#the dates of james and cordelia's deaths are from the v inaccurate family tree btw so take em with a grain of salt besties

[dreamofmysoul-tsc]

I'll Stay Here With You Until This Dream Is Gone

A story about Matthew Fairchild and James Herondale

Title from “Burning House” by Cam

I’ve never written fanfiction before, nor am I really a writer, but this idea has been poking at my mind for awhile now so I figured I’d write it down. I probably won't write more fanfic btw, my brain just wouldn't let me rest until I wrote this 😅

Little nods to The Haunting of Hill House and Bly Manor if you squint

This story follows the theory that Matthew becomes a Downworlder; in this story he is a vampire, although it isn't that important. Also, lots of angst. Suffer with me y'all. Enjoy!

CW for talks of death and the afterlife

January, 1963

Watery, gray light filters through the thick, velvet curtains despite their best efforts to keep the sun at bay. The house sits quiet, empty save for its owner and a single butler. A man sits at an antique writing desk, blonde head bent over thick sheets of paper, each embossed with a golden MF. He writes slowly, thoughtful of each word he inks onto the pages. A glass of water sits precariously on the edge of the writing desk, half empty.

A series of swift knocks resounds throughout the home. The man doesn't raise his head, expecting his butler, Mr. Wingrave, to answer it. As expected, he hears the door creak open, followed by a quick, muffled exchange. Whoever decided to darken his doorstep leaves as fast as they came, the door closing shut with a resounding thunk. His butler begins to ascend the stairs, but the man continues to write his letter, a half smile beginning to turn up the corner of his mouth.

His bedroom door swings open. "Mr. Fairchild?" Wingrave stands on the threshold, a folded note held in his hand. It is without an envelope, as though whoever wrote it sent it off in a hurry.

"Yes?" Fairchild says distractedly, mind still occupied by his letter.

"A note for you, sent by a Mr. Owen Herondale, sir."

This causes Fairchild to pause. Why did his godson, whom he had visited just last week, send him a letter so early in the morning? Despite his best efforts, he feels a mix of curiosity and mild concern begin to build.

"From Owen? Whatever for?" Not expecting a response, he accepts the note from Wingrave. He unfolds the thin paper and feels his stomach drop.

Father is dying. Please get to the townhouse as soon as you can. He needs you.

-OH

James. His Jamie. He reads the succinct words over and over, unable to fully understand, or perhaps fully accept, their meaning. Of course he knew James was getting on in years, he isn't that in denial, but he had never fully sat back to think about how he would go on or what he would even do when James was gone. Now reality is crashing down on him, harsh and cold, as he lurches out of his seat and grabs for his coat. He barely gives himself time to put his shoes on before he's running out the door, only to be reminded harshly of his vampirism when the winter sun scalds his face. He can't find it in himself to care, ducking his head and sticking to the shaded walls of buildings as he sprints flat out toward Curzon Street.

Thanks to his vampire speed, he manages to limit his sun exposure and make it to Curzon Street in record time. He bangs on the townhouse door, red tears already welling up in his eyes, unnoticed until they begin to fall, cold, down his cheeks.

Owen opens the door immediately, black eyes wretched and lips pressed into a thin line, clearly trying to prevent himself from falling apart. He looks so like James, who always hated to cry too, that Matthew almost lets out the sob building up in his chest, yet he holds it in for Owen's sake. Matthew wraps him in a fierce hug, tucking his godson's face against his neck like Owen used to do when he was a boy. Owen holds onto his godfather's coat, trembling but still trying his best to keep it together.

Owen pulls back, sniffling and red eyed, voice hoarse as he says "Dad is upstairs in the bedroom. He's been asking for you all morning. I'm sorry I summoned you so early, but I just don't know how much time he has left." His voice cracks as he says it, tears finally falling. Matthew holds his face in his hands and wipes them away, pushing his hair from his forehead. Despite being in his 40s, Matthew will always see him as the chubby faced little boy Owen was so many years ago.

Taking a deep breath, Matthew ascends the stairs up to Jamie's bedroom. Cordelia, having passed a year prior, would've reprimanded him for getting dirt and slush on her lovely rugs. He almost chuckles at the memory.

James' door is already ajar as Matthew gently pushes it open. It takes Matthew yet another valiant effort to hold in a sob. James lays back on the bed, hands folded over each other, white hair fanned out behind his head like a halo. He holds a gold necklace in one hand, a miniature globe attached to the end of it, and a photograph in the other.

Matthew takes a seat in the cushioned chair by the bed and rests his hands on the duvet in an attempt to stop their shaking. "Jamie," he whispers, voice hoarse.

James' eyes crack open, still the same champagne gold as when he was a young man, and miraculously, he smiles. Matthew finally lets out the cries he's been holding in upon seeing that smile, warm and earnest, a smile that can only be described as so perfectly James.

James sets the objects in his hands aside and reaches out a surprisingly steady hand as Matthew meets him in the middle. He holds onto James' hand like it's a life raft, pressing his knuckles to his forehead and doing nothing to quiet his crying.

"If I had known it'd be this soon-" he chokes out, red tears staining James' calloused hands.

James cuts him off gently. "None of that, Matthew. What was I supposed to do, wait around until death came for me? My body is giving up on me, Math. I knew that my time was coming and that's exactly why I need you here. Because despite everything, I'm afraid. And although you no longer have the rune, we are still parabatai. I'm afraid of what comes after, Math, and I...please, just sit with me."

Matthew looks up, bloody tears dripping steadily onto James' poor bedsheets. He squeezes his parabatai's hand and he nods. "Of course I'll stay with you, Jamie bach. Whither thou goest, I shall go, remember? Even if I can't feel you, I won't let you go into the dark alone."

James lets out a soft chuckle as tears form in his eyes and squeezes Matthew's hand in return. "Thank you, Math."

As the day progresses into night, Matthew finds himself laying next to his parabatai, pushing his white hair back from his forehead and listening to his slow, wheezing breath. James sleeps and Matthew watches, afraid that if he so much as looks away from him, his friend won't have a hand to guide him into his afterlife.

Owen visits periodically to check on his father, occasionally clutching onto his hand and looking on with heartbroken eyes. He's even so kind as to offer his godfather blood, blood that they kept refrigerated for his visits, but the thought of stomaching anything causes bile to rise in the back of Matthew's throat.

Earlier, while arranging himself on James's bed, he finally caught a glimpse of the photograph James had held in his hand. It was a photo of them in their teenage years, Matthew's arm draped over James' shoulders, dressed in fashions well out of style, bright smiles on their faces. Matthew remembered that day well. It was a hot day in June and they'd gone to Regent's Park to enjoy the summer weather and catch up on reading. What had started as a peaceful summer day had ended with Matthew dramatically-and loudly- reciting passages from Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest while passersby looked on in faint amusement or unmasked annoyance. James had been mortified, repeatedly begging Matthew to stop through fits of laughter, ending with the boys play wrestling in the grass as James attempted to grab the play's script from Matthew's hands. They had ended up with grass stains all over their shirts, leaves sticking up in their hair, and Matthew was fairly certain he'd almost upended their picnic basket into the pond. It had been one of the best days of Matthew's life.

Matthew laughed through his tears as he gazed down at the photo, holding onto James' hand even tighter and continuing to watch him. He had once called James his heart and now he realizes how true he had been. James was always steady and strong, a presence he could rely on when he oftentimes couldn't even rely on himself. He kept Matthew tethered to the earth while Matthew in turn kept James from getting lost in his head. Matthew the kite, James the line. And without the line, Matthew wasn't sure what he was going to do.

Logically, he knew this would happen. James would die and Matthew would live on, unchanging. And one day he would realize he had lived more days without James than with him. The sense of panic he felt at the thought of forgetting his laugh, his dry wit, the specific way he annotated his books, even the way he made his tea, was so strong it almost knocked the breath out of him.

But as he takes in the face of his parabatai, his best friend, that panic winks out as quick as it came. Matthew's death was uncertain, but it wouldn't evade him forever. And although Matthew never considered himself a spiritual man, he believed that he would see James again. He had to believe that, otherwise he knew that his grief would threaten to eat him alive. Matthew knew that James' grief had threatened to eat him alive, too, after Cordelia's passing. If Matthew can gift his friend a peaceful end, he hopes with everything he has that Cordelia will be there to guide James home.

James dies not in the thick of battle or at the vicious claws of a demon, but in his bed, left hand held in the iron grip of his parabatai. He dies gently, quietly, breath suddenly stopping, hands going limp at his sides. Matthew hears his heart stop beating before James even exhales for that final time, pressing his forehead to his friend's and letting himself cry, guttural and grief stricken, unashamedly weeping into his parabatai's neck. Distantly, he hears his godson enter the room despite the late hour. Distantly, he sees Owen fall to his knees next to his father's bedside and clutch at his arm, joining Matthew in his lamentation.

And so, he holds onto James' hand and he cries. And he hopes with everything he has that he will see him again. He keeps that hope in his chest, a lighthouse on a distant, stormy shore, as he closes his parabatai's eyes and whispers, "Ave atque vale, Jamie bach. Hail and farewell."