Every so often in life you meet someone. Now that someone could be a king, or even a beggar; but that one person, it's said, could hold the power to completely alter the path you're on.

For Klaus Mikaelson, a cynic and non-believer in love, this person came in the form of a much younger person, a much younger vampire, named Stefan Salvatore. He didn't expect to experience anything beyond the initial hatred of the man who'd stolen his sister's affections. But he couldn't fight the younger man's growing influence, couldn't shake him as he slowly but surely got under Klaus' skin, into his bloodstream. He couldn't stop him from becoming entrenched in his mind. He just couldn't shake him.

Not like the moron he was currently in cohorts with. This man was no Stefan Salvatore; he was clingy, obsessive… maybe not so far from Klaus' own traits but at least he had taste about it. This guy? Had nothing. Hell, Klaus had found him moping over a nicked bottle of Scotch in a gents' bathroom one night and (stupidly) taken pity on the man, inviting him for drinks and more. Now, he regretted that decision.

Fifteen years seemed like a lifetime ago. 1920s' Chicago and 1940s' New Orleans were worlds apart, and in the worst possible ways. Chicago, the Windy City, the twenties' haven. There weren't any appropriate words to describe how much he loved that city, that time, those people. New Orleans was dull and lacklustre and he had no Rebekah, no Elijah, and no Kol. He had no Stefan Salvatore.

He'd even prefer the company of his dull older brother Finn over the man he now allowed to trail after him. Finn was frustrating and half the time Klaus wanted to stab him just thinking of him but at least Klaus wasn't the bottom line of some ridiculous joke made; he appeared, now, to be the punch line to a joke made by his sort-of-other-half, one which Klaus wasn't sure he even understood himself. His visible disdain towards the joke made clear to the other male that he wasn't happy.

"Oh, come on, Nik," drawled the drunken voice of the male seated beside Klaus at the back table of one of New Orleans' best bars. Whisky strong on his breath - the result of countless glasses consumed in the space of one hour - Klaus cringed as his words hit the side of his face, hot and unappealing. When the older male, older by four years roughly, leaned closer, the smell grew stronger and Klaus was certain he had no sense of personal space. He grimaced, turning his face away, desperately trying to block the man's advances, but to little avail. "Lighten up."

The toothy grin which accompanied the hand coming down heavy upon Klaus' shoulder turned his grimace into an outright sneer, stomach churning in disgust all the while. Not even the alcohol consumed by the Original could take away from the sour mood displayed, or his reproach for the man daring to call him Nik as if they meant something to each other.

George Masterson was his name. George Masterson - idiot extraordinaire. Son of an all-too-popular lawyer. With his floppy hair, his dull brown eyes, his ridiculous moustache which really? Should be made illegal immediately. His sense of humour which pained Klaus to even think about… The sex. Oh, the sex. Even worse than George's sense of humour. His only redeeming quality was the blood flowing through his veins, making him a walking blood bag for Klaus' disposal whenever he so chose to rid himself of this burden.

Which begged the question: why hadn't he already killed this moron? He'd had plenty of chances. More than plenty. But still he kept him around. To curb the loneliness he felt, crushing him, every single day? Perhaps. But George didn't make him feel less alone. He didn't satiate the Original's burning desire for companionship. Quite the opposite. He made him nostalgic for better times, better places, better people.

Inviting George back to his house, to his bedroom, was merely a way of passing the time. George wasn't any sort of home for him; he wasn't his heart, he didn't have any space in Klaus' heart. He meant nothing to him. Absolutely, utterly… nothing.

"Well, forgive me, George," he answered curtly, blue-green hues settling on those brown orbs of the other man, the temptation to snap his neck there, bubbling away just under the surface. He paused, collecting his thoughts. "Forgive me I cannot be arsed to sit here and listen to your god-awful jokes to which, apparently, I am the punch line. Forgive me if I just don't care." Pushing his chair backward, the legs screeched over the wooden floor below and he lifted his chipped glass, downing the small measure of Scotch left. After he'd swallowed the sharp-tasting liquid, he slammed the glass down against the table and regarded George with indifference.

"Don't bother coming after me. I'll see you around."

With that final word, he curled slender fingers around the collar of his coat and snatched it up, draping it over his arm as he made his way towards the door, the smell of alcohol infused with smoke from the cigar enthusiasts and the over-perfumed women becoming too much for him. Passing through a smoke-infested hallway after leaving the main bar, Klaus was soon stumbling out onto the street outside, the crisp night air working to clear his lungs of the smoke which had filled them. A sigh slipped through his stained lips, relief sinking in.

A few people littered the streets, a curly blonde-haired woman, what looked like a married couple, a redhead just down the road. And, when Klaus turned one-eighty, he laid eyes on a young brunet, looking at his hand, stare intense. A slight smile crossed Klaus' mouth and he started to wander away, only making it a few steps before the scent of blood mixed in with everything tickling his senses. His gaze drew back towards the young man staring at his hand and Klaus widened his eyes visibly, jaw becoming slightly slack as he took in the appearance of the man across the street.

Neatly combed back hair, green eyes, incredibly sharp jawline…

Compulsion drove him to cross the road towards the boy, trying frantically to compose himself as his legs carried him over. Stopping a few feet away, he felt his rush of excitement break down upon further inspection. Stefan Salvatore, terrified of the sight of blood. Once a blood-crazed killer, now… far from it.

And he tried to flee at that point but before he could stop himself, a sense of empathy washed over him, almost a guilty feeling, and he spoke Stefan's name. The younger vampire's head snapped up, distracted from the crimson staining his fingertips. Klaus gingerly stepped forward and set his hand on Stefan's forearm. He gave a small squeeze, trying, to his own surprise, to give the boy some comfort, however miniscule. He felt saddened by the state his old friend appeared to be in.

"Stefan, are you okay?" he whispered, hand falling from his arm.

Fearful expression diminishing, Stefan grew visibly confused by Klaus' use of his name. And while he wanted to explain to Stefan everything, in this state he knew he could do no such thing. Someone else calling Stefan's name gave him the chance, upon his attention being diverted, to slip away from the younger Salvatore unnoticed.

And in the second between looking at Lexi, and looking back towards the space occupied not seconds prior, Stefan Salvatore was left bewildered as to the whereabouts of the man he'd just met.