#i could say blame whoever chose that prompt. but. *chuckles nervously* it might have been me.

[anarmorofwords]

"But if my heart is to stop today, please have your lips bid me farewell"

day 7 of Thomastair week hosted by @youngreckless - free choice

shout-out to @thesapphicrend for the Farsi translations <3

Tw: major character death (implied, open ending), canon-typical violence, ask to tag

*drops this and runs*

*

Alastair knows right away that something is off – a wave of adrenaline sweeps through the Institute, like an electric impulse speeding up his heartbeat. Every Shadowhunter knows that feeling, just as well as they know the touch of weapons in their grip, the movements needed to draw a rune, or the names of Angels that light up seraph blades. Some say it runs in their blood. He would argue it’s just habit - when you court danger for a living, you learn to notice its signs early on.

He’s up on his feet before he knows it, casting a worried glance over at his mother, a small cooing bundle in her lap. She's dressed in a fine dress for the tea Tessa and Cecily invited her to - probably to provide a spark of joy in their otherwise crumbling world, let her celebrate the new life she brought to the world.  

Unfortunately, demons don’t care much about celebration. His mother meets his eyes, and he tries to make his expression as reassuring as possible, out of habit, even when he knows there’s no use – she’s been a Shadowhunter long before he was born, and she’s still one now that Siāvash rests in her arms.

Suddenly the door bursts open, and several geared people enter the room, Thomas among them - his gaze is heavy, lips pursed. The others talk to Tessa and Cecily in rapid voices, and he hears them heading to the weaponry, but Thomas grabs his arm and leads him out of the room, with strength and determination that keeps Alastair from asking questions. They walk into the library, bathed in darkness, save for the gentle wintery glow coming in through the windows. The heavy tomes on the shelves feel imposing, and suffocating, and he wonders, distantly, if his and Thomas’s story could turn into something that belonged among them, in some other world. It’s a silly, impossible thought, but he can’t help it, his heart contracts at the mere touch of Thomas's hand on his.

"Thomas? What is happening?" He manages finally, but his question gets ignored, and the next moment Thomas pushes him against the wall, fiercely but with gentleness still, and then he's kissing him, one hand around his waist and the other buried in his hair. And Alastair's falling apart, because this was never supposed to happen again, but now that it is, he can't keep himself from returning the kiss, his hands going up to rest at Thomas's chest, as if they’d been waiting to do it ever since the last time. He feels his racing heartbeat under his palms, its sound filling the dark, empty room. Always a dark room.

He pulls away, panting, and he thinks maybe he's broken somehow, not human anymore, because no one should be able to resist this. Whatever gave him the strength to stop, now makes him put his chin up, defiantly meeting Thomas’s gaze.

"Tom, I told you this can't happen-" he starts, and then he needs to look away, from those shining hazel eyes, in which affection paints the image of a future, like a promise. A promise he can’t let himself desire, and yet can’t bear to give up.

Someone's shouting orders nearby, and the sound brings him back to the present moment, all the impossible thoughts about the future gone from his mind.

"What's going on?" He demands.

Thomas clears his throat, but his voice is taut and hoarse as he speaks. "There's been an attack, and a portal to the demon world was opened – they’re saying it’s bad.”  

Alastair can feel a pang of panic – he’s used to high stakes and big risks, they all are, but this sounds serious even for Shadowhunter business. Before he can respond, Thomas continues. “I- I don't know if we'll make it, and I wanted- to see you. And say that I’m sorry for letting you go, that day. For letting you believe you deserved my hatred. If we get to have another chance, I should hope not to make that mistake twice. You deserve better than my misguided anger, and if you’ll have it, I’ll try my best to show you. Choose you.”  

His tone is urgent, desperate, and Alastair can barely comprehend those words, the weight they carry – it’s too much, he feels like he’s losing his footing, and he needs to seize control somehow, stop the world from collapsing around him. His hand reaches for Thomas's arm, involuntarily squeezing it to steady himself. Desperation clings at his throat, redirecting all his thoughts towards the simple need to make sure Thomas will be safe.

"I won't let you get hurt-" he's saying before he can think it through – because of course he won’t, the urge to protect Thomas is so ingrained in his brain it feels like the most natural thing, like a law - but Thomas shakes his head and interrupts him.

"You're staying here"

He blinks, fights the urge to scoff.

"Like hell I am"

"You're staying.” Thomas repeats, and Alastair is certain he’s never felt him speak with such sureness. Somehow it makes the tight knot forming in his stomach clench even further.

“With your mother, my aunts, Siāvash and Alexander. We don't know what might happen, and someone needs to guard them. Your mother can hardly fight at the moment, and I won’t let aunt Cecily be their only protector."

Alastair can feel his heart cracking, knowing he can’t protest, yet desperately looking for a way out. He’s trembling, like a cornered animal – no escape, once again trapped between different facets of pain. His brain fights to come up with a solution – there has to be something, anything. He can’t be faced with yet another loss, not when he can barely consider Thomas his to lose.

"Someone else can-"

Thomas takes his face into his hands, forces him to meet his gaze. There are no promises in it now, just steel determination.  

"Would you trust anyone else with defending them, if it came to that? There's no one better equipped to do that here. You're staying."

Alastair's heartbeat pounds in his ears, with too much force, drowning out all his thoughts. Thomas swallows, and looks at his lips again, and then he shuts his eyes.  

"I'm sorry I didn’t ask before." He mumbles. "I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but... Will you let me-" his tone turns fragile, almost broken, and Alastair wants to say yes, yes to anything he might hear next - hearing Thomas speak to him like that shatters all of his self-control. And then Thomas’s eyes open again, the longing in them unmistakable, yet tinged with sorrow. He speaks again.

"Chon shāyad in forsate ākhar bāshe... Mishe beboosamet?"

Now Alastair's certain he can say yes, because if Thomas is speaking in Persian, none of this is actually happening. It must be a nightmare. Or a dream? Lately, the two seem interwoven so tightly, he screams at one and wakes up from the other.  

But then he sees the light in Thomas's eyes falter, and realizes he's waiting for a response, and all of it feels real again, too real. People are shouting somewhere, readying to head for battle, and Thomas is asking him for a kiss before he leaves and maybe dies, and Alastair feels the ground between his feet crumble.  

All he can do is lean towards Thomas. He catches him by the waist and pulls him up against the wall, and their lips meet again. The kiss is hungry, desperate - if their first one felt like making up for lost time, this one feels dangerously close to the opposite – stealing the moments they fear they won’t be granted. Once again confined in the small pocket of stolen time.  

A part of him hates it - it shouldn’t be this way. It’s unfair. Wrong. He feels stupid as it dawns on him this is what they could have been doing for days.

It’s funny how death rearranges your perspective, he thinks.

And then he stops thinking about anything other than this moment, letting his hands roam over Thomas’s shoulders, memorizing the taste of his lips - the afterimage of the Sanctuary, always lingering at the top of his thoughts, sparking to  life - except the reality is so much better than what his brain stored away.

He knows it will always be better, but still he forces himself to comit each detail to memory, desperately hoping for it to turn out unnecessary. He makes a little sound as Thomas presses closer to him, the sharp scent of his leather gear and cologne filling Alastair’s nostrils. It’s overwhelming, the way all of his senses are full of Thomas, Thomas, Thomas...

Who, after a too-short moment, takes a step back. Alastair opens his eyes, hazily.

Before he can come to his senses, Thomas gives him a weak smile, presses something cold into his palm, heads out of the room. And it feels like the sun just set and left everything cold and grey, all the warmth vanishing with him.

Alastair looks after him wordlessly, his thoughts slowly catching up with what happened. He shuts his eyes, inhales. The shape of the cold metal in his hand starts to feel familiar, and it dawns on him. It's a signet ring. A Lightwood signet ring.

Oh.

Thomas doesn’t mean to let him go, next time.

He hopes there will be a next time.

He gave him his signet ring.

And he is off to face whatever awaits in the demon-filled streets.

Alastair freezes for a moment when it hits him – it might have been a goodbye. Then he pushes from the wall and starts through the house, racing in rhythm with his heartbeat.  

It’s almost ironic how thinking of life made him push Thomas away, and yet in the face of death, he wants nothing more than pull him close, closer, until that broken organ in his chest is safe within the sanctuary of Thomas's arms.

He reaches the door and opens it frantically, almost breathless. It’s too late, of course. Thomas and the others are just small figures in the distance, distance too great for them to hear, and yet Alastair stares at them, at Thomas, and somehow almost believes the wind will carry his words.  

"Bargard pisham, deldār"

*********

He swings the boleadoras, and ducks, and focuses all his attention on the dark shapes around them, tuning in to their pace, their shrieks, falling into a familiar rhythm, until his body moves on its own accord.  

The street is a picture of chaos and destruction, demons manifesting out of thin air. He notes expressions on the familiar faces surrounding him – they’re twisted in anger and battle cries and pain, some stilled, in a way he can’t have his brain process, not right now. Soon his mind wanders away, blocking out everything but the repetition and reflexes. We're but dust and shadow, he thinks bitterly.

And a memory, still so fresh in his mind, of soft lips and gentle eyes and too little time.

Of too many unsaid words, that he tried to press into the space between their bodies, but still worries it wasn’t enough. It will never be enough if he doesn’t make it back, doesn’t get to tell Alastair, face to face, how he feels. So he holds on to that, to the image of warm brown eyes waiting at the Institute, and slashes through demon after demon to get back to them. Even as darkness closes in around him, they’re his signpost.

*********

The wind meanders through the streets of London, cold and unharried, until it reaches a vast square. It halts there, for a moment, at the border of the battlefield, as if fearing to disturb its stillness.  

And then it rushes through it - scatters the remains of demons, catches on the clothes of the fallen, startles those wandering among the bodies. Searches.

The young man lays there in torn gear, blood staining the pavement around him. The wind tugs at his brown hair, tussles it, like a bored toddler looking for someone to play with. Finally, it surrenders, and lets the words carefully carried through the city slip right inside his ear.

"Bargard pisham, deldār"

.

.

* Because it might be the last time, can I kiss you?

**Come back to me.

tag list (lmk to be tagged/removed): @foxglove-airmid ​ @andreils-bitch @mariflorenceisabella @chaos-and-starlight @ohcoolnice ​ @nott-the-best ​ @monalo4 @stxr-thxif ​ @shadowqueendiangelo @annabeth-clace @jennyleedream @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 ​ @clarys-heosphoros @sapphic-in @yozinha-z @pastwhereourfeetcouldtouch @wannabe-warlock @littlx-songbxrd @itsjusta-j-really @niathesanctuary-bolastair-kanej @cant-think-of-anything @time-is-the-stuff-of-dreams

#i could say blame whoever chose that prompt. but. *chuckles nervously* it might have been me. #the last hours #tlh #alastair carstairs #thomas lightwood #thomastair #thomastair fanfiction #the last hours fanfiction #shadowhunters #the shadowhunter chronicles #its technically based on a prompt #'i know we're not together but i might die today so i'm going to kiss you just in case there is no later' #thomastair week