Chapter Text
“And now the foot pillow Alastair.”
Alastair almost considered stuffing the foot pillow down Charles’ throat. He quickly reconsidered not wanting to put the Lightwood boys (one in particular) through the trouble of reporting him to the Clave and all that entailed being accused of/accessory to murder. Also, even after everything the bastard did, Alastair did not want to hurt Charles, let alone attempt suffocation by foot pillow (even if it suited the damn bootlicker). It also was not worth it, he had more important things to think about. His family was always on the forefront of his mind, especially regarding a certain decision he made.
Sona had decided to return to Turan after giving birth to the baby. She had asked Alastair if he wished to join her, Risa and the baby. Of course Alastair had said yes. He needed this. He knew Cordelia would volunteer if he did not go. She has a life here in London. She has a husband, a parabatai (soon), friends and her husband’s family who thought fondly of her. He does not have any anchors to London.
Then Thomas Lightwood’s stupidly handsome face popped in his mind. He had successfully avoided interacting with Thomas the past few days, despite wanting his company. Especially after his tender administration to Charles. He wanted to hear about Thomas’ day. Tell Thomas about his day. Hear him laugh at his biting humor as Thomas had always found his jokes funny (so long as they were not pointed maliciously at his friends). He wanted to talk about literature and maybe try speaking Spanish to him. He had wanted to test his mastery of the language out loud and who better to practice with than someone who had studied it. In fact he could seek him out right now. Thomas is floors below him with his genius absentminded cousin Christopher Lightwood, but he decided not to.
For one, they could be in the middle of an experiment and more often than not Christopher’s experiments involved fire or worse, explosions. For another, Charles could wake up and attempt to corral him back out, not that either Lightwood would care to gossip about their former relationship. (Christopher would not care and Thomas would be far too kind.) Lastly, he didn’t deserve it. For all he had done to protect family and himself, he did not deserve Thomas. Not as a friend, let alone a lover.
Their first kiss. He remembered the little boy who trailed after him at the Academy and the knight-like person he became when they met in Paris. Alastair had dreamed of a potential lover. Someone who saw him as he is. As a man. As someone more than the harsh words and knife-edge glares. His dream lover would be interested in his Persian culture not just out of curiosity but also wanting to know the other half of Alastair. Even be taught some of his favorite Persian phrases. Asheghetam. I love you breathless. But that would not be possible here. He had once considered a Persian lover, but how would he see his non-Persian half? He knew there was such a thing, men loving men in Persia, but he wasn’t sure if there would be one for him.
Something sparked in the corner of Alastair’s vision. The burning odor wafted through the air.
A piece of paper floated in the air just above Alastair. He quickly grabbed it and glanced over it carefully. The paper was charred almost all over, but a few words were legible, however the message was unclear, except for who sent it and to whom it was for.
Dear Alastair,