Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Growing up, Alastair carstairs thought he was smart. He had to be, to keep his fathers ‘illness’ a secret, to lie to his sister, to convince his mother he wasn’t drowning under the weight of her expectations and society’s hatred. He taught himself 8 languages, aced all of his classes at the academy despite the other boys bullying, he taught himself all about mundane culture and how their technology worked, he even took to reading the mundane newspapers to further his knowledge of the world. Which is why, when he became involved with Charles Fairchild, Alastair told himself he knew exactly  what he was doing.

It started when he was fifteen. Alastair attended a function at the London institute, Cordelia wanted to visit Lucie but his father was too drunk to supervise her visit so Sona sent Alastair to accompany her. He spent most of the ball attempting to hide from the merry thieves, successfully avoiding both Matthew and James, managing to extract himself fairly quickly from a conversation with Christopher regarding some form of science and had a rather pleasant encounter with Thomas lightwood. He had been counting down the hours before he could leave since he’d arrived and finally it had turned into counting down the minutes. And then came Charles Fairchild.

Five years older than Alastair, a good few inches taller and incredibly more confident than him, Alastair was instantly infatuated. Having spent most of his life longing for things he could never have, Alastair saw no problem with privately harbouring a crush on the consuls son. So he spent the next year hoping and longing that the older man would give him the time of day. They met frequently within those twelve months, but never as anything more than acquaintances. Friends really. Such good friends that the consul herself began to greet Alastair warmly whenever she saw him. Eventually that friendship turned into stolen kissed behind locked doors and occasionally more behind even more locks. It meant nothing though, Charles had said as much the first time it had happened, and Alastair had been so in shock and so elated to be given a chance with his idol that he agreed without hesitation. Alastair lied, he thought he’d been falling in love with the consuls son for over a year but he knew he had the first time they’d kissed. Not that he’d ever tell Charles that. So ‘friends’ is all they were. Until Paris.

Alastair was on his travel year. Charles was the interim head of the Paris institute. Technically, Charles was engaged to a Miss Ariadne Bridgestock, whom Alastair had never met, but he was assured that she would not mind, she herself preferred the company of the same sex and there was never any intention to actually marry on either side. So when Charles asked Alastair to come to his room after everyone was asleep, Alastair agreed. And when Charles had whispered into the darkness that he had feelings for the other boy Alastair could barely hide his smile and all he could do was whisper ‘good I feel the same’ before Charles was telling him that they could never be together, that nobody could ever find out and  sending him back to his own room. But when Charles asked him over again the following day, Alastair agreed. And the day after that. And the one after that. Until Alastair Carstairs had been sneaking into Charles Fairchild’s Paris bedroom for 3 months and considered them wholly in love with each other.

And that was where the problems started. At the beginning of their arrangement, Charles was kind to Alastair. Kind in a way no one ever had been before. But as time went on and Alastairs feelings progressed, Charles’ kind words seemed to slow to a stop. What used to be loving words and longing glances turned into quick greetings and even quicker dismissals and Alastair did nothing to stop it. How could he? When his whole life love had been conditional? When everyone who’d ever cared about him had gotten bored eventually and begun to resent him?

Even though he was used to it, even Alastair had a breaking point. He told Charles he was feeling unwell and, knowing he wouldn’t bother to check on him, he snuck out of his bedroom window like the reckless teenager he never got to be and decided to explore paris the way he’d wanted to since arriving. He wanted to visit the places he’d loved in his childhood and hope they’d still bring out the same joy in him as they had back then. He’d thought he might buy a new book and read it next to the Seine, so he’d visited his favourite bookshop in the city in search of one worth his time and money. He didn’t leave with a new book but he did leave with Thomas lightwood. Those two days spent with him were the best two Alastair had had since he arrived in the city, which filled him with both childlike hope and a deep sense of guilt. So he told Thomas he was leaving the city and resolved to stay inside the institute until Thomas had gone back to Madrid.

Eventually, Alastair returned to Cirenworth and Charles returned to London and they saw each other infrequently and exchanged short letters only slightly more frequently. That is until Cordelia came barrelling into his room yelling about how excited she was to move to London to become parabati with Lucie. When Alastair asked his mother she admitted it was to try and salvage their families reputation amid Elias’s trial but Alastair couldn’t find it in him to be that upset about the sudden move. London meant Charles.

What Alastair had failed to remember, is that London also meant Ariadne. More specifically, it meant Ariadne being engaged to Charles. It meant hiding his love for Charles and meeting in the darkest corridors of the institute. It meant talking to Ariadne Bridgestock and discovering that Charles had deceived them both. It meant Charles coming to his house, not to apologize or to admit he was wrong, but to try and convince Alastair to live his life the way Charles wanted. It meant Cordelia giving him worried glances whilst knowing entirely too much about the things he’d tried to keep hidden from her. It meant slowly, quietly, loosing the only remaining shreds of his original personality until all he had left was his pride. It was that pride that caused him to break things off. It was that pride that couldn’t stand by and watch as Charles broke off his first engagement and became entangled with Grace Blackthorn. It was that pride that caused him to send charles a letter. And the resulting pride in himself that caused him to dye his hair back to its original black.

Charles Fairchild had made Alastair Carstairs feel a lot of things, but Alastair never expected him to make him feel naive. He hated feeling naive. It was how he’d felt when he’d discovered his fathers problem, how he’d felt every time he had relapsed after saying he’d give the drink up, how he’d felt after arriving at the academy hopeful only to have those hopes dashed. So he sent him a letter calling off their little arrangement.

Alastair Carstairs had a lot of regrets in life. He considered himself a person who’d made many mistakes but Charles Fairchild was the worst of them. Out of all the things he’d done, all the things he regretted, Charles was the only one he couldn’t put down to self preservation or protecting his family. He was the only one that was entirely bad for him, no good had come from that relationship, it was the unhealthiest part of Alastair’s existence. But he managed to cut it out before it was too late. He managed to resolve one of his regrets, so maybe he could fix some more mistakes? Maybe he could get the merry thieves to listen to him, to let him apologize for how he acted at the academy? He wouldn’t tell them the reasons but maybe they would hear him out anyway. Maybe then he could ask for forgiveness from Consul Fairchild and Mr Lightwood. Maybe then he could start to forgive himself.

Chapter Text

Alastair Carstairs hated Elias Carstairs. But he loved his father. He resented the man who stumbled home drunk, who forced Alastair to come and rescue him, who was the reason for all of his family’s shame. He hated the man who made Alastair hate himself before he had the chance to ever really discover who he was. But he loved the man who sung him to sleep as a kid, the man who learned Persian before he was born because it was important to Sona that her children knew both languages fluently, the man who swung Cordelia around while Alastair played the piano. But that man was long gone. He’d disappeared when Alastair was still a child.

The very image of him had irrevocably shattered when his eldest child had dicovered why he was always ill. Alastair was ten years old when he’d snuck downstairs in the middle of the night after being awoken by a slamming door to find Elias drunkenly swinging a bottle around whilst yelling in Sona’s general direction. She’d pleaded him to please quiet down because the children were asleep and Elias had just thrown the bottle at her in response. Alastair had screamed. The bottle hadn’t hit her, both due to her shadowhunter reflexes and Elias’s drunken aim, but it shattered against the wall and Alastairs hand hadn’t come up to his mouth quick enough, they’d heard him. Both adults had instantly turned to his shadowed form on the stairs. Elias had started forward but Sona had put a hand out to stop him, murmuring about how she could handle this and he’s just a child he couldn’t do anything.

Then she’d led Alastair upstairs, sat him down on his bed and told him that she’d answer any questions he had but first he had to promise that Cordelia would never find out. She could never know the truth, it was for her own good. And Alastair had promised her he would do everything he could to stop her finding out. He could protect Cordelia from their own family.

Until he couldn’t. It worked for a while, for 9 years longer than Alastair, Cordelia got to be ignorant. She believed she had the perfect father, that he was unfairly constantly ill, that the only thing wrong with their family was Alastair’s refusal to open up. And then just like ten year old Alastairs did, her image of their father shattered. He hadn’t meant to tell her but he’d slipped up in front of James Herondale and if the Carstairs share one trait it’s their stubbornness. There was one difference between the siblings reactions though. Where Alastair had spent half of his life knowing the truth, he’d learnt that Elias’s promises meant nothing, he knew that when he said he’d give up drinking he could only stay sober so long before stumbling out in the middle of the night to find somewhere he could purchase alcohol. But where Cordelia had spent her entire life not seeing a problem, she didn’t truly understand how bad it was, she believed if she could just get him to the basilias, if she could just convince him hard enough then he’d miraculously be okay. She believed he would be there for her wedding.

And for a while Alastair did too. But a week passed after he was released from the Basilias, and he didn’t show. And again, Alastair was back to trying to find a way to tell his sister that their father was too drunk to do his duty as a parent. For once, he didn’t have to. Elias showed up, in the nick of time, with a shiny scabbard as an olive branch. It had Cordelia instantly falling into his arms, forgiving his absence and any previous wrongdoings she’d recently discovered. But not Sona. And not Alastair. They shared a look that only they could understand. I know it’s not what we hoped for. But it’s better than what we’ve got before. At least he’s here for Cordelia.

At least he’s there for Cordelia. His entire life, Alastair had known Cordelia was his father’s favourite, he never knew if it was because she was the only one fooled by his mediocre act of a sober man or if he truly just wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. He’d never resented her for it, but watching her be swung around like she’d never grown up, like she’d never found the truth, while he stood on the sidelines like he had done nearly all his life hurt.

He couldn’t stand it any longer, he walked out. Surely Sona and Cordelia would be disappointed but his sister was used to him disappointing her and his mother would understand. What did he do to deserve a father like Elias? Because really that’s what it all came down to these days wasn’t it? Or maybe it was more accurate to ask himself what had he done because of Elias? He’d carried his fathers burden for half of his life. How much had that shaped him? How different would Alastair have turned out if he had a different father? But there was no use in that train of thought. Instead he had to work out how to get through today. Cordelia thought he was sober, anyone could tell that. Alastair had to work out how to keep her believing that until after the wedding. Then she’d move away and he could fall back into the old habits of hiding Elias’s addiction.

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One day. That had been all he wanted. He’d truly believed it would be okay, clearly he should’ve known better. As he hauled his drunken father to the games room with his new brother in law, Alastair couldn’t help the resentment coursing through him. He’d long since given up on Elias ever caring about him and what he wanted but he had honestly hoped that Cordelia’s wedding day was important to him. Obviously he’d been wrong. But at least this time he had help, despite his complicated feelings towards the Merry Thieves, they were helpful with distracting the guests, and having James there to help had genuinely made dealing with drunk Elias easier, if he ignored the embarrassment coursing through him at the thought of someone else seeing his father in that state.

For the next two weeks it was as if Elias had never been gone, like he’d never been imprisoned in Idris and had never stayed at the Basilias. He snuck out every night and, like she had been for the past few years, Sona snuck into Alastairs room to ask if he minded dragging him home if he wasn’t back by sunrise. Alastair had never said no, it was clear she was only asking because she wanted to offer him the choice, it was more of a courtesy than anything. For years, Alastair had been waking up at 5am, checking if his father was where he was supposed to be and if he wasn’t, then Alastair spent the next few hours tracking him through whatever city they were living in. On the occasions that Elias actually was at home, Alastair tended to train or read to pass the remaining few hours before the rest of the household woke up. There hadn’t been many of those occasions lately.

Two weeks after Cordelia left home, the newlyweds came to dinner. Elias was drunk before they arrived and had 4 glasses with his dinner. Alastair didn’t remember ever being more fed up with his father. He didn’t hide it particularly well either, he’d gotten so used to Cordelia not suspecting anything that he’d forgotten to hide his feelings as much as he usually would. He knew his mediocre acting had failed when she pulled him aside before leaving. Never in his life had Alastair ever thought his younger sister would be offering her house up to him to avoid their father. Never in his life had he thought she’d ever even be aware it was something she may need to offer. He waved off her concerns, just because she knew the truth about Elias’ addiction didn’t mean she needed to know how much Alastair struggled with it. Best to have her believe he was coping fine without her, lest she take it upon herself to try and fix things.

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He was dead. Elias Carstairs was dead. Found lying in a gutter by a morning patrol. Alastair had been the one to answer the door when the news came, Sona had still been resting in bed and Risa was preparing breakfast. The shadowhunter tasked with delivering the news hadn’t bothered with sugarcoating it, he’d simply laid out the facts, offered condolences on behalf of the London enclave, and left.

Alastair hadn’t known how to feel. At first there had been a sense of dread, his father had been murdered. All those times Alastair had laid awake wishing he would just walk out for good and now he was never coming back. Then there was guilt, the thought that if he’d simply stopped Elias walking out the previous night it never would’ve happened, then the logic telling him that if his father had survived it wouldn’t been someone else dead. Someone wholeheartedly loved by their family, who wholeheartedly loved them back. Someone whose death would irrevocably tear their family apart.

The Carstairs would survive without Elias. Alastair wasn’t so sure his mother knew how to. For twenty-five years of her life, Sona had been by his side. She’d moved around the world, never settling in one place for too long, to hide his secret. She’d cut off her family, her heritage to preserve her marriage. She’d bore him three children, one that he’d managed to irreversibly ruin, one that may have just been saved from her brothers fate by a tragedy, and another that would never have the chance to be ruined, because he’d never have the chance to meet his father. Lucky them. Alastair instantly tried to banish the thought from his head, his mother hadn’t even stopped sobbing yet, it was much too early for him to be thinking ill of the dead, but he couldn’t stop.

To his core, he honestly believed the child was better off never knowing Elias. He only would’ve disappointed him, in the long run. Alastair would never disappoint him. Not like he did Cordelia in his teenage years. Elias was dead and despite his mixed feelings and traces of grief, for the first time in years, Alastair felt a sense of relief. He was finally, finally, free. Free from the constant lying, the constant travelling, the constant cover ups. He was free from the weight of his fathers reputation, of his fathers need to be coddled and looked after like a child because he was incapable of doing it himself. He could do whatever he wanted, be whoever he wanted, without the shackles of protecting his family from his father.

He’d never be able to forgive his father, not really. A few years of healing and trying to be a better man couldn’t erase the past, and Alastair would never be able to forget his childhood, or undo the effect it had had on him.  But maybe one day, in the safe embrace of a man who truly loved him, Alastair would cry for his father. He might mourn the man he used to be, the one so promenant throughout the early years of his childhood. He might even mourn the man he could’ve been, if he had managed to give up the bottle. But he would never cry for Elias Carstairs. Not for the man he was, the one who had to be dragged home by his preteen son because his daughter had a nightmare and needed both of her parents, not the man who caused a scene at Cordelia’s wedding, the one day she shouldn’t have had to worry about him, because he felt snubbed. Not for the man who forced Alastair to grow up to quickly.

Alastair Carstairs loved his father. But he hadn’t truly believed that in years, maybe not since that fateful might when he was ten. Once upon a time, he truly had loved his dad, he wasn’t quite sure if he did anymore though because god, he really hated Elias Carstairs.