Damon Salvatore/Vlad Plasmius. Slash.
Little Figments of Happiness
They both contemplate over their little figments of happiness.
(Illusions s'all they are.)
There are two women: One with elegant, dark eyebrows and ringlets framing her soft cheeks; the other with thicker eyebrows of calmed flames and soft, pursed lips and cropped, tamed hair.
(Nothing matters—not anymore.)
One showers her obsessor with suspicion melding with fading pity, and the other smirks with knowledge and feigned coyness. A little sample of You know you can't resist.
(And I can't disappoint a gorgeous woman, you know.)
And they—the men—are both too old to go through these googly-eyed obsessions—obsessions of insatiated pubescent girls staring at colorful magazines; they are too old to not understand the distinct line between dedication and obsession. They should be desensitized to the longing.
(All I ever wanted was love.)
But they aren't. They still dwell in the night and wait with fisted bed sheets and broken glass.
(It's a shame. We're kindred spirits: spurned by the women we loved. Unrequited love sucks.)
Exactly how long has it been?
(Twenty-some long years.)
The vampire smirks as he is the only one to contemplate the last time when this alleged villain wept.
(You really think you have it rough? Try one-hundred and forty-five years, pal, and you'll know the definition of long.)
They both contemplate over their, er, transactions; it all began when the billionare discovers an intruder in his study flippantly lounging in a stuffed chair and inquiring if this half-ghost is the reason there are green birds trailing after him.
(Yiddish ghost vultures? Well, now I've seen everything—thanks to you.)
They are too old to play lonely mentor and disgruntled pupil; if anything, the vampire has more experience anyway.
And so begins the soul-searching.
And so begins the talking.
So, they talk. The conversations shift from deep revelations about their supernatural statuses to insignificant matters such as the inflections in their manners of speaking.
Katherine and Madeline are never mentioned; it's too personal and too dangerous.
Too painful.
The vampires prefers the ghost to the human, if only for the fangs.
(Smoke and mirrors.)
Neither of them remember being interested in their own sex.
Well, hell, Damon figures. As long as I'm living or an eternity or so, I might as well, hmm, experiment and keep it exciting.