Don't know what to do anymore

I've lost the only love worth fighting for

And I'll drown in my tears, don't they see?

And that would show you, that would make you hurt like me

Damon walked sullenly out of the house, bottle in hand, tears fighting their way to the surface. But he was Damon Salvatore-Damon Salvatore didn't cry. At least, that used to be true. Until today, when he'd been so stupid as to tell Elena he loved her. True, she didn't remember anything about it, but it still stung, nonetheless, to hear her say that "It's always Stefan." It was the same thing Katherine had said. The bitch. He'd promised himself he'd stop caring, but here it was, the damn stake in his heart, this time with the name Elena Gilbert etched into the handle.

Sighing, he walked up the stairs of the Salvatore mansion, his feet dragging. When he got to his room, rage enveloped him. Why did he have to feel? Why did every woman he ever fell for turn him down for his goody-two-shoes brother? Grabbing for the closest thing he could reach—it happened to be a lamp—he slung it against the nearest wall, reveling in the magnified sound of the crash. His pulse jumped slightly, feeling elated. Destruction was good. Breaking things would release him from the pain he was feeling right now. And that was the only thing he needed at the moment.

Next he grabbed a desk, throwing it against the wall as well and smirking evilly as it shattered. He could feel the veins around his eyes wanting to shrink, the blood in them wanting to flee to his eyes and enhance his vision more. He swallowed and concentrated on his bloodflow, making them stay normal. The last thing he needed was to be hungry on top of the rage. Now, where was I? he thought. Oh, yeah. His lips slowly curled into an evil grin as he grabbed a bookshelf, tilting it over and laughing when the books flopped onto the floor. He'd slammed it in a way that they wouldn't be damaged, but it still made him yearn for more.

This time when the veins around his eyes grew tight, he let them, seeing the night light outside like he would in daytime. Everything was so bright, everything so loud, so… exhilerating. Chuckles escaped his throat, and as he grabbed a fragment of wood from the shattered desk, preparing to shatter the window, he faltered, swallowing. His heart was constricting, sorrow overflowing his body, sinking him to his knees. The veins around his eyes filled with blood again, his vision dimming, but still better than a humans. He could feel his throat wanting to close up, feel his eyes threatening to overflow with tears.

"Damn," he whispered, swallowing again.

All the same I don't want mudslinging games

It's just a shame to let you walk away

Is there a chance, a fragment of light

At the end of the tunnel, a reason to fight?

Is there a chance you may change your mind

Or are we ashes and wine?

"Damn, damn, damn damn DAMN!" Ah, there was the rage again. Immediately, he was on his feet again, slamming things against the wall, not caring what they were. This wasn't the first time he'd destroyed his room in a fit of rage. Cleanup was easy, simple. But he was running out of things to mangle, except… There were wood shards everywhere, and he had his flesh… He wouldn't hit his heart, of course, but maybe the physical pain would take his mind off the emotional pain he was feeling, that was making him like this. Almost without thinking, he grabbed one, let it hover above his flesh for an instant, then slammed it in, crying out in pain.

Elena was confused. Sitting on her bed, she fiddled with her necklace, the one that had mysteriously reappeared tonight, after disappearing. The same thought kept ringing in her ears: "Get to Damon, get to Damon." The urge was almost too strong to resist, and something told her that if she didn't get to the Salvatore mansion soon, Damon might end up killing someone, even himself, and God knew she didn't want that to happen. Grabbing her purse, she pulled on a pair of shorts, her jacket, and slipped on her shoes. Digging for her keys, she got in her car, sticking them in the ignition and driving off without a second thought.

When she arrived, there was only one light on, the one in Damon's room. Something liquid was dripping down the panes, maybe liquor, and this made her get out of the car faster, slamming the door and running up the front door, not bothering to knock. It was locked, of course, but she had a key, and she was grateful for it at the moment. Running inside, she left the door open, dashing up the staircase, though it left her breathless. She just knew she had to get up there, see what was going on, go go go GO.

Finally, she skidded to a halt in front of Damon's room, jiggling the door handle. Locked. Damn, she thought, how to get in? Gritting her teeth, she braced her leg muscles, catapaulting her leg forward, kicking the door. It started to give, and she clenched her jaw, ignoring the pain. Another kick should do it, she was thinking, and lashed out again, breathing in relief when the door swung open and her foot didn't break. She limped inside, seeing no one there. Nevertheless, she stayed in front of the door, closing it behind her. Her eyes had tightened around the edges when she saw the carnage, and she knew her instincts had been right in coming.

She was about to call his name when a viselike grip enclosed her throat. "What're you doing here, Elena?" She gasped at the menace in Damon's voice, quivering slightly at the veins starting to darken around his eyes. His eyes were squinting in anger, and his fangs were bared in a snarl. He wasn't Damon right now. He was a monster, an unfeeling monster. Not showing her fear, she looked straight into his eyes.

"I'd tell you if I could breathe," she managed to gasp out, and he let her go, keeping his close proximity. "I had to see if you were okay."

He laughed slightly, but it was empty of emotion. "To see if I was okay?" He didn't say it like a question, but like a statement. His voice was blunt, unforgiving, devoid of feeling. "Tell me this, Elena: Since when have you cared?" He was breathing shakily, she noticed, like he was in pain but was trying to hide it.

"You're my friend, Damon. Of course I care. Now tell me; where are you hurt?"

She saw a quick flash of surprise, and it passed just as fast, but she knew it'd been there. "I'm not in pain." She saw his jaw clench for an instant, then relax, a glassy film of deception sliding over his ice-blue eyes. She rolled her eyes, pointing to the bed. He ignored her, staying planted where he was. Looking away from his face, she examined him for injuries, sensing him tense. Blood was covering his shirt—fresh blood, it looked like, and there was a slight area where he hadn't healed yet. But why would an attacker go for his abdomen instead of his heart? Unless there wasn't an attacker. Her eyes flashed back up to his eyes, and his head was hung low. She couldn't see his face, what he was thinking. She reached out a hand, tilting his chin up.

What she saw shattered her heart. Damon's eyes were brimming with tears, and they were wide and innocent-looking, not the cold calculating eyes she'd always seen. Her hand moved from his chin to his cheek, wiping away stray tears that had fallen. She felt absolutely terrible, seeing him like this. "Damon," she whispered, "Damon, what's wrong?"

His jaw clenched, and she could tell he was trying to pull himself together. After a few seconds, though, his jaw unclenched, and he let out a sob, falling to his knees. She followed him to the floor, pulling him into her arms. He sat there, limp, silent sobs shaking his frame. Her eyes were wide, her mind trying to figure out what would make Damon like this, how anyone could hurt him this badly. Her first thought was Katherine. But the thought flew away as soon as it came. Never once had she seen him cry over Katherine. Never.

Come to think of it, she'd never seen him cry once.

And it scared her more than anything she'd ever encountered.

Don't know if our fate's already sealed

These days are spinning circus on a wheel

And I'm ill with the thought of your kiss

Coffee laced intoxicating on her lips

Shut it out, I've got no claim on you now

Not allowed to wear your freedom down, no

Damon couldn't believe how he was falling apart in front of her. Pull yourself together, he told himself, breathing deeply, regaining his composure. At least, he regained a fraction of his composure. Tears were still streaming down his face, never stopping, never halting in their flow. He hated each and every one of them, hated how she was holding him, trying to console him. For a second he was angry, so angry all he could see was her throat, and think of how it would feel if he ripped it out. The thoughts faded, though, because, let's be honest, he thought, you could never hurt her like that.

"How can I help, Damon?" she said, and he took a deep breath, mumbling. "Sorry?"

"Stay here. P—please. I can't stay here alone."

"Damon, if you're asking for my company, then you know the—"

"It's not that, Elena. You don't have to do anything except stay here. Hell, you don't even have to do that," he laughed, but there was on desolation behind it. "But if you would stay, just to let me know I'm not alone, for that I'd be very grateful."

Her arms relaxed, pulling him in closer. "Of course, Damon. I just need to call Aunt Jenna and let her know. Come on downstairs," she said, tugging him upward. He kept his eyes on the floor, not daring to look at her, lest he break down again. She wasn't taking him downstairs yet, but rummaging in his drawers, muttering to herself. After thirty seconds, she came back to him, lifting his head up, tapping his shoulder. "Shirt off," she said, and he obeyed, flinging it across the destroyed room. She sank into a crouch, examining his stomach, probing for injuries. When he winced and flinched, she pulled some tweezers off the floor, sinking them into his flesh and pulling out an inch-long sliver of wood. Immediately the wound sealed up, and he breathed in relief, feeling the last remnants of pain leave his body.

He was relaxed until something wet and cold pressed against his muscles, which locked up immedately. He winced again, feeling the soreness of the five or so stakings he'd inflicted on himself. She pushed his shoulder down, laying him on the only piece of furniture that wasn't destroyed, which was the bed. She wiped the wet rag across his abdomen, and after the intital shock, his muscles relaxed, the sorness fading. "You've done this before, haven't you?" he mumbled, sinking into the bed. He was almost sad when she stopped. Sitting up, he caught the shirt she tossed to him, shrugging it on and sighing, feeling his composure finally slip into place.

"Yeah. For Stefan." Damon nodded, going over to her and picking her up so quickly she didn't have time to do anything except gasp. He flitted downstairs, laying her gently on the couch, pouring himself a scotch and downing it in one go. The burn in his throat helped him feel normal again.

He turned to her slowly, eyes slightly downcast. "Thank you, Elena."

She seemed shocked that he'd said so. "You're welcome," she said, sincerely. He sank into the couch beside her, closing his eyes slowly and just starting to fade when he felt something against his cheek—Elena's lips. It was just a peck, but it made him smile. He was caught off guard when those same lips pressed agains his own, probing, waiting for a reaction. He turned in his seat, sliding his hands slowly up her arms and to her neck, holding it gently. Her own arms were holding his body close, hands in the crooks of his shoulderblades. She seemed to come back to her senses afterward, and he let go of her, feeling reluctant but making his hands release instantaneously.

She swallowed, then smiled uneasily.