#i need more thomastair content ok so i snapped and mad it myself

[rainingpouringetc]

liebestraum

a thomastair ficlet | read on ao3 | inspiration

Alastair didn’t know how Thomas talked him into dinner. Everything had happened rather quickly.

They’d just arrived at the Paris Institute when there was a knock on Alastair’s door. He’d expected one of the hovering heads of the place—he was so grateful Charles was still recovering in London—but instead, it opened to familiar hazel eyes.

“Mr. Lightwood.” Alastair tried to scowl, but his heart simply wasn’t in it.

The two had been traveling together for several days, and faking indifference was growing more and more difficult, especially as they both knew it was a lie. For his part, Thomas—kind, respectful Thomas—hadn’t pushed matters. He was keeping his distance, and Alastair, though he’d never say so, was eternally grateful. He didn’t think he possessed the willpower to hold Thomas at arm’s length much longer, no matter how often he told himself it was a horrible idea to engage himself in any sort of relationship with the man.

But this trip was necessary. Matthew and Cordelia were still gallivanting about Paris and it seemed everyone else was too wrapped up in the disappearance of Lucie Herondale to do anything about it.

Alastair knew that wasn’t true, of course—James had been sincerely disappointed that he could not accompany them, but he needed to stay behind and aid in the business with his sister. Still, he couldn’t deny the fact that he was the slightest bit resentful at the fact that this left him alone with Thomas Lightwood.

Not that there was anything wrong with Thomas. In fact, that was the worst thing about him, the whole reason Alastair resented their situation so much. He couldn’t find a single flaw besides the man’s refusal to wear a hat. If there had been anything else, a glaring warning sign or two like there had been with Charles, then Alastair could better reason with himself to stay away. Instead, he was resigned to reminding himself of Matthew’s words, something he never thought he’d find himself doing, but something necessary all the same. Cordelia assures me that you have a heart. Alastair could have scoffed at the words. It was obvious Matthew himself still did not believe this. Alastair was certain this feeling was not his alone and likely extended to the rest of Thomas’ friends. 

So, as Alastair stood there, staring down the man who had somehow managed to steal away into his affections without Alastair’s knowing, he reminded himself once again. This—him and Thomas—wasn’t possible, and it never would be. 

“Well,” Alastair said, aware of how tired he sounded, “what is it then?”

Thomas blushed and stammered for a moment—the act had no business being attractive, and yet somehow it was—before he managed, “We arrived too late for dinner, it seems, so I was wondering if you might care to get something. From—a restaurant, or, er… something like that.” Thomas rubbed at his neck.

Alastair bit back a smile. He really was hopelessly endearing, wasn’t he?

It isn’t possible. It won’t ever be. Alastair knew that. 

One night out couldn’t hurt.

---

He was completely and horribly wrong.

The night started with an impromptu walk along the Seine. Thomas did his best to engage Alastair in small talk as they walked, commenting on the chill weather and the dazzling lights, but Alastair could already feel himself falling. 

They found themselves at a small bistro not unlike the one they’d been to the previous year. There was a small corner table available, which they fit themselves into carefully. Alastair ordered for them both after Thomas sheepishly admitted his French hadn’t improved since their last adventure in the city. 

“English, Spanish, and Persian,” Alastair couldn’t help but laugh, “and yet you can’t seem to get a hold of French.”

Thomas laughed with him. Alastair’s heart clenched. He’d gotten used to the feeling by now.

They chatted idly as they waited for their food, Alastair feeling more and more like he was simply an observer, an outsider in his own body. He didn’t dare let himself give in too much to the conversation. He answered Thomas’ questions with cold politeness, aware that as he did so he reverted further and further into his old harshness. Thomas didn’t push, didn’t say anything he would not say to a stranger at a dinner party. It felt so odd. Alastair knew Thomas’ dips and curves, the freckles dusting his cheeks and the callouses on his hands and the way his eyelashes were light enough that they didn’t get credit for their length. Yet here he sat, deflecting questions as soon as they cut too deep, questions about his mother and Cordelia and if there was anything he could do to help. No, Alastair told him, his eyes drifting to a spot over Thomas’ shoulder, there’s nothing. 

Their food came, and they ate in silence. It wasn’t awful, the silence, it was just… unusual. In all the time they’d known each other, they had rarely had nothing to say to each other.

At the end of their meal, Alastair was struck with the sudden memory of Thomas’ tattoo. When they’d last been in Paris, Thomas had spoken of getting a tattoo, and Alastair, like the idiot he was, had allowed himself to trace the spot on his arm, to revel in the feel of his skin under his fingers even if only for a moment. In the Sanctuary, Alastair had traced it again, had grinned into Thomas’ mouth as he’d done so. Though only a handful of days earlier, it felt like a lifetime ago.

Alastair pushed the thought from his mind and raised a hand for the check. He paid quickly, thanking the waiter and avoiding Thomas’ gaze as they left.

They walked down the street side by side, and with the wind roaring in his ears, Alastair could almost let himself think things were different. He could almost pretend he and Thomas were something more than… whatever this was. Just because it could never be real didn’t mean Alastair couldn’t indulge himself every once in a while. Once they arrived back at the Institute, Alastair would slip away to his room and remain firmly detached from his feelings for the man. 

Thomas, it seemed, had other plans. About a block away from the Institute, he put a hand on Alastair’s arm to stop him and said, “When we get back, there’s something I wish to speak to you about.” He paused heavily. “Privately.”

Alastair stared up at him, keeping his face as impassive as possible. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, Mr. Lightwood.”

Something flickered in Thomas’ eyes, and he snapped, “To hell with good ideas. I need to speak with you, Alastair, and you haven’t exactly given me the chance.”

“Yes, and there’s good reason for that, isn’t there?” Alastair retorted, tearing his arm from Thomas’ grip. 

“Please, Alastair,” Thomas whispered. His voice was so soft, so gentle, it nearly broke Alastair’s heart. “Just give me five minutes. Five minutes to talk to you and split my heart open for you and then you can do whatever you wish. You can ignore me for the rest of our lives if it pleases you. Just give me this.”

He sounded desperate enough that Alastair could only swallow and nod once, not trusting himself to speak. Thomas let out a breath and nodded once, twice, then started down the street again as though nothing had happened.

They arrived at the Institute to find the halls empty, everyone else already having gone to bed. Thomas led the way to his room, even going as far as politely holding the door open for Alastair.

Thomas cleared his throat as soon as the door was shut and locked behind him. Alastair turned to look at him, crossing his arms as he did so, and raised his eyebrows. 

Thomas let out a breath and began, looking vaguely sick as he spoke. “You told me that you didn’t want to make me choose between you and my friends, so you chose for me.”

Alastair rolled his eyes. “Yes, Lightwood, I was there. What is your point in all this?”

Undeterred, Thomas pushed forward as though Alastair hadn’t spoken. “You were wrong to choose for me. And you were more wrong to think it isn’t you I’d choose.” Alastair blinked, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second. “If my friends, as you said, aren’t willing to accept me—aren’t willing to accept you—then they are not and never have been a true friend, and therefore their opinion is of as little import to me as that of a passing stranger on the street.” He paused, his hazel eyes wide and vulnerable. “You chose for me because you did not wish to cause me any pain. You took the burden on for yourself, and while I’m grateful, I want you to know you needn’t have done it. I would’ve chosen you, if I’d gotten the chance.”

---

Thomas waited for Alastair to say something. Anything. He waited for him to acknowledge what Thomas had just said, whether to accept it or scorn it—but Alastair just stood there. It was as if he was waiting for Thomas to take it back.

Then he chuckled, a low, easy sound, and smiled softer than Thomas had ever seen. He spoke, and his voice was rough and thick from emotion. “Careful, Lightwood,” he said, his smirk tinged with sadness. “I just might take that as a love confession.”

Thomas cleared his throat, suddenly far more nervous than he’d been mere seconds ago, and took the slightest step forward. “Perhaps you should.”

Alastair’s eyes were open and dark as he looked up at Thomas through his lashes. Beautiful, as always. “Then I suppose I will,” was Alastair’s answer, and he closed the gap between them.

This, Thomas thought, Alastair’s lips soft on his like a promise, is what I’d choose every time.

---

Alastair woke slowly, his surroundings unfamiliar to his sleep-blurred eyes. He blinked a few times and the light-bathed room came into focus. More importantly, Thomas came into focus. 

They were laying beside each other beneath the covers—fully clothed, Alastair realized with a twinge of relief—and Thomas’ face was turned toward him in sleep. Memories spilled into Alastair’s mind like sweet honey. A whirlwind of emotion had surrounded them both—there had been, to Alastair’s memory, more than a few tears between the two of them. That’s what happened, he supposed, when a dam came toppling down: the flood it held back came rushing out.

The night reminded him vaguely of the Sanctuary—they really had to get away from Institutes, Alastair had thought—in that it was the talking, truly, that meant the most to him. They’d fallen asleep talking, their whispers evening into steady breaths sometime far past midnight. 

Thomas’ face was soft in sleep. It erased the trials of the year etched into the lines of his forehead and eyes. He was beautiful as ever, and Alastair was hit by the preemptive grief that accompanied leaving. For one of them would have to leave, wouldn’t they? Perhaps Thomas would even be upset that Alastair hadn’t yet—but no, Thomas didn’t seem like the type to be upset about this sort of thing. He wasn’t Charles, Alastair reminded himself with a smile. 

Still, they couldn’t risk being found out. Especially by the people Thomas held closest. And that was the catch, wasn’t it? It always would be.

Alastair reached out and cupped Thomas’ face, his pinky slotting behind his ear and his thumb resting at the corner of his eye. He was rewarded by Thomas leaning into the touch, waking slowly. “G’morning,” Thomas yawned. His eyes were still closed.

“Hello, love,” Alastair whispered.

Thomas smiled and opened his eyes a fraction. He let out a sigh. “Esfandiyār.” Something tugged in Alastair’s chest at the name. “A beautiful name for a beautiful man,” Thomas said quietly, closing his eyes again. 

Alastair swallowed heavily. Don’t, he wanted to say. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. He moved his hand to Thomas’ hair, threading the short strands through his fingers. “I’m sorry,” Alastair said, gazing at Thomas’ sleep-soft face.

Thomas opened his eyes. “Why?” he asked, furrowing his brow and stretching adorably.

Alastair gave him a sad smile. “Because this is a dream,” he whispered hoarsely, “and sooner or later we’ll have to wake up.” Thomas stared at him, puzzled, his hand raising to grasp Alastair’s wrist. Alastair’s fingers stilled, his hand resting behind Thomas’ head. “Don’t be sad, joon-am. It has been my favorite dream.”

“It doesn’t have to be over.” Worry coated his words. Before Thomas could tighten his grip, Alastair pulled away, swallowing hard as he rolled over, away from Thomas’ pleading eyes. The top few buttons of his shirt were undone; he buttoned them as quickly as he could, his shaking fingers stumbling from exhaustion or—or something else. Thomas was still talking. “Alastair, I meant what I said last night. All of it.” Alastair sighed through his nose, closing his eyes and touching his chin to his chest. His jacket had been discarded and was now hanging on a chair. Alastair opened his eyes and reached for it, shrugging it on numbly. 

“Alastair.” He felt pressure on his shoulder. Thomas’ grip was firm—he pulled Alastair back toward him, turning him so they were looking directly into each other’s eyes. There were only a few inches of space between their noses. “I’m serious,” Thomas whispered. “I choose you.” He leaned forward, pressing their lips together, and only moved away a fraction of an inch to say, “I love you, Alastair Carstairs, and I won’t let you walk away from me again.”

There was a time when Alastair might’ve brushed it off, sneered at him for being so vulnerable, said something to quash the hope shining in his eyes. 

Now, he found himself speechless. Thomas was looking at him with such intensity and—

And he wanted to believe him. Alastair wanted them to make it work. Because. Well. 

“I love you too, Tom.” There it was. The words came out without thought or resistance. “That’s why… that’s why I’m so scared you’ll regret this.”

“I will never regret us, Alastair.”

“I know you think that, but…” Alastair swallowed and touched his hand to Thomas’ cheek again. “Could you really give up your friends? Your family? You say they would mean nothing to you, but it would leave a hole that I could not fill. I could not bear to see you friendless for my sake.”

“And what makes you think I would be? Alastair—here, just—” Thomas twisted so he was sitting cross-legged atop the blankets. His shirt was unbuttoned down to his navel, and his hair was mussed from sleep. He took Alastair’s hands in his and rubbed his thumbs along the backs of his hands in broad, soothing motions. 

Alastair closed his eyes, filled with an emotion he couldn’t quite name. Even just being around Thomas had a calming effect on him, and being able to sit here and hold his hand… it was overwhelming in the best way. 

“Look at me.” Alastair looked at him. Thomas told him, “The only way this could ever work is if we both choose to make it work. It won’t just happen on its own—you know that, as do I. But, if you mean it when you say you love me—” his voice caught on the word, snagging on the incomprehensibility of their situation, of the fact that they’d said it aloud to each other “—then I implore you to listen to what I’m saying. We can choose to be together. It may not be easy, but—God, it’ll be worth it. It would be worth losing the world if it meant gaining you.”

Alastair couldn’t help but chuckle, hanging his head as tears finally escaped and race down his cheeks. It was all so much, so different than what he’d grown accustomed to. With Charles, it had been a year before he’d uttered those words—I love you—in some nondescript hotel in this very city, and then it had been slow and relaxed, void of the urgency dripping from Thomas’ words. This was better, though, wasn’t it? This time, he was being asked to let himself be loved instead of begging for the feeling to be reciprocated. It was quite a turnaround. Alastair much preferred being on this side of it, he decided.

But then—there needn’t be sides, after all. They could be in it together. That was all Thomas was asking, wasn’t it? For him to choose to fight—and Alastair was rather good at fighting—even when the odds were stacked against them and it seemed there was no way they could be together?

When he thought of it that way, well. Alastair wanted it to work.

And Thomas did, too.

So, really, the answer was clear. It had been there all along—Alastair had simply been too afraid to see it.

He picked up his head, opened his eyes, and looked at Thomas. Really looked at him. He looked at his freckles and lashes and the veins of brown and gold in his eyes and realized that, if he chose it, he could watch that face grow old. He could learn all its secrets and tells. He could do that, if only he said yes. 

It was obvious, then. 

“All right,” he croaked out. He nodded once, then again, and then he was nodding and laughing and leaning forward to kiss Thomas just because he could. Thomas was laughing too, and then they were kissing and Alastair was thinking, I could do this forever. I could sit here with him forever and I’d never get tired of it.

Perhaps this was all a dream. Perhaps he’d wake up and find none of it had been real. It would be worth it, he thought, just if it meant having these memories of happiness.

Perhaps it was a dream, but it was the loveliest dream of his life.

i hope you all enjoyed <3 this was purely indulgent, ik it would not be as easy but i can dream ok

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