The clock on the mantle had read just past midnight—perhaps he was just tired as well.

“‘M fine, ‘m fine,” Elias slurred as Alastair attempted to wipe his damp forehead with a wet cloth, pushing his son’s hand away.

Alastair huffed and set the cloth aside before turning to rummage through the cabinet for a glass. They always kept a glass in the washroom for times like this. He filled it halfway and offered it to his father. When Elias only glared at it, slumping down on the seat and leaning heavily on the wall, Alastair held the glass to his lips and tipped it back, forcing him to drink.

When he pulled the glass back—his father having blessedly drunk it all without much of a fight—Elias stood abruptly. He was still quite drunk and thus swayed on his feet for several long moments. Alastair leaped forward to steady him, but was immediately pushed away with all the force of a heroic—however disgraced—Shadowhunter.

Alastair hit the wall hard and gasped as the breath whooshed out of him. His head spun—had he hit it? He must have—and his vision blackened at the edges. Elias was still struggling to keep himself upright. Alastair watched as he took a step and immediately crumpled to the ground. He stumbled forward yet again, trying to help, wanting to help, but his father cried out and Alastair froze in place. The last thing he needed was his mother—or, worse, his sister—hearing the noise and coming to investigate.

Alastair looked down and realized that at some point he’d dropped the glass. It had shattered on the floor. Head still spinning, he bent down to try to gather it together, instantly cutting his hands. He inhaled sharply, ignoring the pain and sweeping the remains into a small pile in the corner. He could ask Risa for helping taking it out in the morning.

His hand was bleeding rather substantially, blood running over the Voyance rune on the back. The only Mark he had.

“Are you alright, Baba?” he asked quietly, careful not to speak loud enough to agitate his father’s headache.

“‘M fine,” Elias repeated. “Go to bed, Alastair. I’ll be just fine on my own.”

Alastair didn’t believe it for a second. He stood and carefully maneuvered his father’s arm around his shoulders again. He couldn’t risk taking him up the stairs—Elias might fall, or someone might hear. There was a small room just down the hallway that Alastair had left his father in on numerous occasions to sleep off a hangover. It seemed tonight would be another one.

He shouldered the door open and deposited his father on the couch, making sure to leave him on his side and support his head with a few pillows. He knew he shouldn’t leave his father alone. Something could happen, and if Elias died because he suffocated on his own vomit there would be no one to blame but Alastair and his selfishness. But his hands were throbbing now, and his stele was upstairs in his room. He took the stairs two at time, skipping the ones that creaked the most, and shut the door gently behind him.

As soon as it was closed, Alastair slumped down against it, trying to steady his breathing. In, hold. Out, hold. In, hold. Out, hold. Over and over until the spinning stopped, until he could think again.

His stele was on his desk. His mother had given it to him last year, claiming it was a birthday present. Alastair knew it was because she’d spotted the bruises on his arms.

For a moment, Alastair considered leaving the cuts be. They would scar if he did, and it would hurt until then. But Alastair would revel in the pain, in the ability to feel something—anything—besides dull fear and numbness. It was the direction he knew he was heading towards. If he allowed it to consume him—

No. He wouldn’t let it. He wouldn’t let it change him.

Carefully, Alastair picked up the stele. It stung where it pressed against his cuts. He traced an iratze flawlessly and held his hand away to survey his work.

Practice makes perfect, he thought wryly.

---

Alastair sat almost fully turned around in his seat on the carriage, watching as Cirenworth disappeared into the distance. Cordelia, who had run behind them down the lane, struggling to keep up, had long since faded into nothingness.

“Turn front or you’ll fall off the moment we hit a bump,” Elias snapped from beside him. Alastair did as he was told, stubbornly looking anywhere but at his father.

Alastair did not understand why his father had insisted on seeing him to the Academy. Alone. There would be no one to make sure he returned in one piece, no one to steer him away from welcoming taverns or haul him out of a pub before he drank himself to death.

But for once, Alastair found he didn’t particularly care. He was going to the Academy, and his father’s health would no longer be his primary concern—his primary burden. He would be around children his own age. He would have a chance to finally—finally—make friends.

It was much more exciting and nerve wracking than he’d expected.

Cordelia had Lucie, a fact that Alastair was endlessly grateful for. But he was all alone. Cordelia could hardly count as a friend. She was his sister, after all, and therefore obligated to tolerate him, yes, but also to tease him at every available opportunity.

This was something he couldn’t risk messing up. He needed this. He was more desperate than he wished to admit.

Alastair spent the remainder of the journey in silence, shutting down all of his father’s attempts at conversation with a stoic nod or by blatantly ignoring him. It wasn’t his favorite method, but he truly could not deal with his father making him more nervous than he already was.

When they finally arrived at the Academy, Alastair’s stomach was a jumbled mess of nerves and whatever he’d eaten for breakfast—he couldn’t even remember at this point. He was too busy praying his father would leave before he could embarrass Alastair.

The universe wouldn’t give him a break, though.

Elias clapped his son on the shoulder and insisted on helping carry his bags up to the dorms. He nearly slipped on the stairs four times. He dropped the bags twice. Alastair wanted to crawl into a hole by the time they arrived. His roommate was nowhere to be seen—likely they hadn’t arrived yet—so Alastair went to stand beside the bed nearest the window. His father dropped the bags to the floor beside the other bed.

“No, Father, this one,” he said, pointing.

Elias blinked at him. “This bed is closer to the door,” he told Alastair, speaking slowly as if the implications should be obvious.

“I know. I just—I want the one closer to the window is all,” Alastair stammered, face hot. What did it matter? In a minute his father would leave and he could take whichever bed he liked most.

“Closer to the door is safer,” Elias insisted, sitting down on the bed and folding his hands together.

Alastair simply nodded, trying to play along. He might’ve gotten away with it, too, if the door hadn’t burst open at just that moment, revealing a slightly disheveled looking boy. Alastair assumed this was to be his roommate then.

“You’ve chosen your bed already then?” the boy said without preamble, nodding to where Alastair’s bags were sitting next to his father.

“He has,” Elias answered.

The boy nodded and swung his bags up to rest on the bed next to the window. Alastair swallowed thickly and said, “Thank you for your help, Father, but I think I’m alright now.”

Elias grinned. “Of course you are. I’ll be on my way then.” He stood and strode to the door, turning to say, “Goodbye, Alastair joon.” He disappeared into the stairwell.

Alastair turned to his roommate to find the boy was staring at him. “What was that he called you?” the boy questioned a bit rudely.

“Joon?” The boy nodded. “It’s Persian,” Alastair said hesitantly. “It’s just—something you call people you care about.”

The boy wrinkled his nose. “That’s weird.” Alastair flushed. Before he could defend himself, the boy stuck out a hand. “Piers Wentworth.”

Alastair took his hand. “Alastair Carstairs.”

Piers’ eyes widened. “Carstairs? As in—was that Elias Carstairs?”

Alastair nodded, confused at his tone. “He’s my father.”

“Your father?” Alastair nodded again. Piers dropped his hand. “I heard he spends most of his time at the bottom of a bottle.”

Before Alastair could process the words fully, Piers pushed past him and was gone from their room. When the words hit him, Alastair picked up the first thing he could find—a volume of poetry from his bag—and threw it as hard as he could at the wall.

---

Alastair wasn’t sure when he started to become numb. He thought it might’ve been sometime during winter, when Augustus Pounceby kicked him down the stairs and he broke two ribs. Or perhaps it was after that, when Piers locked him out of their room overnight and he slept curled up in an alcove, waking to find Augustus and his friends crowded around him, laughing.

All he knew was that it was a slap in the face the first time he heard his sister’s name come out of one of their mouths. It was Augustus who had said it—said something so awful Alastair’s mind had blocked it out immediately. All he registered was Cordelia and danger.

That was the last straw.

He’d grown used to their abuse, to their snide comments and kicks and punches, but if there was one thing that could snap him out of this it was his determination to protect his sister. She was too young, too kind, for this. He wasn’t too numb not to protect her a bit longer.

The next day when Augustus and his gang cornered Alastair again, he made sure there was a clear sight of some of the dregs—the mundane students. Alastair had tried to befriend them as well. They had turned him away, exclaiming that they didn’t realize they allowed people like him in the school. What should he care if a few of them were hurt to save himself and his sister?

The moment Augustus looked like he was going to make his move, Alastair made his, raining down insult after witty insult on the small group of dregs watching on. Augustus stared at him in surprise, then burst into laughter, even joining in once he regained his balance. Piers was there too, and Clive—soon enough the whole lot of them had turned their attention from Alastair and were focused solely on those poor mundanes.

It happened again, and again. Soon enough, Augustus and his friends weren’t seeking Alastair out to kick him around—they were seeking him out for help in their own schemes.

Is this who I’ve become? Alastair wondered faintly as Clive pulled him along down a corridor, speaking rapidly about a prank they were going to play on a few of the girls.

The numbness began to creep back in, diluting the anger and pain of which he’d long been so afraid.

---

Things were different, certainly, when Alastair returned from the Academy. Cordelia managed to pry some of it out of him, but he couldn’t allow her to see the full picture. That would mean telling her about their father’s drinking, and even he wasn’t so selfish as to tell her that yet.

The years passed, and Alastair allowed that numb shell to solidify and thicken, dampening the swirling mass of indignation and heartbreak that lay beneath.

And then he met Charles Fairchild.

Or, really, he met Charles again. They had seen each other—talked, even—at various Shadowhunter functions whenever the Carstairs were near London or whenever the Fairchilds were traveling to an Institute near them. Alastair had always picked Charles out effortlessly at such events, with his slicked back red hair and piercing green eyes.

Alastair knew better than to pretend he did not find Charles attractive. It had been no secret to himself that he preferred men—he’d known it since before the Academy, really. But it also wasn’t as if he’d had any opportunity to act on it.

So, when he was sixteen and in Paris for a few months, when he saw Charles again and the man dropped one too many thinly veiled hints, Alastair allowed himself to be swept away by the romance of it all—the mystery and charm and utter newness that came with Charles and all he represented.

It was wonderful those first months. Perhaps not what Alastair had expected. He supposed he hadn’t thought there would be quite so many rules, but Charles was very insistent. No one could suspect a thing. It was exhilarating.

Until it wasn’t.

He didn’t know when, exactly, it shifted from exciting and new to tedious and tense. Perhaps it was when Charles became engaged to Ariadne. Perhaps it was after the first dozen or so broken promises. Perhaps it was when Alastair realized a life with Charles was a life with doors shut and curtains drawn.

But who was he to complain? That was life, wasn’t it? Few people in the world were lucky enough to have a perfect whirlwind romance, and those who did often left others in the dust.

And Charles liked Alastair, had told him he loved him. He smiled at Alastair and didn’t act like he was a waste of space.

So while that numb shell stayed firmly in place to keep everyone else away, Alastair propped open a back door for Charles to come and go in his life as he pleased.

They didn’t see each other as often as Alastair would have liked, and when they were apart they didn’t risk sending letters—“Letters can be intercepted! Opened and read without your consent,” Charles had explained—but that didn’t stop Alastair from dreaming of a time when they could be together without the strings of society attached.

He dreamed of a time when he could feel again.

So he let the little things slide. When Charles and Ariadne didn’t split up when Charles had said they would, Alastair just said, “Next time.” When Charles chose Clave meeting after Clave meeting over Alastair, Alastair simply attended the meetings himself for a chance to see Charles.

And when Charles pushed him away at every oncoming footstep, every creak of the floorboard, Alastair pretended not to see the fear and shame in his eyes.

---

Alastair decided that Thomas Lightwood was the single most lovely person to have ever existed on the planet.

He also decided that he must be loopy from the exhaustion of the day because he’d never been prone to such sickeningly sweet thoughts before.

But he couldn’t deny it either. There was something in the way he wore his heart on his sleeve that made Thomas so approachable, so loveable.

Alastair found himself wishing he could bottle up this whole day and carry it around with him wherever he went. This whole murder trial business was far more bearable with Thomas there with him.

And yet—all good things must come to an end. Alastair knew it, perhaps better than anyone. And this… this was too good a thing to last very long.

Alastair did not wish to hurt Thomas. Thomas was good and kind and all the things Alastair never had been. Beyond all possible expectations, Thomas had entered the small group of people for which Alastair would do anything.

Even if it meant pushing him away.

Thomas was grieving. Alastair knew that. He knew that it was messing with Thomas’ head, making him act more recklessly and crave things that were bad for him. Alastair didn’t want to be bad for Tom—he wanted desperately to be good for him. But that couldn’t happen until things changed.

If they ever did.

If anyone would ever be willing to step forward and claim their feelings for him without fearing embarrassment or shame. If anyone would ever be willing to open the door for him and let him step out into the light.

At this point it was almost second nature to pull away from his touch, turn his eyes down and let the lies roll off his tongue. If he closed his eyes, he could almost ignore the sound of his own heart cracking.

As he strode away from him—from that single loveliest person to have ever existed—Alastair wondered if this would do it, if this would be the thing to push him over the edge and break something in him that couldn’t be fixed.

He could feel it—feel the gears inside him grinding to a halt and shutting down. Soon there would be nothing but rust left behind, and he would be blown away by the wind.

[tags - @littlx-songbxrd @anarmorofwords @foxglove-airmid @barbra-lightwood @lifewouldbebetteronmars @imherongraystairstrash @itsdaughterofthemoon @stxr-thxif @knifescythe @axoloteca ; i just used my standard taglist, sorry if you didn’t want to be tagged <3]

#tumblr doesn't copy italics so i prob missed some lol #if u read it on ao3 it'll be better tho #alastair pain day 2021 #alastair carstairs #charles (derogatory)#i love that tag #elias (derogatory)#ooh that one too #the last hours #coi spoilers #tlh fanfic #artie tries to write #tlh

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littlx-songbxrd · 3 years

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Ok apperantly were all choosing Alastair angst so bear with me cause this has been on my mind and @foxglove-airmid just reminded me

So CC tries to kinda excuse why shadowhunters werent "racist" (bullshit but) cause theyre shadowhunters first

What about the dregs thought?

The dregs who were desperate to fit into shadowhunter society

Who were all raised in the very racist time period of 1903 with the very racist ideals it held

Just because they wanted to ascend didnt erase the values they were raised with

How many of them commented on Alastair?

How many of them in hopes to fit in patronized him because of the believes they carried from the mundane world?

How many "I was not aware people like younwere allowed to be here" did he get?

How many microagressions, and stares and comments did they make because he was already being rejected by those of his own

Made them think the values they held were right, because hes one of the only ones like them to be rejected. The born shadowhunters picked on the dregs yet still managed to inferiorize Alastair, who was of their blood. What conclusions could they make as to what was different?

Cassie has hinted that the academy was very white.........

I dont believe the academies first priority is teaching the kids their shadowhunters first and that they cant be racist

And already no one even cared about Alastair

Who would discredit their ideals?

Just how much did Alastair handle?

#pain day #we all choose pain #BUT I THINK ABOUT THIS ALL THE TIME #tlh #tsc #chain of gold #chain of iron #the last hours #cassandra clare #alastair carstairs #alastair pain day 2021

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grace-lightwoodd · 3 years

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Hello this is my contribution to Alastair pain day 2021 part 2

Ship: N/A

Prompt list: xxx

Notes: this is very short but it exists and it is angsty

Just one more year

Just one more year. That was the motto that Alastair repeated to himself constantly during his time at the Shadowhunter Academy. One more year of lies, of pain. One more year of looking into the mirror and not recognizing his own reflection.

Alastair repeated that phrase even as he looked James Herondale in the eye and tormented him the way people had tormented Alastair, just the year before. As he called him Goatface, as he made fun of his unfairly beautiful golden eyes.

He repeated that phrase as he spread rumors vile enough to ruin lives. As he said things that kept him awake at night.

What had he become? He knew he had done these unspeakable things for his own survival, but at what cost?

Just one more year, he whispered to himself as he looked at the remains of his belongings in the exploded wing. He didn’t even blame Matthew; spite can push one to do things they would never normally do.

•••

But when Alastair left the Academy, he couldn’t repeat those words anymore. What did he have to look forward to? What chance would he get to start anew? None. He would get no opportunity to take back his mistakes.

He didn’t put it past the Merry Thieves to hate him. After all, he had said and done unspeakable things. All he wanted was to take it back. But this was penance for his misdeeds. Even as he ran from his sister’s engagement party, all he could think about was how much he deserved it.

He shouldn’t have expected the Merry Thieves to forgive him. He shouldn’t have even asked for their mercy, as he was undeserving of it.

It was then, at the age of eighteen, that he discovered the weight words could hold. Not as he spread rumors that put a family’s honor in danger, not as he planted the roots of self-hatred and insecurity into the minds of four young teenagers.

It was about time the tables had turned.

It was not knives that could ruin an entire family in mere moments. It was not swords that had the ability to make someone turn against even themselves. It was words, with their capability to be so beautiful and benevolent, but with a darker, more sinister potential as well: the ability to ruin people and indirectly claim someone’s life.

Alastair had deserved every word that was said to him. He needed to understand just what he had done to the Merry Thieves.

Tag list: let me know if you want to be added or removed:

@writeforjordelia @ohcoolnice

#alastair pain day 2021 #chain of iron #the last hours #alastair carstairs #tlh #tsc #coi #alastair deserves the world

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alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer · 3 years

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I really was out here in (relative) bliss listening to crooked kingdom and then realize this whole time yall have been on here choosing violence... 😪

#alastair pain day 2021

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queenlilith43 · 3 years

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I am staying away from my dash because of Alastair Carstairs Pain Day 2021

#alastair carstairs pain day 2021

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perfectpaperbluebirds · 3 years

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My Works

Here is a complete list of my longer fics. Regularly updated as I post, including all posted Sicktember 2021 fics (under the cut).

Also, I have even longer stuff posted on AO3 under the same name (PerfectPaperBluebirds) so head on over there for even more sickfic goodness.

My ask box is always open for prompts! I’m always up to try something new, so if there's any aesthetics you want to see, please send them my way :)

Historical/Fantasy (OCs)

The Doctor Is In... the Inn (Alastair Clayton)

Spells and Sneezes (Sorcerer ‘Verse)

A Virus for the Vicar (Nicholas and Lydia Lennox)

Under the Willow (Peter and Violet)

An Artist’s Study on Illness (Giuliano et al.)

Icing and Frosting (Sprite Kingdom)

Tidings of Comfort (Captain Michael Ingram)

Here Comes the Sun (Daniel and Eleanor Todd)

Powers and Flowers (Sorcerer ‘Verse)

Curses and Comforts (Sorcerer ‘Verse)

Fandom

A Darcy Day Off (P&P)

Reunion (P&P)

House Calls Pt. 1 (Hann/ibal TV)

House Calls Pt. 2 (Hann/ibal TV)

Better Now (Bl/ack Ta/pes podcast)

Cold Comfort (P&P)

Safe and Warm (the Manda/lorian)

Eyes On You (P&P)

Colder Weather (Crim/inal Min/ds)

Tender Loathing Care (Letter/kenny)

Modern (OCs)

Book Club

Hospitality

Under the Weather Pt. 1 (Shane&Molly)

Under the Weather Pt. 2 (Shane&Molly)

Without You (Shane&Molly)

Miserable At Best (CottageVersity)

Never Gonna Leave This Bed (Shane&Molly)

Mess Is Mine (CottageVersity)

Sicktember 2021

Fever (MCU)

Persistent Cough/Sniffling (MCU Thor college AU)

Chicken Pox/Rash (The Office)

Headache/Migraine (Knives Out)

Nebulizer (Criminal Minds)

Sneaky Temperature Check (Howl’s Moving Castle [book] )

Contagious (Pride and Prejudice)

I’m Not Sick (Jurassic World)

Medicine/Injection (MCU Shrinkyclinks AU)

Bed Rest (Letterkenny)

Faking it (New Girl)

Appendicitis (Knives Out)

Aches and Pains (the Mandalorian)

Quarantine (the Office)

Hot Water Bottle (Letterkenny)

Ginger Ale and Crackers (New Girl)

Fever Dream/Hysteria (Phantom of the Opera)

Alt: Stay (Pride and Prejudice)

Doctor’s Visit/Check Up (OCs)

Unlikely Caregiver (Star Wars Episodes 7-9)

Alt: Asleep on the Couch (Hannibal TV)

Sneezing (Black Tapes Podcast)

Sick at School/Work (Hannibal TV)

Blankets (OCs)

Missing Out (OCs)

Alt: Warm Soup (Criminal Minds)

Sicktember 2022:

1. ‘Do You Know How To Take Care of a Sick Person?’ (DnD OCs)

2. Homesick (Captain Ingram)

3. Painkillers (Sick Tony Stark)

4. Hangover (Sick Thor Odinson)

5. 'Great. Now I Have Your Germs All Over Me.’ (Sick Clint and Natasha)

6. Sick On Vacation (Shane & Molly OCs)

7. A Cry For Attention (Encanto)

8. Intense Coddling (the Office)

9. Home Remedy (Cowboy OCs)

10. ‘Blow Your Nose’ (Sorcerer ‘Verse OCs)

Alt. 1. Soft Pajamas (Plague Doctor ‘Verse OCs)

12. Psychogenic Fever/Stress Induced Illness (CottageVersity OCs, sick!JB)

13. Seasonal Allergies (Sick Clint Barton)

14. ‘I Might Be A Teeny Tiny Bit Sick, But It’s Fine.’ (Navy Man OCs)

15. Sunburn (Science Lovers OCs)

16. Care Package (the Black Tapes Podcast)

17. Syncope/Fainting (Rockstar ‘Verse OCs)

18. Nausea/Upset Stomach (Sick Bruce Banner)

19. Whining/Crying (Sick Natasha Romanov)

20. Cold Sweat (CottageVersity OCs, sick!Theo)

Alt. 2. VapoRub (Sick pre-serum Bucky)

22. Common Cold (Hannibal TV)

23. Tepid Bath (Hannibal TV)

24. ‘I Need You To Pull Over!’ (Shane & Molly OCs)

Alt. 3. Cuddling on the Couch (CottageVersity OCs, Sick!Padma)

26. Tickle in the Throat (Priest ‘Verse OCs)

27. Sleepless Night (DnD OCs)

Alt. 4. Taking a Sick Day (Bridget Jones’s Diary)

29. Lethargy/Exhaustion (Sick Steve Rogers)

30. ‘Get Back in Bed’ (Vicar ‘Verse OCs)

#everyone is hotter with a fever #sickfic #my writing

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thepictureofsdr · 3 years

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i can’t stop thinking about how terribly alone alastair is. this boy literally has no one. not a single person on this earth to depend on, trust in, confide in, lean on. not a single true friend, a sister who he’s only just begun to open up to after he spent years protecting her from their unreliable, alcoholic father, with no help from their mother who, as much as i adore her, chose to ignore what was happening and leave much of the burden of her husbands care to her child.

this poor, sweet boy, who’s incredibly empathetic, who’s first instinct is to be kind and make friends, has been forced into hell over and over and over again, and he’s not had a single piece of support the whole time and my heart shatters every time i think about him for more than a minute.

every other person in these books has had someone, a friend, a supportive family, even grace had jesse, but alastair has just been so alone this whole time. literally everyone knew about elias’s alcoholism, and yet none of them thought to stop for a second and think about the implications for alastair. no one has bothered to ask if he’s okay. and it hurts to think about.

he’s been forced into hell over and over with no time to breathe, he’s had every support system ripped away, every chance to make connections burned in front of his eyes, he’s been dealt some of the worst cards in life possible and yet he’s still so genuinley good. he’s been given every possible reason in the world to be cold and uncaring and bitter and hateful and he still chooses to see the beauty of the world, chooses to try to move forward, to be good, to protect the people around him.

he gives and gives and gives and people and the world just take and take and take and no one ever thinks to give back to him. for every piece of himself he gives away, for every hour he spends protecting someone, for every ounce of love he gives, someone takes it, and instead of giving in return they just take more from him and never look back. no one thanks him, no one gives him a second thought.

god forbid anyone in the world take five minutes out of their day to thank him, reassure him, let him know he’s doing the best he can and that he can forgive himself, let him know he didn’t deserve the hell his family, the academy, the world has put him through, let him know that was never his fault. god forbid someone apologize to him and let him know he’s wanted and loved and cared for and just simply a good person.

he hates the mangled cracked warped person he cant recognize in the mirror he becomes after the academy, and despite the sea of hatred hes been drowning in all his life not truly touching who he really is, he still thinks he is that person. he cant see the goodness that really makes him, the unimaginable amount of love he holds, the wonders he’s capable of creating and the beauty of who he he really is.

he has oceans of love to give, and he puts his whole self into everything he does, gives his whole self to the people he cares about. and every piece of himself he gives away is trampled and crumpled and used and discarded, the world has tried to suck him dry and by some miracle of the person he is, he still has so much love to give. he puts walls up, creates a labrynth around his heart and shuts the door to his soul, he doesnt let anyone in but he gives himself to others so easily. he tries so hard to help and protect and make everyone happy. he spends almost a decade protecting his family and never once thinks to resent them for the unfairness of the situation theyve forced him into, spends nights trailing after the boy who twice threatened to throw him into the thames, just to make sure the reckless but hurting idiot is safe.

the great tragedy of alastair carstairs is that he deserves the world because that is what he gives, and in return, all the world does is take with no remorse

#alastair pain day 2021 #alastair carstairs #the last hours #tlh #chain of gold #chain of iron #chain of thorns #the infernal devices #tid #the shadowhunter chronicles #tsc #sdr hc #sdr essay

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