Perceptions (The Vampire Diaries, 1/1)
Title: Perceptions
Fandom: The Vampire Diaries
Author: Dhvana
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: possible Damon/Stefan unrequited, mention of Damon/OMC
Word Count: ~2600
Summary: An encounter in New York City in the 1920s.
Warnings: mention of violence
A/N: I’ve actually been working on this for over a month, trying to figure out just what felt wrong about it and tweaking things left and right. I think I’ve finally finished tweaking.
Perceptions
The opera had held little fascination for Stefan when he was human. Flights of fancy, the drama of life and death, tales of great romances found and lost—none of these had appealed to him. He’d preferred the cold hard facts of science, math, politics, economics, history (though facts and history weren’t always to be found in the same place). He thought it more sensible to expend his energies on something tangible. Damon, on the other hand, adored the made-up world. The real world was never good enough for him, never held enough charm or adventure to hold his attention. He wanted to hear tales of heroes and heroines, of loves fought for and won, of the righteous conquering over evil. Stefan had always been the one grounded in reality while Damon had always sought something more.
Therefore, it should have come as no surprise to Stefan that their paths crossed for the first time in almost a decade at the Metropolitan Opera House.
Stefan had decided that, seeing as how he was going to be around for a while, he should attempt to develop an appreciation for the arts as a source of entertainment for his eternity. He’d taken to studying those few luxuries of civilization which would last throughout the ages, the same ones he had so deftly avoided in his youth: painting, dance, music, literature, but he did so using only what little means he had at his disposal. He was going through a period in his existence when he refused to use his abilities to give himself any sort of financial advantage, but instead was attempting to earn a living as a law clerk. This was why he was sitting in one of the cheapest seats in the highest balcony when his eyes fell upon his brother. If it hadn’t been for his enhanced vision, he wouldn’t have seen him—he wouldn’t have even been able to see the stage—but there Damon was, sitting in a private box, blending in with the opera’s glittering patrons.
Shifting irritably in his rather confined chair, Stefan’s first thoughts were to question how Damon managed to connive his way into gaining such a privileged view. How had he become part of New York’s elite? Or perhaps, more importantly, who had he killed to get there? Stefan then scolded himself for even wondering, knowing if he lingered on the subject of his brother for too long, he’d be distracted throughout the entire evening. They had managed to successfully avoid each other for so many years; what was another night? And after spending weeks saving up the money to purchase this seat, he made a promise to ignore Damon and enjoy himself at all costs. Stefan attempted to push him from his mind and focus on the stage, and yet, no matter how many times he tried to lose himself in the performance, he found his eyes were drawn again and again to his brother.
Stefan had arrived at the opera dressed in his best set of clothes with sleeves that were frayed around the edges and shoes that were beginning to grow thin at the heel, but while his appearance was slightly shabby, he still maintained the semblance of respectability. Damon, on the other hand, was resplendent in his tuxedo, tails perfectly tailored, shirt gleaming white in the dim lights of the theatre, the slight wave to his hair arranged as a perfect frame around his face. The box’s other inhabitants were no less brilliant, and some of them quite famous for the time, but it was Damon who captured and held Stefan’s attention. For once, it appeared as though his brother had dropped the mask of indifference he normally wore and allowed himself to become enraptured by the events occurring on the stage.
The opera was Turandot, a better than average performance, but Stefan had seen even more magnificent productions in Europe. Still, even he could not deny the power of the tenor’s voice on ‘Nessun Dorma’. His heart felt like it was going to burst as the final note filled the auditorium, but it wasn’t the singer who brought out such emotion in him. It was the naked vulnerability in Damon’s eyes as his pale hands clutched the edge of the box. For a few brief seconds, a time that passed so quickly he could later fool himself into believing it had never happened, Stefan saw what his brother looked like when he was heartbroken and in love, and it left him breathless. In that moment, he wanted to grab his brother, hold onto him, and never let go.
And then the audience rose to its feet with thunderous applause and the spell was broken.
Abandoning all pretence of trying to watch the opera, Stefan kept an eye on his brother for the rest of the performance. He was astonished to witness time and time again Damon reacting to the singers on the stage, particularly to the talented young tenor. It was as if life had returned to his brother’s features and Stefan was reminded of the passionate man he used to know.
When the opera was over, the curtain fell over both the stage and Damon’s face. As the audience began to stir, Damon dismissed himself from his companions with his usual rakish grin and fled from the box. Stefan might have thought his brother overwhelmed by this unusual show of emotion and was trying to escape the scene, but then he caught the look Damon sent the stage. It was one of anger, humiliation, vengeance. The tenor had caused Damon to reveal a weakness and now his brother was going to make sure the one who had done this was never able to do so again.
Stefan almost sighed. Would it be so difficult for Damon to just once let things go? Did he always have to be the one in charge, the one in control? Couldn’t he just let this one pass?
But then he wouldn’t be Damon.
Stefan slipped towards the stage through the crowd of people pushing against each other over in their rush to get out of the theatre and on to the rest of their evening. He was up the stairs and behind the curtains before anyone could see him, emerging into the chaos of the end of the night, of stage hands making sure all the various props and settings were put away and ready for the next performance, of performers proclaiming how wonderful they all had been while altering their appearances from their characters to themselves. An immediate glance failed to reveal any sign of Damon, but then the starring tenor would most likely not be in attendance with the regular cast. Instead, Stefan sought out the rooms lining the back hallway and used his preternatural hearing to decide which room would most likely hold Damon. Hoping he was right, that the door with the least amount of commotion would be the correct one, he quickly stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.
Damon was already there, his arms around the man’s body, his face buried in the exposed neck.
“Damon, no!”
Both men turned to him, the tenor clearly startled, Damon just arching a wary eyebrow.
“I thought I heard you skulking about, little brother,” he said, his voice smug as Stefan pushed him away from his victim.
Only, there were no visible marks on the man’s neck. Stefan took hold of the tenor’s face, turning his head so he could see the other side of his neck. Again, the skin was perfectly smooth.
The tenor protested and tried to push Stefan away. Stefan just ignored him and turned to face his brother. “What’s going on here?”
“Why, whatever do you mean?” Damon asked, wrapping an arm around the human’s waist and pulling him close. “I was simply down here congratulating Michael on yet another inspirational performance.” Stefan watched in horror as they exchanged a quick, familiar kiss.
“Congratulating him on his performance,” Stefan repeated, eyes narrowing as the tenor’s hands moved adoringly over his brother’s lithe body as if they had every right to be there. “Damon, what are you up to?”
Damon took the wandering hands in his own and gave each palm a tender kiss. Something in Stefan’s stomach twisted and he had to look away.
“Give me a moment, my love,” Damon said softly. “It seems I need to clarify for my brother some of misconceptions he has about us.”
Stefan glanced back in time to see them share a loving kiss, again a sharp pain hitting his stomach, and then a vice-like grip had hold of his arm and Damon was dragging him out of the backstage area and through a door into the alley. He was barely fast enough to brace himself as his brother shoved him into the brick wall across the way, turning around to find Damon glaring at him, clearly angry but also, almost, a little confused.
“What right do you have to come barging into my life after all these years and even pretend to have any understanding of who I am?”
“I know exactly who you are,” Stefan snarled, though growing in the back of his mind was a tiny seed of doubt. What if…what if there was nothing malevolent going on here? What if Damon actually cared for this man? Was it possible his brother had changed? “You’re a killer.”
“I know,” Damon said with a roll of his eyes, “but does that mean I have to kill everyone I come in contact with? Am I walking through the streets of New York leaving a trail of bodies behind me? Is every member of that audience alive and well? Every member of the cast and crew? Yes. So what, exactly, is it you’re accusing me of? Because, so far as I can see, you have no evidence that doesn’t revolve around your own personal hatred of me and you’re unwavering belief that I can do no good.”
“It’s enough,” Stefan snapped, though his voice lacked the conviction it usually held when confronting him.
“Maybe…” Damon began, stepping forward with a particularly malicious twist to his smile, “maybe it has nothing to do with me at all. Maybe this is all about you.”
“Get away from me,” he growled, but his brother already had him trapped against the wall, hands on either side of his head.
“We’re not through talking yet,” Damon said, his voice the dark growl Stefan had come to expect but surprised him into stillness. “I’m beginning to think, little brother, that what offends you most is that I’ve not lowered myself to your expectations. You don’t know how to think of me except as a monster. You see me acting towards someone, a human, no less, with feelings of affection, consideration, love—”
“That’s not love,” Stefan snarled, finding the strength to push his brother away. “You’re not capable of love, not anymore.”
Damon’s eyes lit up and he laughed, taking Stefan in his arms and swinging turning them in a circle, as if in a dance. “That’s it, isn’t it?” His brother released him and Stefan stumbled away only to have Damon stalk him down the alley. “You think I might actually love this human—this man—and it just galls at you. You’re right, Stefan,” he said and before Stefan could blink, Damon was there, holding him as tenderly as he would a lover, “I don’t love him. He’s a toy, nothing more. He makes me feel, for a little while, and for that I treasure and despise him, but you,” Stefan froze to feel Damon’s breath cross his neck, “you, little brother, are mine for eternity, and no mere mortal will ever take your place.”
He trembled slightly as Damon’s lips seemed to hover above his own, and then he was flying across the alley, his head hitting the bricks with a sharp crack before he slid to the dirty ground. Damon’s eyes flashed as he looked down on Stefan.
“An eternal thorn in my side,” he spat. “A rock in my shoe. An itch, just under my skin. Yes, Stefan, you’re mine to loathe for all eternity, and you’ll never be anything else.”
With a final disgusted glare, Damon disappeared back into the theatre. Stefan stayed in the alleyway for several minutes, shivering with emotions he couldn’t control, couldn’t even begin to categorize. Blinking back moisture from his eyes, he fumbled to his feet, his head held low, and shuffled his way back to the dingy rooms he called home.
As he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he had to wonder just how long it would be before he stopped blaming himself for what had happened to Katherine, how long before he stopped holding himself responsible for destroying the last shred of good left in his brother. Katherine…in the end, there was much she had to be held accountable for, but he willingly shared the blame. She was a selfish greedy girl who had taken advantage of both his and Damon’s affections without any regard for either of them. If she had just chosen one and left the other alone, if she hadn’t changed them both, maybe things would have been different. But Katherine was gone and Damon had only him left as a target for his broken heart.
The tragedy of it was, he still loved his brother, would do anything for him. He knew it was futile, but for a brief second tonight, when Damon had held him so close and called him his, Stefan had almost dared to think that maybe his brother’s heart had thawed, just a little bit. As always when it came to Damon, he remained a fool.
Stefan woke the next morning determined to leave New York, maybe go back down to Virginia or perhaps strike out on a path to the untamed west. Anything, so he was no longer in the same city as his brother.
Walking down the street, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, he was so lost in his plans he almost missed the headline on the morning paper.
“Opera’s Rising Star Murdered!”
There on the front page was a picture of the tenor, Damon’s tenor.
Even though he knew what he would find, Stefan bought a copy and quickly skimmed through the article. There were some gory details, some idle speculation that he easily dismissed, but the basics were clear. The singer had been found late last night on the floor of his dressing room by a crew member. It appeared he had died from a broken neck.
Crumpling the paper in his hands, Stefan tried to force down the guilt that threatened to choke him—it wasn’t his fault, he hadn’t been the one to kill him, Damon, Damon was to blame. But he knew, he knew, that if he hadn’t provoked his brother, the singer might still be alive.
“God damn you, Damon,” he whispered under his breath and practically ran back to his apartment. There was no point in delaying it any longer. He had to leave town. He couldn’t stay here another second.
Stefan threw his meager belongings into a valise and with one hand on the doorknob, took a last look around. A spot of color caught his eye and he slowly edged toward the bed. There, lying on his pillow, was a single yellow carnation, a symbol of disappointment and rejection, disdain. Stefan snatched up the flower and ripped off its petals before throwing it to the floor. He could almost hear his brother’s mocking laughter as he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
[March 3 & 30, 2010]
Fandom: The Vampire Diaries
Author: Dhvana
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: possible Damon/Stefan unrequited, mention of Damon/OMC
Word Count: ~2600
Summary: An encounter in New York City in the 1920s.
Warnings: mention of violence
A/N: I’ve actually been working on this for over a month, trying to figure out just what felt wrong about it and tweaking things left and right. I think I’ve finally finished tweaking.
Perceptions
The opera had held little fascination for Stefan when he was human. Flights of fancy, the drama of life and death, tales of great romances found and lost—none of these had appealed to him. He’d preferred the cold hard facts of science, math, politics, economics, history (though facts and history weren’t always to be found in the same place). He thought it more sensible to expend his energies on something tangible. Damon, on the other hand, adored the made-up world. The real world was never good enough for him, never held enough charm or adventure to hold his attention. He wanted to hear tales of heroes and heroines, of loves fought for and won, of the righteous conquering over evil. Stefan had always been the one grounded in reality while Damon had always sought something more.
Therefore, it should have come as no surprise to Stefan that their paths crossed for the first time in almost a decade at the Metropolitan Opera House.
Stefan had decided that, seeing as how he was going to be around for a while, he should attempt to develop an appreciation for the arts as a source of entertainment for his eternity. He’d taken to studying those few luxuries of civilization which would last throughout the ages, the same ones he had so deftly avoided in his youth: painting, dance, music, literature, but he did so using only what little means he had at his disposal. He was going through a period in his existence when he refused to use his abilities to give himself any sort of financial advantage, but instead was attempting to earn a living as a law clerk. This was why he was sitting in one of the cheapest seats in the highest balcony when his eyes fell upon his brother. If it hadn’t been for his enhanced vision, he wouldn’t have seen him—he wouldn’t have even been able to see the stage—but there Damon was, sitting in a private box, blending in with the opera’s glittering patrons.
Shifting irritably in his rather confined chair, Stefan’s first thoughts were to question how Damon managed to connive his way into gaining such a privileged view. How had he become part of New York’s elite? Or perhaps, more importantly, who had he killed to get there? Stefan then scolded himself for even wondering, knowing if he lingered on the subject of his brother for too long, he’d be distracted throughout the entire evening. They had managed to successfully avoid each other for so many years; what was another night? And after spending weeks saving up the money to purchase this seat, he made a promise to ignore Damon and enjoy himself at all costs. Stefan attempted to push him from his mind and focus on the stage, and yet, no matter how many times he tried to lose himself in the performance, he found his eyes were drawn again and again to his brother.
Stefan had arrived at the opera dressed in his best set of clothes with sleeves that were frayed around the edges and shoes that were beginning to grow thin at the heel, but while his appearance was slightly shabby, he still maintained the semblance of respectability. Damon, on the other hand, was resplendent in his tuxedo, tails perfectly tailored, shirt gleaming white in the dim lights of the theatre, the slight wave to his hair arranged as a perfect frame around his face. The box’s other inhabitants were no less brilliant, and some of them quite famous for the time, but it was Damon who captured and held Stefan’s attention. For once, it appeared as though his brother had dropped the mask of indifference he normally wore and allowed himself to become enraptured by the events occurring on the stage.
The opera was Turandot, a better than average performance, but Stefan had seen even more magnificent productions in Europe. Still, even he could not deny the power of the tenor’s voice on ‘Nessun Dorma’. His heart felt like it was going to burst as the final note filled the auditorium, but it wasn’t the singer who brought out such emotion in him. It was the naked vulnerability in Damon’s eyes as his pale hands clutched the edge of the box. For a few brief seconds, a time that passed so quickly he could later fool himself into believing it had never happened, Stefan saw what his brother looked like when he was heartbroken and in love, and it left him breathless. In that moment, he wanted to grab his brother, hold onto him, and never let go.
And then the audience rose to its feet with thunderous applause and the spell was broken.
Abandoning all pretence of trying to watch the opera, Stefan kept an eye on his brother for the rest of the performance. He was astonished to witness time and time again Damon reacting to the singers on the stage, particularly to the talented young tenor. It was as if life had returned to his brother’s features and Stefan was reminded of the passionate man he used to know.
When the opera was over, the curtain fell over both the stage and Damon’s face. As the audience began to stir, Damon dismissed himself from his companions with his usual rakish grin and fled from the box. Stefan might have thought his brother overwhelmed by this unusual show of emotion and was trying to escape the scene, but then he caught the look Damon sent the stage. It was one of anger, humiliation, vengeance. The tenor had caused Damon to reveal a weakness and now his brother was going to make sure the one who had done this was never able to do so again.
Stefan almost sighed. Would it be so difficult for Damon to just once let things go? Did he always have to be the one in charge, the one in control? Couldn’t he just let this one pass?
But then he wouldn’t be Damon.
Stefan slipped towards the stage through the crowd of people pushing against each other over in their rush to get out of the theatre and on to the rest of their evening. He was up the stairs and behind the curtains before anyone could see him, emerging into the chaos of the end of the night, of stage hands making sure all the various props and settings were put away and ready for the next performance, of performers proclaiming how wonderful they all had been while altering their appearances from their characters to themselves. An immediate glance failed to reveal any sign of Damon, but then the starring tenor would most likely not be in attendance with the regular cast. Instead, Stefan sought out the rooms lining the back hallway and used his preternatural hearing to decide which room would most likely hold Damon. Hoping he was right, that the door with the least amount of commotion would be the correct one, he quickly stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.
Damon was already there, his arms around the man’s body, his face buried in the exposed neck.
“Damon, no!”
Both men turned to him, the tenor clearly startled, Damon just arching a wary eyebrow.
“I thought I heard you skulking about, little brother,” he said, his voice smug as Stefan pushed him away from his victim.
Only, there were no visible marks on the man’s neck. Stefan took hold of the tenor’s face, turning his head so he could see the other side of his neck. Again, the skin was perfectly smooth.
The tenor protested and tried to push Stefan away. Stefan just ignored him and turned to face his brother. “What’s going on here?”
“Why, whatever do you mean?” Damon asked, wrapping an arm around the human’s waist and pulling him close. “I was simply down here congratulating Michael on yet another inspirational performance.” Stefan watched in horror as they exchanged a quick, familiar kiss.
“Congratulating him on his performance,” Stefan repeated, eyes narrowing as the tenor’s hands moved adoringly over his brother’s lithe body as if they had every right to be there. “Damon, what are you up to?”
Damon took the wandering hands in his own and gave each palm a tender kiss. Something in Stefan’s stomach twisted and he had to look away.
“Give me a moment, my love,” Damon said softly. “It seems I need to clarify for my brother some of misconceptions he has about us.”
Stefan glanced back in time to see them share a loving kiss, again a sharp pain hitting his stomach, and then a vice-like grip had hold of his arm and Damon was dragging him out of the backstage area and through a door into the alley. He was barely fast enough to brace himself as his brother shoved him into the brick wall across the way, turning around to find Damon glaring at him, clearly angry but also, almost, a little confused.
“What right do you have to come barging into my life after all these years and even pretend to have any understanding of who I am?”
“I know exactly who you are,” Stefan snarled, though growing in the back of his mind was a tiny seed of doubt. What if…what if there was nothing malevolent going on here? What if Damon actually cared for this man? Was it possible his brother had changed? “You’re a killer.”
“I know,” Damon said with a roll of his eyes, “but does that mean I have to kill everyone I come in contact with? Am I walking through the streets of New York leaving a trail of bodies behind me? Is every member of that audience alive and well? Every member of the cast and crew? Yes. So what, exactly, is it you’re accusing me of? Because, so far as I can see, you have no evidence that doesn’t revolve around your own personal hatred of me and you’re unwavering belief that I can do no good.”
“It’s enough,” Stefan snapped, though his voice lacked the conviction it usually held when confronting him.
“Maybe…” Damon began, stepping forward with a particularly malicious twist to his smile, “maybe it has nothing to do with me at all. Maybe this is all about you.”
“Get away from me,” he growled, but his brother already had him trapped against the wall, hands on either side of his head.
“We’re not through talking yet,” Damon said, his voice the dark growl Stefan had come to expect but surprised him into stillness. “I’m beginning to think, little brother, that what offends you most is that I’ve not lowered myself to your expectations. You don’t know how to think of me except as a monster. You see me acting towards someone, a human, no less, with feelings of affection, consideration, love—”
“That’s not love,” Stefan snarled, finding the strength to push his brother away. “You’re not capable of love, not anymore.”
Damon’s eyes lit up and he laughed, taking Stefan in his arms and swinging turning them in a circle, as if in a dance. “That’s it, isn’t it?” His brother released him and Stefan stumbled away only to have Damon stalk him down the alley. “You think I might actually love this human—this man—and it just galls at you. You’re right, Stefan,” he said and before Stefan could blink, Damon was there, holding him as tenderly as he would a lover, “I don’t love him. He’s a toy, nothing more. He makes me feel, for a little while, and for that I treasure and despise him, but you,” Stefan froze to feel Damon’s breath cross his neck, “you, little brother, are mine for eternity, and no mere mortal will ever take your place.”
He trembled slightly as Damon’s lips seemed to hover above his own, and then he was flying across the alley, his head hitting the bricks with a sharp crack before he slid to the dirty ground. Damon’s eyes flashed as he looked down on Stefan.
“An eternal thorn in my side,” he spat. “A rock in my shoe. An itch, just under my skin. Yes, Stefan, you’re mine to loathe for all eternity, and you’ll never be anything else.”
With a final disgusted glare, Damon disappeared back into the theatre. Stefan stayed in the alleyway for several minutes, shivering with emotions he couldn’t control, couldn’t even begin to categorize. Blinking back moisture from his eyes, he fumbled to his feet, his head held low, and shuffled his way back to the dingy rooms he called home.
As he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he had to wonder just how long it would be before he stopped blaming himself for what had happened to Katherine, how long before he stopped holding himself responsible for destroying the last shred of good left in his brother. Katherine…in the end, there was much she had to be held accountable for, but he willingly shared the blame. She was a selfish greedy girl who had taken advantage of both his and Damon’s affections without any regard for either of them. If she had just chosen one and left the other alone, if she hadn’t changed them both, maybe things would have been different. But Katherine was gone and Damon had only him left as a target for his broken heart.
The tragedy of it was, he still loved his brother, would do anything for him. He knew it was futile, but for a brief second tonight, when Damon had held him so close and called him his, Stefan had almost dared to think that maybe his brother’s heart had thawed, just a little bit. As always when it came to Damon, he remained a fool.
Stefan woke the next morning determined to leave New York, maybe go back down to Virginia or perhaps strike out on a path to the untamed west. Anything, so he was no longer in the same city as his brother.
Walking down the street, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, he was so lost in his plans he almost missed the headline on the morning paper.
“Opera’s Rising Star Murdered!”
There on the front page was a picture of the tenor, Damon’s tenor.
Even though he knew what he would find, Stefan bought a copy and quickly skimmed through the article. There were some gory details, some idle speculation that he easily dismissed, but the basics were clear. The singer had been found late last night on the floor of his dressing room by a crew member. It appeared he had died from a broken neck.
Crumpling the paper in his hands, Stefan tried to force down the guilt that threatened to choke him—it wasn’t his fault, he hadn’t been the one to kill him, Damon, Damon was to blame. But he knew, he knew, that if he hadn’t provoked his brother, the singer might still be alive.
“God damn you, Damon,” he whispered under his breath and practically ran back to his apartment. There was no point in delaying it any longer. He had to leave town. He couldn’t stay here another second.
Stefan threw his meager belongings into a valise and with one hand on the doorknob, took a last look around. A spot of color caught his eye and he slowly edged toward the bed. There, lying on his pillow, was a single yellow carnation, a symbol of disappointment and rejection, disdain. Stefan snatched up the flower and ripped off its petals before throwing it to the floor. He could almost hear his brother’s mocking laughter as he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
[March 3 & 30, 2010]