The First Bubonic Bodice of 1619
Pestilence always finds a way. What's it to you? It was War for him. He's gone, his boiling blood exposed him. ⤷ damon salvatore x human!f!reader. 2.1k.
Passcode retention lasts longer than this. You've always wanted the bathtub water displacement story to be true. It is. Always somewhere, anywhere and at times when you might be having the time of your life. Are you justified in the way you let your muscles atrophy, in the selfishness, the self-absorbedness of a sheep with nothing to prove? They never picture the perpetrator, just Marat. Except you're not the voice of the people, so you're doomed to live.
There's so much to write down, but your mind shape-shifts faster than your hand can keep up. It's warm out. There's nothing to write at all. He looks like himself. You won't allow any of it—of him, the real thing—to smudge. You know it's possible. Pain is lovely when you set your mind on holding onto it. If you could just find a way to write it down, to distribute even only a fragment of it, get them to understand it as more than a popular Radiohead association. No, that part is impossible. We all assimilate it differently. It's for the best. Somehow, it's decently universal. You always anticipate it happening to you, crave it morbidly; then it sneaks up on you and doesn't even have the mercy to let you turn into the one who does the haunting.
You used to use the curtains sparingly. It's such a solid movement now, the flick of an arm, the reveal, or the cover-up. Disarray. Nothing worth touching anymore. A ceiling like a cloud that bubbles up and snows. A bedside lamp that's been off since the day of. Maybe it has always been this way. There's no one left to punish you. You realize you're doing the movie-trope thing.
"How long has it been?" he says instead of being mean.
You look up from underneath his chin, drowsy, sleepless. His gaze is fixed on the little packer bottle on the bedside table, jaw tight. It's translucent and his eyes are stern even if his voice betrays the accusation. You've transferred the burden of focus to Damon now; ironic, considering you buried it with him.
"Too long," you mutter curtly, laying your head back down onto his chest. He still smells the same. Maybe even more pungent. Always used to spray the cologne on his shirt instead, the collar and the shoulders—something about the way vampiric skin expels all intruders faster than he'd like, than he pays for.
"Baby..." he sighs, and you imagine the pained knit of his eyebrows. You close your eyes to see it better. "You can't take them this often."
"I don't care," you murmur simply.
He swallows softly, lips parted only slightly, as the crease above the bridge of his nose trembles intermittently. His free arm—the one he hasn't yet folded on the pillow under his head—drifts along your spine, all the way up until he's threading through the hairs at your nape, caressing the back of your skull repeatedly and slowly, rhythmically. Your phone buzzes off, face-down somewhere on the carpet if you had to guess—someone who wants you to repeat yourself again. Caroline must've found a way to get it off DND under your nose. Again.
You bend at the knuckles, scratch lightly at Damon's ribs, make sure the memory holds up. It protrudes, emanates through the layers of foggy grief; cold skin, lean muscle underneath smooth cotton. You feel dizzy even from under the thin skin of your eyelids. He used to put on jazz sometimes. This one was all the rage, he'd say, then drop you off and keep wistful watch until you were inside and the door was shut and locked. The times he let his pulse slow down. There is a vinyl stylus lodged in your left lung, forcing you to breathe in antifreeze and spit out brake fluid. He made blue look safe. A change of associations. You hate that he doesn't care enough to take his shoes off and begrimes the bedsheet every time.
"Take them all then," he rasps. "Take them all and meet me there."
It's him. He said that. He shifts from under your weight, untucks his other arm and covers your restless hand with his; holds it there for a second, then presses his fingertips against yours and lets the gentle pressure lift them off until you're doing that cliché palm-to-palm thing no one dares to depict anymore. It's different, of course, only when it's someone you can't suppress the pain with. Hardly palatable before you met him. You're lenient with Damon. Anyone could turn foolish in a heartbeat, that's your bitter reminder. What you do unto him is undone within yourself. He said that. Yes. He said that.
He keeps his eyes there, studying it from above—the way his palm grazes yours, the slide of his thumb over your whatever-line. You watch too, from the space in the crook of his neck now, soundless exhales sweeping over his Adam's apple. A stupid moment, foolhardily conjured. Or real. The bourbon on his breath is real. Denial and acceptance seem to blend. There is a cavern in your windpipe and all the hot air—unbearable influx—sets the walls of it on fire. The ache ripples through your organs, each one touching another with its fat membrane, threatens to get you crushed under your own weight, to squeeze your insides together so tightly that you become a dense rectangular bale. He used to fill you up like a balloon without a limit, expand you for the world instead of the reverse; now you're just compressed and delirious. A pile of meat with an affinity for torture porn. Damon's lips are always swollen with the taste of nutmeg, toasted oak and toffee. Your bile reeks of acid now.
A quick double-knock thuds across the room. It takes you out of it. Time's up. The door creaks open, slowly and carefully, gradually lets the light flood in with geometric precision at first, then all at once. Elena still makes daily use of your spare key. Her gaze glides across the mess that is your bedroom—curtains sealed, blanket sliding off, dust untouched and clumped into those little grey worms on the parquet, held together with stray hairs and dead skin; not exactly dirty, mostly just neglected, not much action and the worry that a lack of it inevitably causes—but she wrenches it away just as fast, focuses on you. She's getting even better at this.
"Hey," she greets, voice hushed and tender, stepping inside. "Morning, sleepyhead." A term of endearment that's easily laid on anyone—her attempt at regaining a sense of normalcy. You both know you aren't it, haven't slept at night in months; it's just easier to see him then.
She crosses the expanse of the room in a few measured strides, stepping over crumpled balls of paper and a gray Varvatos shirt, stops at the foot of your bed. You can't find the strength to find yourself repulsive anymore. Your phone is always fully charged, the pages of your diary bent at the corners.
"Brought you waffles from the Grill. Steaming hot," she offers, lively and inviting but still calm for your sake—for the sake of the vulnerable sunrise-kissed hour. She makes the tide recede a bit; sits on the edge of the mattress and looks at you with patience rather than pity. "Maple syrup?" She tries again when you don't quite react. A beat, then she sighs through her nose, quick and docile. "Stefan's here."
Better than food. His heartstrings are split into a thousand copper fibers too; the closest thing you get to relief. The closest thing that isn't Damon.
"Yeah," you manage through the boulder in your throat, "be down in a minute."
"Take your time," Elena reassures with that comforting, husky lilt you've grown to appreciate. A bit maternal, as Care would suggest, were you not her peer. Always there to soften the cruel blows of supernatural tempests, even those that gash deep enough to fester permanently. Elena, who takes care of her friends while bleeding from within. "Though I wouldn't wanna let those waffles get cold if I were you," she adds with a feeble smile and doesn't press any further. Controlled solace might just be the fix in the long run.
You're good enough to strain through it, to at least pretend you don't reject their help. So you only take five, just about the time it takes to brush your teeth, get a change of clothes and tame the nest atop your head. Then, you're heading down. Yesterday was Tuesday. Today is Tuesday too. Tomorrow's Thursday. You're not nuts. The sun leaves citrus juice stains on the walls these days.
You slow to a near-stop in the middle of the staircase, ease your steps and quiet down, tense to listen in on the hushed whispers coming from the kitchen right below.
"—since the... She was in love with him, Stefan, you of all people—"
"No, I do. You're right...I just don't—"
There's muffled melancholy, the rustling of a paper bag. Drawers opening and closing. Cutlery clanks. Pangs of conscience—or perhaps you've got the tone all wrong. You descend a little lower, as silent as can be, trying not to disrupt the peace, a domesticity you can't afford to lose.
"—just needs more time—"
"Hold on."
He knows you're there.
It's no use tiptoeing around vampiric hearing at this point, so you hasten your step to join them. Waffles and chocolate chips, as promised. Smells good. Not convincingly real enough. They both look good, too. A little tired on the human side, but still pretty; more charming, even. Still the It couple, ironclad. Safe. Friends who refuse to let their loved ones bloat with decay.
Elena tells you Matt's been asking, calling. You miss him, but maybe he can wait another day. You can only hope; it's the thing that never dies, after all. She plates your breakfast and heads back up to tidy up your room, doesn't give your guilt the chance to argue for you. You gulp two bites and migrate to the floor next to the living room couch. Stefan teaches you the Grünfeld, lets you take the lead, then crushes you again. You're grateful for the brutishness of his white rooks. It's proof he's hurting just as much, that the distraction is mutually approved of. You like that you can help each other for a change.
You catch him—he never left—from the corner of your eye even in those moments sometimes, still. Leaning against the archway, washing dishes after lunch, dishrag thrown over his shoulder, or leering from the tall stool beside the kitchen island. The curse that keeps you going. He hates carrying an umbrella. The water seeps through the leather, the black of his hair, so you take a towel and he lets you dab it dry. Sits perfectly still at your command and peers at you with that salty blue until it drenches you in droplets too. You wish you could be at the beach at times like these, you and Damon and the crushed shells, the sea foam, Romaine lettuce and radishes for dinner. You never tell him—he'd just say you've been watching too much Sorrentino. You wish you had confirmed it. You wish it didn't chomp at your fucking heart. You wish you could prod into your throat, push your arm the whole way inside, swallow like a good girl until your hand reaches all the way down into your chest cavity, till you can feel around the spongy, lubricated tissue and press your fingers into the tooth marks there. We tend to supplement this kind of misery with physical throes, you've always known that from an armchair point of view. Now it's just in reach. Damon made all your wishes come true.
Stefan knows what it's like. But you're not a junkie. You just need to be able to see him. Just one more day. One more day and you'll let him go. One day. Today. Tomorrow. It'll be scorching hot tomorrow. You just need the day. His voice, just one more time. Tomorrow is the final one, you're ready. Then he will be gone and you'll remember. Just let me say goodbye. Let him convince me.
They always talk about you hushedly. Never scheming, just aware. No compulsion. Elena is perceptive, knows the tendency well by now, well enough to be extra careful with the interruptions, lest she break the dam. Stefan needs more movement—to move on. For her. You're just bracing for the intervention now, the moment they forcibly take away that little bottle. You won't blame them too much. You think you might be able to see him even then.