Disclaimer: I don't own Vampire Diaries. I just own this story.
She was lying in the middle of the kitchen floor, blowing cigarette smoke towards the ceiling when she heard him walk in. His steps were light and hesitant, wary of the coming week. She didn't blame him. She was just as anxious, already wishing it was over so that she would know how it went. His footsteps stopped at the entrance to the kitchen before continuing, circling around her until he came to her right side. He lied down next to her and took the cigarette from between her fingers, putting it out on the floor and commenting on how smoking will kill her. She chuckles to herself. Smoking will never have any affect on her. She's already dead.
After fifty years, it still seems like such a surprise to him. Every time he hears those words it's like he goes through that whole situation all over again. It wasn't fun the first time, and it certainly hasn't been fun reliving it for the past fifty years.
They agreed to meet like this once a year after their relationship went belly up. There was no rhyme or reason to it. After twenty years together, the relationship had run its course and then came to a screeching halt. It turns out that eternity together wasn't all it was cracked up to be. It wasn't anyone's fault per say. It was just…well, it just was.
Years moving from city to city simply proved to her and then to him that there was nothing magical about them as a couple. They were not Stefan and Elena, the vampire and human carving out love despite the obstacles. They were Stefan and Elena, vampires who now had bills to pay and crappy jobs. No more pretending to be in high school. No more stolen kisses or disapproving looks from witch friends. They had no friends.
When she was first turned, she thought it would be different. She thought they would have fun. After all, he no longer had to worry about hurting her or about draining her dry. Thanks to a drunk driver and a few agonizing hours stuck between life and death, she was the proud owner of a new set of fangs at the bright young age of twenty-three.
He hated himself for turning her, but he couldn't let her go. The guilt of his weakness has haunted him ever since, rising up every few years to once again wrack his body with pain and mental anguish. Frankly, it was exhausting. How many times can you tell someone you forgive them before the words become meaningless? Before you begin to wish that he would just shut up?
God knows she wasn't perfect either. She dealt with a lot of sorrow. Everyone she knows either refuses to speak to her or is dead. And once she realized that they weren't going to gallivant around the world, living like royalty in Paris or Venice but rather toil away forty hours a week to pay for rent and utilities, well, it just stopped being fun. Then it just got depressing.
After she decided to leave, after she packed up her bags and stood on the stoop of their apartment building in Tucson, they agreed. No hard feelings. No tearful good-byes. They would just give a hug and a kiss and call it a day. It wasn't until a year later, a year after she got into her car and drove as far away as possible, that he got in contact with her. She was living in London at the time, compelling her landlord and keeping a nice twenty-two year old man as a blood supply. He wanted to see her, to see how she was doing. Hesitating at first, she finally agreed and suggested Damon's beach house. They needed someplace neutral. Someplace that wouldn't dredge up painful memories.
Now here they are fifty years later – separate but together – meeting at Damon's beach house in Fiji. They have barely spoken a word. But there's no rush. They have an entire week to talk, to catch up. Right now, they can just absorb the moment. Get reacquainted with each other's presence.
They watch the curtains dance in the breeze and listen to the waves crashing on the shore.
Then like magnets, their hands find each other across the kitchen floor.