A/N: This scene, for me, was so heartbreaking that I desperately wanted to write out Damon's feelings. I really wanted to explore his character and what I believed to be 'the moment'. I haven't written any fanfiction for a while and this is my first TVD fic (First anything non-Twilight actually) so just a little one-shot :)
Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.
The sun might shine or the clouds might lower: but nothing could appear to me as it had done the day before.
~ Frankenstein by Mary Shelley- Chapter 23
Damon Salvatore realised that he loved Elena Gilbert as soon as the words left Isobel Flemming's lips. As they tumbled into the silence, they destroyed every ounce of indifference and apathy that he had built up to protect his weak heart from further pain. It wasn't the kind of love one would describe as being 'at first sight' nor one that sent sparks flying through his body at the mere sight of her, it was something more. The smouldering ashes after a homely fire – still giving out enough heat to keep you warm, but not so scorchingly hot that you can't stand too close for fear of getting burnt. It was deeper than simple physical attraction, it was an understanding of one another, she saw something in him that nobody ever had - even in his human life - and that touched him.
When his brother gathered her into his arms, it was the worst kind of pain Damon had ever felt. Worse than being staked, worse than putting his hand into the sunlight without his ring on and, dare he even think it, worse than when he had believed Katherine to be dead. Seeing her there, peering at him across Stefan's shoulder with such fear of his feelings, fear that her mother's words may be true. He tried to tune everything out, but he just couldn't. The feelings - jealousy, love, hatred - were so intense, he could barely keep his head above the continuous waves of each, only grasping the magnitude of one before another would come and wash over his head, each threatening to drag him under for good.
Elena hid then, but that was worse. Another, stronger, wave of jealousy hit him. How badly he wanted her to be in his arms, burying her face in his chest to escape it all. But then Stefan glanced at him and reality struck like a slap to the face. It wasn't his arms, she wasn't his. Glancing at the floor, he took a steadying breath before running, escaping, fleeing - everything that he would like to say Damon Salvatore never did - but all he knew was that he quite simply needed to get out of there before he did something or said something that would destroy the fragile remains of the only companionship he had ever had.
Damon ran back to the boarding house at an alarming rate, desperately trying to come to terms with his emotions. He felt as if he were stupidly standing on the edge of a crumbling cliff and was left grasping at insubstantial blades of grass which couldn't possibly hold his weight. Once inside, he went to the only place he knew he could find solace, the bottom of a glass of brandy.
By the time his brother returned, thankfully without Elena, Damon was well and truly drunk. All this because of that one emotion, the one emotion that could bring the mightiest of men to their knees. Who would ever have guessed that Damon Salvatore would love again?
