first of all: YES, I KNOW I JUST UPDATED ITCOMAV LAST NIGHT, but i've been hoarding all these fics just waiting for the right moment to post them, and since the amazing alana (klaussified on tumblr, go follow her!) just finished making the gifset to accompany this, now seemed to be the right time.
DEDICATED TO A SPITTING HISSING DEMON MONKEY NAMED MELISSA (otherwise known as somethingofthewolf on tumblr) who has been incessantly hounding me about this for months now, and alana and i decided to lie in wait until she least expected it before - boom. here you go. fic.
the thank-yous: to my beta sam (eeorlingas) whose many virtues include being patient as i scream fic ideas at her in the middle of the night, giving thoughtful, well-organized analyses on my stories, and accidentally exposing herself to fourteen chapters of jonas brothers incest fic.
thanks also to dj, jolie (angelina) and mathilde, whom i screamed about this to in its early days (back when it was just a little 5k fledgling), and if it weren't for their evil jedi mind tricks it would have stayed a 5k fledgling.
AND TO YOU, YOU BRAVE FUCKERS who saw the twenty-four-thousand word warning but still showed up with a trowel and a hard hat.
enjoy :)
ALL THOSE FRIENDLY PEOPLE
—
I.
you're so vain,
you probably think this song is about you
you're so vain, i'll bet you think this song is about you
don't you? don't you?
—
01. wanna eat my heart, the way you make me feel
It's People one day, Rolling Stone the next.
One documents her fall on stage in Times Square, and the other lauds her for her duet with Elijah, the way she retools his every impulse and the way his voice seems to cling onto hers in that weird funk rock song with its distorto bass.
Guess which one E! decides to cover.
No, guess.
"So, that fall. I mean, what happened? Can we talk about that?"
Rebekah groans into her arms. Long after the television's shut off Klaus is still haunting the room. "I see you've memorized the entire interview."
"Oh, just the bits that amused me," Klaus says wickedly, dropping into the couch next to her. "Turn it on again, darling. I want to watch."
The remote is right there on the coffee table, right by his knee. For several long moments she stares at it, and he stares at her, his eyes almost compelling her. She wills herself not to, so hard, but then her hand is reaching for it and the screen that looms across the entire wall before them floods with colour.
Klaus settles back, satisfied.
Her fingers wrap around the remote the way a python would its prey.
.
.
On TV, Giuliana looks at him like he's the only one there—Kol's always looking away: at his feet, at the flex of his fingers, always in his own little world; Elijah gets in what he absolutely has to and Rebekah—what was that? Honey, I can't hear you. Speak up.
.
.
She toys with the mic stand the way she wishes she could, throws her hair back and sings that song Klaus had written for her so long ago when they were all so young and dizzy and frightened with hope, oh Rebekah, you'd sound marvelous, especially in the bridge here, see—
It's the lights, she'll say. They glare and pulsate right into your skin, drench your hair until you become radiant with it and your hips move like you'd meant them to all along and the song beats its way out of your chest and you are a thunderstorm on stage, wild and furious, and nothing can stop you, nothing. It's the lights that make her forget where she is, how that song had only seen the light of day because she had begged and wheedled, because Elijah had accidentally found it stashed away in one of Klaus's old notebooks, how Kol had drummed a snare for it that demanded to be heard. How Klaus, glowering like a child, had nodded his assent only after they'd finished recording it, as if his approval was something they were so desperate for.
Elijah did not need it, Kol hardly wanted it. But Rebekah, it's a different story for her. She chases it like lime after tequila, burning and spitting in the back of her throat.
"Write me a song," she had said, a child then. She's playing with his hand that isn't scribbling away at a crumpled piece of paper.
"Can I please sing with Elijah tonight," she says, absolutely not a request, but she's twenty years old and she still needs him to hold her hand when they leave the studio.
.
.
On TV, Giuliana lowers her voice as if the whole world wasn't listening, as if the crowd ceased to exist, and asks, "Just between us, do you feel threatened about Caroline Forbes chasing you off the charts? You've been relatively mild about it, but what does Klaus Mikaelson really think?"
.
.
Her hand is clamped and clammy in his because the paparazzi is an entire entity on its own, a screaming stop-motion corpus swarming her on the streets, their lips opening and closing around words she can't even make out. But she hears her brothers' names, always. Smile big, Elijah! Klaus—Klaus, yes, would you turn around? Ah, another one, Kol!
"Rebekah, Rebekah!"
She turns, that blue balloon of hope rising in her chest, a smile frozen on her face refusing to melt away. Her cheeks hurt, but she turns, because it's her name.
The man fiddles desperately with his camera, already aiming to shoot before she can duck into the car. "Could you try looking less pained?"
The smile is gone. She hears Klaus's raucous laughter, Kol's chortling, the shuffling of Elijah's feet. He isn't laughing, but the Elijah of old would have wrapped his arm around her and given an affectionate peck on her cheek.
It always did drive the crowd wild.
.
.
On TV, Giuliana smiles at him like he's about to divulge some big juicy secret. He leans into the mic though he's learned years ago he doesn't have to; people will hang on to his every word either way. "What do I think of her? Vapid Barbie fluff dressed up in lyrics intended to make her sound much worldlier than she lets on. So no. I'm – we're – not threatened at all."
.
.
She watches that interview sometimes, late at night, cataloguing every smile and pausing over frames that makes it look like Klaus is about to sneeze. She smirks, crams some popcorn into her mouth, and presses play again. Klaus's lips rework themselves into a nasty grin and he's laughing; Oh that fall, that was spectacular! An 8.5, don't you think?
There was once a time where Klaus would call her spectacular, but it wouldn't have been because she'd fallen on stage, clattered over heels and wires and tulle right into the waiting, flickering, crowd. She could've played it off like a stage dive, but oh please, don't be ridiculous: they don't do stage dives. Who do you think they were, Damon Salvatore? As Elijah would say, how kitsch.
(How obnoxious, lifestyle writer J. Sommers would say, but nobody reads her anyway.)
Klaus would have called her spectacular the way she puts her little child hands in his, the way she puts the kettle on when he's in one of his feverish bouts of writing; the way she puts up with his tantrums, one look from her silencing him into a bout of contemplative quiet. And then he could write again.
Klaus used to call her spectacular and now he is laughing at her. Elijah, having the sense to look slightly uncomfortable, says: "I really don't think you should—"
And then there's her, hiding her sheepish cheeks behind her painted nails, "Oh, stop it Nik—"
She pauses the interview and falls back against her pillows. Stop it, Nik.
.
.
On TV, Klaus smiles like it's the most clever thing he's ever said.
—
02. it was a radio, it topped the radio, baby, baby
It's the most vicious of parties. Caroline comes in more than fashionably late, echoes of encores still ringing in her ears, and finds almost everyone drunk and on the floor, except for Kol Mikaelson, who's on the roof.
She thinks she sees Marcel Gerard smoking up with Kanye in a corner, but it's only someone who looked like Marcel Gerard. She slips her way through the throng, making her way to the bar where Stefan said he would be, a chilled beer already waiting for her.
"Great show tonight," he says, lifting his bottle. "Sorry I had to leave early."
She shrugs, it's alright. Asks, "Where's Katherine?"
"Damage control."
Some Adventure Club remix is playing over the din, and through the smoky room she can make out Katherine holding Damon Salvatore's arm behind his back and twisting. "For the last time, you pathetic, one-hit-wonder douchebag—I am not Elena, so you can quit pawing at my ass." Whooping, jeering, wafts of musky perfume and masculine scents follows after them, either egging her on or begging her to stop. Among those begging is Damon himself.
They hear a crack: Stefan's eyebrows lift and Caroline winces. "Aren't you going to…?"
"He'll be fine."
Katherine steps over Damon's crumpled body and spiders her way to where they're waiting, all Louboutin heels and maroon lipstick. "Unless, of course, they're looking for the reason The Pierces broke up, in which case I am Elena." She smirks into her vodka. "Cheers."
There's a ruckus at the door; Caroline expects another fight breaking out – how fascinating these parties are – but instead sees Bonnie Bennett and her entourage strolling in, muffled rap music playing in the distance. Alaric, who mostly went by Saltzman, stumbles into her and her face alights in red earth fury. Everyone tells her that the more pissed off she is the more beautiful she looks, and that just pisses her off even more. She tosses her glossy hair and three people dive to get her a drink, her skin glimmering like the shimmery accents she so does love in her tour ensembles.
"Everyone's here." Everyone, from Jared (who she'd accidentally bumped into as she was making her way in, talking to Anna about hair product), to Rebekah (who was glaring at Elena), to Klaus (who was trying to talk Kol down from the rafters. She'd scoffed at him and he'd narrowed his eyes at her, and that was that), to Florence (who was doing shots with Adele), to Davina (who was refusing shots from Adele), to Leo (who didn't even sing).
She probably looks as impressed as she sounds; Katherine rolls her eyes and snaps her fingers for another drink, but Stefan just smiles down into his beer.
"A bunch of dirty, drunk rock stars fucking around with instruments and weed. Must be Thursday." He reaches over and ruffles her hair. "You made it, kid."
.
.
"Twin sister, ten o'clock," Caroline snickers into her rum and coke, and Stefan makes a great show of hiding behind Katherine's voluminous hair.
"Idiots," Katherine gripes, tossing a toothpick at Stefan's forehead. "It's my blood she wants, not yours."
"Katherine!" Elena marches right up to her, her nude lipstick and artfully-clumped mascara painting a livid picture. She sways like a willow tree, all long limbs and dreamy hair, but her eyes spark. "Why the hell are you telling everyone I'm you?"
"Because I'm sick of damage control. You do it."
"You're the one who made the announcement."
"Urgh, how many times do I have to say it? Sorry I stole your boyfriend—"
"At least try to look sorry, Kat."
"—but for the record, I helped reveal that underneath his manbangs, he is as dull as Aunt Millie's piano lessons, so that turned out in both our favours." Katherine spits an olive pit into her palm and flicks it into a shot glass a few feet away. It plinks right in. "Now will you stop punishing me?"
Elena closes her eyes and takes in a deep breath. The only colour on her are her sour raspberry nails raking through her hair. "Um, asking you to make a public announcement that we split in amicable terms, not because of Damon, but because we both wanted to pursue different things is not a punishment, Katherine Anne."
"Yeah, but subjecting me to the sight of your eyelet dress sure is, Elena Marie."
Elena leans in close and seethes. "It is bad enough that we had to take your name—"
"Who in frozen hell would want to listen to electro pop duo The Gilberts?"
There's a flash of light and the two of them instantly feign sisterly affection; Katherine rubs her knuckle into Elena's cheek, but Elena's smile strains like it hurts.
Stefan always does a little shake of his head whenever the two of them are in a room together. "You would think being separated at birth would make them have Gary Marshall-levels of appreciation for each other."
Alas, that wasn't the case.
People and Us Weekly constantly chronicle the ups and downs of their rocky relationship, 'Prent Trap come to life', but it's another thing altogether to have it play out right before her eyes. It's a stuff made of legends and myths. With her eyes glazed over it's almost hilarious.
She falls against Stefan and giggles something meaningless about it into his shoulder, and he laughs like he actually understood that garble. She's about to pull him close to snicker a pun into his ear but he catches her hand and turns it over, wipes off the lipstick stain that's constantly marring the her skin, hiding the tiny fluttering bird inked into her wrist.
"Kiss with a fist," he says, and over on the other side of the room someone starts up a jam session to it.
"No, wrist," she insists. Stefan nods like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever heard.
Her empty prattling is going to end up in some offbeat indietronica song at the end of the week when Stefan finally decides to get to work again, and a grainy iPhone snapshot of his thumb resting warm against her pulse is probably going to stir something up on the Perez Hilton front, but right now she's too dizzy with liquor to care.
She doesn't even know how she ends up on stage, screaming out the lyrics to that stupid pretentious ass song about wolf eyes or wolf skin or wolf whatever that's number one on Rick Dees right now, the crowd luminescent under her feet. She laughs breathily into the mic, her hair curling in a lightning-struck mess about her cheeks and into the corners of her mouth, making a mockery of the song with the sway of her hips, the harsh lyrics that she wields like a seductive pout.
Stefan's manning the drums behind her and some dude from the horde's grabbed onto a bass guitar, probably making up some of his own riffs as they go along, and the video someone had hastily recorded is a little shaky, but it gets sixty thousand hits come morning.
.
.
03. count back anesthetize
"Nice," Katherine grins from behind page six. "Rising starlet Caroline Forbes slams rock n' roll royalty. There's a picture of you doing a split. Love it."
"I was drunk," she bemoans into her pillow, voice still scratchy as her hangover rages on. "What else did I say?"
Katherine clears her throat. "'Your lyrics are shit, old man. What's up with that beard? Can somebody throw him a lamp so he can lighten the fuck up'," she intones, almost bored. "It's alright, Klaus left as soon as you finished; he was being hounded. Oh, and you have three hundred messages waiting for you. I suspect at least four of them are from him."
Caroline grabs one of her down pillows and flumps it over her face. All she'd done was spin that showy song of his with all those overly complex metaphors and stupid whiny riffs into something more appealing. I'm not sorry, she swears into the pillow, muffled. "And Stefan?"
"Still passed out on your couch. I don't think he cares in particular."
"Yeah, because he's Stefan. It's expected of him," she wails, arms flopping uselessly in what she thinks is Katherine's general area. She opens her eyes just a crack, and—oh. A lamp. The Katherine in question is looking at her skeptically.
"Who says it can't be expected of you? These people, they don't know a thing about you. Now's the time to remake yourself, sweet Caroline." She drives this home with a thorough examining of her manicure. "I thought your cover sounded good. Better than theirs, actually."
Caroline reaches for the discarded article. There's a photo of Klaus leaving the club looking pissed off. Just seeing him sent pinpricks of annoyance through her skin, remembering him and his haughty dismissal of her music in that E! interview. She blocks his face out with her fist and focuses on his sister trailing in his wake. She didn't look particularly angry – in fact, there was a hint of a smile on her lips. She never smiled in pictures. Curious. "Don't tease, Katherine. I'm in a mood."
"No, I'm serious," Katherine is insisting, though she tries hard to not make it look like she actually gives a shit or anything. Because that's her niche, her thing, the one that keeps tabloids hungering at her feet; cold, cruel Katherine Pierce, ruthless enough to sleep with her sister's boyfriend, coy enough to get away with it.
"How come there's no mention of you breaking Damon's arm, like, at all?"
.
.
She stays in for a few days, avoiding the tabloids and dodging the paparazzi. Stefan offers to swing by with some pizza (what he really means is tequila), and she pulls him in before he can even ring the doorbell.
He spots the scrawled mess of papers by her laptop immediately. "New song?"
She turns the papers over feeling weirdly protective of them. They're not done yet, it's just an idea, she'll yelp, but Stefan gets it; he's been in this industry for a long time (he'd won some Shania Twain competition when he was nine or something) and had been trying to convince her to stay out for even longer.
It's easier, he says, to go where the rivers take you. Give them what they want, give in. There's no place out there for your poetic lyricism, and if you're looking to find a deeper meaning within the crude pop songs topping the charts, well, maybe you should try Spotify.
But Caroline had always been fearlessly optimistic, secure in the knowledge that people weren't as vacant as Stefan made them out to be. She makes clever jabs at his pessimism in a song that somehow doesn't sound spiteful in the least, turns it in as a joke, and all of a sudden she's the new breaking artist. Sometimes they still laugh about that.
"I don't know. Maybe." She grabs the box from him and peeks. "Ooh, stuffed crust."
They split the breadsticks between them and watch the video from the other night, taking a shot every time a bra is tossed onstage and every time they come across a "better than the original omg luv it!" comment.
"This guy is trying to convince people you're part of the illuminati," Stefan points out, and they raise their bottles to that.
They're a little drunk, messing around with the lyrics she'd just written, when Stefan says, "This sounds like a duet. In fact, it should be one." His eyes stray to the other tabs she has open on her browser, and sighs. "Caroline. Really?"
She cringes and says haltingly, "They're… good."
"That's not what you said right—" He finds the point of the video and she hears herself declare, Your metaphors are shit! "—here."
"Shut up and listen," she says, and shows him one of the Mikaelsons' old music videos, the one where Kol falls backwards off a cliff into the tempestuous seas below. Elijah's sexy-brilliant as usual, but it's really Klaus that brings out the intensity here, and try as she might, she has to admit he's good. He rarely if ever sings, and sometimes she wonders about that, but that's not why she's here right now.
She hurriedly skips over that bit, and suddenly they see Rebekah rolling around in blood and mud. Stefan looks on in interest. Caroline flicks her fingers at his ear and skips right to the end. "Her part. Listen."
Stefan's eyebrows perk up. "Well, shit."
—
04. we'd be so less fragile if we were made from metal
It starts off with her saying, "I want to sing tonight" and him giving the most offhand no in the world and her saying she never gets to sing anymore and him saying he'd written a song for her and Elijah just last month and her saying, "Nik. That was a year ago. You wrote that song for us a year ago; us singing it was a year ago. That Rolling Stone review, a year ago. I haven't sung anything other than breathy background vocals in over a year."
Did she miss any iterations?
Klaus laughs. "Then why do I remember that fall of yours like it was yesterday?"
Because you're a rattlesnake, she wants to hiss, same as the rest of us, only your venom is the most potent, the most poisonous. Get your teeth away from me.
Klaus strums his bass guitar and jots a few more notes down. Every so often he'll scowl at the TV running in mute in the background. That Caroline girl's on Ellen tonight, her eyes lined a charcoal grey and her red-accented lips whispering around her microphone like a secret she would love to indulge you in.
Rebekah remembers seeing her at that party, talking to Elena.
She's new, but her single is creeping up the charts at an almost alarming rate, her shows booked within hours of ticket releases. Miss Atomic Bomb they're dubbing her, and it's enough to make even her brother disgruntled. Especially after what happened last week, when her cover of Wolfskin actually bumped them from their spot on iTunes. Klaus had sent his tablet flying out the window for that.
"Besides," Klaus continues, after his gaze cuts back to her, "You don't see me complaining."
"Because, Nik, you have your stupid little bass solos," Rebekah retorts before she can quite stop herself. There is no pause in the composing of her brother's music, but she sees the subtle twitch of his hand around his pen, that tiny smudge of ink he leaves in a corner of the page.
.
.
It's true, her brother chooses not to sing, so it's Elijah who fronts them, Elijah in his crisp shirts and his omnipresent tie that always end up a little bit loose at the end of every set.
Klaus's lyrics are dark at best but Elijah's voice lends a certain gentility to them, the smoke that permeates an oak-topped bar from a fire burning low. He's a gentleman remade into an English indie rock band and Kol absolutely loves to poke fun at it, his drumsticks stabbing viciously in the air whenever Elijah enters the room, the way his back bends when he says with merry eyes, "Behold, His Majesty."
A dapper man in a post-punk revival world, Kol chortles around a mouthful of Honey Nut Cheerios, hastily swallowing as he reads more of Cameron Crowe's hand, who'd burst out of twenty years of Rolling Stone radio silence after they had dropped their new album. Elijah had been elated over that, even a little bit smug, but he's careful not to let it show. Kol, who can never manage to stay still, shoves more cereal into his mouth and snorts, "He's got you down, Nik. A bitter realist, he calls you."
That's what Klaus Mikaelson is, a bitter realist, a man who wages war against the world, all the while realizing that the war is within himself, the blood is in his own mouth. Who Klaus Mikaelson is, however, not even Rebekah can tell, not anymore; that crooked half-smirk alighting his face with his dimples betrays nothing of the anger stilled inside his bones, humming to be released. His music tells of a different tale, and it's Kol's job to keep it fired within your system and Elijah's voice that keeps you humming it like a hymn before the Gospel.
As Crowe put it, anyway.
"Why do you look so pleased with yourself? He literally called you a right prat," Klaus points out. His hands perpetually smudged with ink.
She's barely mentioned in the article. Mister Crowe tries to tie it up into some poetic movement, she's barely there, but you feel her like a hurricane in the distance; should her smoky voice suddenly disappear from the dark recesses of their songs, you'd drive yourself mad for weeks, trying to figure out what's wrong.
.
.
"A bloody backup singer," she spits, fists trembling, eyelashes twitching with the effort of keeping those hot, salty tears in check. "That's all I'll ever be to you."
"Oh don't start, Bekah," Klaus grumbles. "We've talked about this—"
"No, you talked about it! I just listened, like an idiot!" she damn well screams, sweeping his papers off the table. His pretentious little ink well crashes to the floor and seeps into the song that he'd spent the last two nights working on and suddenly Klaus is on his feet, a spark of fury in his dark eyes. He's angry. Good. She'll show him real anger. "I don't see what the problem with letting me sing is. We reached Top 40 with Rough Nights, remember? The one you were hell-bent on not letting us release."
"Top 40 does not a hit song make," Klaus drawls. "Tyler Lockwood made Top 40 just last month, singing about his dog. Saltzman got kicked out almost as soon as they made it in; do you really think it's all that hard to get on that list? All you need to be is marketable, and lo! There you are."
Marketable. It's her brother's most hated word; in the early days of their band scraping by, their agent had said, "You need to have a singular look, like—what are you, in a suit? And you're in sweats? I don't get it. Like, get a theme. You need to be liked, to be marketable." He'd been fired that very day. It didn't matter much anyway; these days Finn did a much better job at managing them.
Rebekah takes a breath, but it doesn't still the shaking of her hands. "Look, Nik—"
"And as for your grief on being reduced to a backup singer," Klaus marches on, stepping closer. Broken glass crunches under his shoes. He's dangerously quiet. "Well, technically speaking, Bekah…" He trails off, letting his cool eyes and smirking lips fill in the blanks.
On TV, she can see Caroline lean right into her microphone, eyes closed.
"Wow." Rebekah sucks in another breath, and it comes out sounding like a hiccup. "Un-fucking-believable."
Maybe Klaus hadn't expected her to back down so fast—there's a flash of – something – in his eyes when she reels away from him, grabbing her shoes and her coat. Disappointment? That's Nik for you, always raring for a fight, something to sink his teeth into.
He makes a move as if to call her name but it never makes it out the door.
She chalks it up to wishful thinking.
—
05. get out your guns, it's time to start a fight
Katherine's delight is palpable as she brings her scotch neat to her lips. "Look what the cat dragged in. Lipstick-less and sans eyeliner too."
Caroline bobs her eyebrows; Stefan looks between the two of them and says, "I'm somehow getting the feeling that this... is a bad thing?"
"Baby steps, Stefan. Wouldn't want you hurting your widdle brain."
"I need more male friends."
.
.
Caroline slides into the stool next to her. "Rough night?"
"Didn't you know, Caroline Forbes? I inspire the roughest of nights. Which incidentally, happens to be top ten on the Billboard 100's." Rebekah snorts and licks salt off the back of her hand. "Not that you'd care. Come to gloat about my fall on stage?"
Caroline gestures for a drink. "You wouldn't have tripped if it weren't for Klaus's unnecessarily long solo. I came to gloat about your uncoordinated dance steps."
"My brothers are under the impression that just because I'm a girl, I should be the one dancing." Rebekah's not one to talk so out of turn. In fact, Caroline's never really heard her speak all that much in interviews.
Maybe it's the alcohol talking.
"Well, I'm under the impression that your brothers are idiots," she replies honestly. And pause. "You could do much better. Better than what your brothers could ever hope to become."
"Tempting, but I wouldn't even make an underground gig without them." Rebekah sounds bitter, rehearsed. For a fleeting second Caroline's hatred for Klaus pulses like a bright orange beat. His dark clothing and constant smirk just scream pretense; she'd always been convinced that he was a spiteful wank underneath all that practiced aloofness. And here was the proof of it, nursing a martini.
They drink in silence for a while. Rebekah tosses her hair back. "You're still here. What, are you trying to pitch me or something?"
Caroline considers denying it, but she downs her tequila and thinks, to hell with it. "Yeah. Your dancing leaves something to be desired, but you have nice hair. Your mewly undertones would go well with my breathy staccatos."
"Oh my," Rebekah comments dryly. "How compelling."
"If I do say so myself." They clink glasses.
.
.
"Just one problem," Rebekah says as another drink is slid before her. "What makes you think I would leave my own flesh and blood for you?"
"You would have your own solos."
"What if I said I didn't care for them?" But Rebekah's eyes dart away. They travel to the table Caroline had just left—Stefan is studiously reading the label on his bottle, but Katherine stares right back at her.
"Then you wouldn't be here, drinking dirty martinis with puffy eyes. Ever heard of concealer? Besides," Caroline continues despite the scowl on Rebekah's face. "I could teach you things."
Rebekah snorts around the rim of her glass. "Sweetheart, I've been around much longer than you have. What could you possibly teach me?"
"How to stick one to your brothers,"
"Sitting here with you is sticking one to Nik enough," Rebekah replies smoothly. "But continue."
"From personal experience," Caroline says, turning her glass round and round, "if you can't make them love you, you can make them fear you."
She shouldn't be nervous, really, but Rebekah isn't saying a thing. She sits there sucking on an olive, looking like she would very much like to say no. Caroline affects an indifferent expression, but her drink's almost finished and she needs an exit strategy.
Strangely enough, Rebekah finds one for her. She downs the rest of her drink and gives her the dirtiest of smiles, says, "How compelling."
—
06. had a dream i was king, i woke up still king
Rebekah leaves, Elijah pleads, Kol shrugs, and Klaus seethes.
After about a month or so Elijah comes to terms with it and stops leaving messages for Rebekah that probably go unheard anyway. Klaus strides into the study to find him standing in front of the mirror fixing his tie.
"You can't still be serious about this," Klaus mutters.
"What is that kitsch saying? The show must go on?" Elijah smiles, genial, and Klaus wants to punch it right off his face. "We've cancelled enough shows waiting for her to come around. It's time we take a different course of action. Unless you'd like to watch us earn your income from the comforts of home?"
"Sassy Elijah!" Kol crows, poking his head in. His thumbs rest on the doorframe – they're tapping out a tune from one of their old songs. "I like it. Anyway, the car will be here in ten. What's Nik crying about now?"
"Oh, shut up," Klaus says murderously. The song Rebekah had ruined last week still sits in the back of his mind, but try as he might he can't put the words in the exact place anymore, he's mixing metaphors and running lexes that sound utterly preposterous.
He curses as he thrusts his still-vibrating phone into his pocket after cancelling all of the interviews they had lined up this weekend. They're probably going to write up some piece on his patent mood swings, predictable as they are, but right now he can't find it in himself to give a damn.
.
.
He catches sight of the TV on their way out and freezes: Caroline is prancing around in a dress made entirely of fringes, and there's Rebekah right next to her, laughing like they're having the time of their lives. He doesn't regret a single thing he'd said about her and her made-to-look-uncoordinated yet very much coordinated dance steps, her uninspiring music, her voice that could be much better were it not dogged down by her tasteless lyrics.
There's a brief glimpse of Stefan as the camera pans to the background, and he snorts: he'd thought much higher of him, so content with being virtually unknown but a big hit in the underground indietronica scene. He hadn't liked indietronica that much (Passion Pit had never made it into his iPod), but he liked Stefan—he'd read that Stefan could figure out the guitar and bassline for every hit song he heard in fifteen seconds—until he'd decided to join his sister's little band of misfits. All for the fruitless sake of trying to prove something to him.
Kol laughs. "Looks like Stefan's joined in on His Girl Friday."
On TV, his sister whips her hair in slow motion against an explosion of glitter and light.
He feels it then, a fresh wave of anger.
"That she thinks she can just leave after everything—" Klaus begins, irate, but Elijah has his hand on his shoulder. "Look how ridiculous she looks, all that pink glitz—"
"Be still, brother. She'll come back to us, she always does." Elijah says it with all of the confidence Klaus doesn't feel.
.
.
How do you do it? he'd asked Elijah once. Day after day, wrapped up in your worsted ties and your polished shoes, smile so big there isn't any space left for doubt.
"It all depends on what you want," Elijah says distractedly, plucking experimental tunes on his keyboard. "What do you want, Klaus?"
Klaus doesn't know why he'd even asked – they'd wanted this, hadn't they?
He wanted to make music. He'd always wanted to make music. It was mind-boggling how simple it sounded, but it was the truth. He hates the bright lights, the glitz, the dirtiness and even the acclaim that came with it, but the more disdain he expressed for the industry the more it seemed to catapult them forward, and these days he didn't even know why he bothered, because nothing he did seemed wrong in their eyes, how they seem to hang on to his every word.
Until Caroline Forbes.
She's overhyped and generic, the entire universe's darling in her rocket heels and rainbow lipsticks. He hates how she seems to fit right into the mold of the industry subsumed into the Hollywood machine, a kiss fluttering off her fingers and the masses melt. She stepped on that stage and breathed his name as if she was suffocating from it, and suddenly everyone's eyes were on him, words like Backup Barbie and vapid, didn't he say? exchanged in reckless whispers, but soon those whispers turned into hollers when she started singing, cackling at the little insults she'd thrown his way.
He can't walk down the street without spotting the headlines those media vultures keep churning out, pitting them against one another in garish colours and vile headers, long-forgotten interviews suddenly cropping up, a picture of his sullen face bent down over his drink as she pivots on that stage in drunken earnest, and how it sells. Sweet Caroline against big, bad Klaus – my, isn't that a sight.
—
07. he doesn't look a thing like jesus but he talks like a gentleman
It was a good show, but then again they'd all been good shows. Paris, Rome, Tokyo – same crowds with different faces pasted on. Elijah sings with none of the gusto Rebekah and Caroline have. He's subdued, always just a little bit tired, and it shows in the way he lifts the mic to his lips in his slumped position on that stool, center stage.
Niklaus is on the periphery as usual, face muddled by shadows. He never wants to stand fully under the spotlight, he'd used the excuse of the light getting into his eyes and distracting him, but they've been doing this together for years now, and Elijah knows better.
Kol's exuberant drumming brings him out of his reverie – he'd been singing as if caught in a half-lidded dream. It's been this way lately, singing without even thinking about it. His eyes, weary. His voice, hoarse. Rebekah is not here to keep him in check, the toss of her voice against his always dangling on the last ends of the score Klaus had meticulously written, strangled without her. The fans still cheer them on, most blissfully unaware, but some of them looked just as lost as he felt.
His eyes sweep through the stadium as if searching for his sister, but it's stupid, because he knows she has some other show in Brooklyn tonight, worlds away.
.
.
It's something of a ritual, shots of whiskey lined in a row before them, rehashing the night away. But neither of them speaks, eyes staring unseeingly at the TV hung over the bar.
Talk about an unlikely alliance! exclaims the woman on the screen, followed by shots of Caroline and Rebekah performing. Rock n' roll royalty Rebekah Mikaelson and pop darling Caroline Forbes, officially working together in a collaboration. And they're calling themselves—
"Louder than Bells," Elijah repeats thoughtfully, a finger on the rim of his glass. "I like it."
Klaus grunts a response and knocks his drink back. "All the luck in the world to Rebekah. There goes everything we've built together, our empire in the sun reduced to pop fluff."
"Have you actually heard any of Forbes' songs, though?" Kol wants to know, still staring at the screen. Rebekah's saying how the idea of working with Caroline seemed farfetched in theory ("The only rational thing she's said this entire interview," Klaus grunts.), but now that they're here it's all a dream she never wants to wake up from.
Elijah looks into his glass and sees his sister's beaming face. A dream, a drunken stupor, and his sister never wants to leave. He very much wants to call her naïve, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't envy her just a little.
.
.
Rebekah and Caroline are on TV again.
Two months in and suddenly Louder than Bells is getting signed on and opening for everyone, and then they're photographed on a night out with Bonnie Bennett, the R&B Queen staring coolly into the camera, her arms slung around Rebekah and Caroline. Rumours of tiffs with Lana float around for a bit, but they're dispelled when they're all spotted sipping milkshakes together one evening.
You're all besties now!, Giuliana insists, and Caroline laughs her usual airy laugh, revealing no more of her personal life, not even when Giuliana tries her best to pry about her knowledge of The Pierces. Elijah nods approvingly and shuts off the television. Rebekah is in good hands.
Kol is lounging on the sofa in the corner, humming an unfamiliar tune. Klaus snaps at him to shut up, but Elijah knows he hasn't written a single line since the interview popped up on the screen.
The only time Rebekah ever calls them is to tell them that her publicist had wanted an interview with all of them together, but "Fret not, brothers – I already said no. So you can get your people to stop harassing mine."
"Our people are your people!" Klaus roars into the already-dead line, accursed by the fact that they were still under the same record label. Kol chortles and Klaus grits, "You don't seem at all bothered over this."
Kol drums the air around him, ducking the swat of his hands. Klaus, exasperated, makes some growling sound in the back of his throat before storming off.
"I do hope he doesn't do anything rash," Elijah hums, studying the lyrics Klaus had left behind. He doesn't have to look at Kol to know he's enjoying every last bit of this.
—
08. you smashed a plate over my head, then i set fire to our bed
Neon flash glitter rock, Rebekah giggles over the magazine. What does that even mean?
"It means, darling," Caroline says, adapting to Rebekah's stylized speech as easily as Rebekah borrows Caroline's matte peach lipstick. "There is no word gravitized enough to describe the music we're making, so they had to invent a new one."
"I rather like it." The pages of the magazine flutter close. Her brothers are on the cover of it, and she crosses her legs over it loftily. Neon flash glitter rock, she mouths, liking the taste of it. It's a mouthful, but it works for the sound they're going for. Caroline had specific goals in mind and it's somewhat remarkable to watch her will them to life, their demos loud and sparking off their speakers.
And Caroline's so neurotic too: she's always jumping around corners when Rebekah's singing something in nonchalance under her breath, demanding her to sing louder, what was that? Was that B minor or—oh, don't give me that look, we could use these.
Stefan comes over for dinner a lot; isn't even fazed when Caroline hops down from her chair in the middle of twirling her spaghetti to jot something down in her songbook. Katherine flits in and out, sometimes bringing Elena with her, their publicist forcing them to spend more time with each other after the Damon Incident. She rolls her eyes when Elena's back is turned and Katherine looks on in interest – well I'll be goddamned, we do have something in common.
.
.
It's an interesting world that Caroline lives in. The whir of cameras outside her window, the nondescript coats she keeps in her closet for days she feels like exploring the city. Stefan is constantly at her side, Katherine waltzing up to them at night, and while she doesn't quite smile at her it doesn't feel like she's unwelcome either.
At any rate, Caroline always smiles, always hums under her breath. She is a song in herself and Rebekah thinks it's fascinating. It's not unlike the way Klaus is, always a song beating its way out of his chest, but the difference between the two of them is, where Klaus shuts himself off for days when he's on to something big, Caroline actually holds her hand out to her.
.
.
"Feet off the table," Caroline orders without looking up from her notebook. "I knew you were bourgeoisie when I offered to be roomies, but don't be so quick to prove me right, Beks."
Rebekah's listening to one of their demos – some upbeat ballad with a tense smoulder that shouldn't work, but does. She removes her feet absently as she listens to the way their voices tangle together, and it's – It sounds—
"Disgusting," Stefan declares, but there's half a smirk on his face as he smokes a cigarette on the balcony. "Absolute worst, can't believe I left my basement for this."
"Shut up, Stefan." She, telling Stefan Salvatore to shut up.
She imagines doing the same to Klaus, and she's heady with glory.
.
.
They open for Davina, the young but bizarrely talented country starlet with her virginal dresses and sweet smiles that match the lilt of her voice. Her violinist Tim looks a little startled at her choice, but even he bops his head to Stefan's synths.
"This is something we're still working on," Caroline grins into her mic, "so be gentle."
"Or not," Rebekah counters, already feeling her heart swell, "I want this room screaming."
The lights flash silver and she's drenched in it.
.
.
Rebekah catches him by the leather of his jacket sneaking out the back door.
"What are you doing at a Davina Claire gig?" She leans against the doorframe, watching the way he turns slowly, sneakers crunching against wet gravel. Her smile burns as slowly as his cigarette. "You were here for me, weren't you?"
Kol tilts his head, smiling. "Do I have to say the words? You were good. You're making me have proud-big-brother feelings, it's ridiculous."
Rebekah all but lunges at him, pulling him close. His cigarette drops to the ground and is crushed under the awkward side-step of their hug, but she buries her nose in his neck and he gives her waist a light squeeze. "If I'd known you to be so forgiving I would have come sooner."
"Oh please," Rebekah snorts, pulling away. "Like you weren't standing in the back of the Oakroom last week gaping at Caroline."
"Girl's got great legs—ow! I must not tell lies, Bekah."
"Will you come again tomorrow?" Rebekah asks. Her fingers play with the hem of her top. "And bring Elijah?"
Kol smirks. Not Klaus? he seems to want say, and Rebekah is thankful he doesn't.
"Why not," Kol shrugs easily. "It looks like a lot of fun. Almost makes me want to don knickers and join you two."
"You could." Rebekah's answering smile is ruined by the wobble of her lips. "And I'd let you, but the ghastly sight of you shaking your ass on stage would scare off my hard-earned fans."
"Right back into our clutches," Kol laughs and then clears his throat, tries to stifle it into a cough. "Beks, I meant it as a joke. Bekah, I know what you're thinking—"
"Is that why you're here? Scouting us out? Trying to see if our fans can be bought?" Kol reaches for her but she steps back, her lips curling in disgust. "You're just as bad as Nik."
"Bekah—"
"You mustn't tell lies, Kol," Rebekah says coldly. "You're bad enough at the truth as it is."
"And you're bad at pretending you don't miss us," Kol shoots. "I know you do. That last song didn't sound like something Caroline would have written at all. You're still bitter and it shows."
"At least I'm doing something for myself," Rebekah bites out, her hand slamming into his chest. Her brother stumbles back. "I'd rather a thousand flops than one more minute spent swaying in the background of Nik's miserable songs. You don't know what it's like, you've never cared about a single thing in your entire—"
Rebekah's stumbles backwards a bit, Kol's hand over her mouth. "Don't you dare, sister. I care. Just because I don't prance around on stage or sing about my feelings, doesn't mean I don't care. I bought you your first ukulele when you were six years old, I held your hand when Nik stopped holding out his. I came out here tonight because I care, not as some little spy at Nik's disposal. You're bitter and you taste bitter and you weep bitter, even now."
And it's true, she's crying, bitter tears that stain the front of his shirt, beating her little fists against him, but pushing him off proves to be no use: he holds her in place with his hand on either side of her. "Come home, Bekah."
"I can't," she chokes out, and it feels like an unlocking in her chest. She can't. Not now. Not with so much to gain and even more to lose. Kol would never know truth like this.
—
09. sweetness, you got a church and steeple and i'm drinking your wine
She sings his songs at the end of their shows. Rebekah scowls, no, I know my brother, you're just giving right into him, but it's all scandalously ignored as she gives her audience a little wink over her shoulder, makes a show of asking the crowd to choose the song and belts it out with alacrity, his song dripping gold.
The passive-aggressive voicemails he leaves her after these occurrences infuriate as much as they fill her with a savage triumph, his honeyed barbs almost a song in her ear.
"Another one of these, Forbes?" he'll say, or "Perhaps you sing better drunk. You never quite lived up to Wolfskin", and tonight it's, "You know, I should be flattered, considering your little obsession with me. I ought to return the favour. Sleep well."
Stuck behind laptop screening duty, Stefan tells her the cover gets ten thousand views within two hours of posting it. She sleeps like a fucking baby.
.
.
Electrifying, Crowe writes of her covers, the way she brings fun and wit to his brilliant but gloomy intensity. Forbes replaces the slow-burn with piano balladry and complex multipart harmonies. Certainly undeserving of the disdain Mikaelson hurls her way in unabashed fashion.
Rebekah rolls her eyes, not as annoyed as she would have been if it weren't for Crowe's glowing review of her—stepped out of her brothers' shadows as if stepping out of a dream—says, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you planned this all along."
.
.
Stefan calls while she's driving home from a meeting with their publicist. He sounds incensed, his voice rushed. "Where are you? Are you anywhere near a TV?"
"No, I'm—"
"Fine, I'll TiVo it. Get home now!" Stefan rarely orders her to do anything, so she flips her shades and books it out of there. He's waiting with tequila and pizza (the bottle in his hand and the pie abandoned on the island), pacing the room. Rebekah's watching impassively.
"Look." Stefan stabs at the TV with the remote. "Look at what your petty little grudge has wrought you."
It's Klaus, but it doesn't look like him. It takes a while for her to realize why, but it's then that it hits her—he's not lurking around the edges of the stage, but sitting right in the center where Elijah usually would, the spotlight shining in his eyes like bright, distant stars.
"You're probably wondering why I leave the singing to Elijah," he says, his voice amplified, and the crowd titters in response. "Some of you have even called me a coward for it," he says, looking straight at the camera then.
Caroline stares back, willing her cheeks not to heat up.
On TV, Klaus smiles like he knows she's watching.
"Here's something I've been working on," he smirks. "So be gentle."
The room whips into a frenzy as he begins to strum. Subtle he is not: he's angry, the song slow at first but rapidly blooming into something brighter and deeper, Kol's drumming mellowing everything out.
There's something about his voice, too. Curiously pitched, slightly broguish. Rough like sand might pour out of him if you cut him open, but it works.
That doesn't mean she has to like this shit.
Caroline backs herself into the sofa. "Is it just me, or—"
"Or is this the most elaborate way of telling someone they suck?" Stefan finishes flatly.
"Do not engage, Caroline," Rebekah warns yet again. "That's just what he wants."
Caroline smiles at her. Unwavering. A plan already forming. "Who am I to deny the greatest musician who ever lived?"
.
.
10. i'm a festival, i'm a parade
E! tracks her down on the night of their album launch, commending her for a brilliant write-up, and Giuliana gives the showiest of winks and asks, "What do you think about Klaus Mikaelson's dig of you in his latest song?"
She steps down the red carpet in a dress that floats as much as it falls, the smear of lipstick on her wrist just peeking through her sleeves. Stefan scoffs quietly at her side, as does Rebekah, because even on their night his shadow is still all-eclipsing.
But Caroline, she laughs. Tucks her hair behind dangling gold earrings and purrs, "I don't think about him."
.
.
On TV, Caroline smiles like it's the most clever thing she's ever said.
.
.
It's beautiful, the symmetry of their hands, the way they tangle and weave and clutch and spin—the only time Caroline ever lets go of Rebekah's hand is when she shoves her right in the middle of the room, arms aloft and singing praises right into the boom of the microphone, because someone has to fill the silence Rebekah leaves. She can't count on Rebekah to say shit right now, she knows if she does she's going to have tears in her voice, and that'd be no good, would it?
Rebekah, the harder of the two, Rebekah who never smiles as much as she bares her teeth, whose skin has been remade into ivory, still gets so shy when the cameras are turned on her – a remnant of interviews past with her brothers when she would just sit there quietly and smile, Caroline supposes.
This time though, there is nothing shy, nothing apologetic in the way her voice demands to be heard when she sings. She's a hard black silhouette against the glare of the backlights, and when she leans into her mic she is as vicious as she was never allowed to be under Klaus's shadow, her eyes the colour of ice so cold they burn.
And while everyone burns, Caroline shivers.
She's standing backstage a little breathless from all the dancing, watching Rebekah sing one of her old songs. Stefan sings along with her; it's a little odd because his voice is so different from Elijah's, coarse around the edges from all the cigarettes he smokes. She wonders what Elijah would make of all of this. She wonders what Kl—
.
.
There are times where she finds herself deleting thoughts mid-sentence before they even make it past her lips and onto pen and paper. Turning on her heels like a pivot and scampering off the other way where Stefan won't find it and raise his judgmental bush brows at her.
She rakes her fingers through her hair, shuffles through the deck, delete, delete, delete, not unlike the messages that keep clogging up her phone. She knows she could always get Finn to do it for her, but he was still a Mikaelson, no matter how much Rebekah tried to convince her otherwise. It said so in their shiny new contracts, right? Our people, their people.
Besides, what if he hears? What if he tells someone? What if he tells Rebek—
So she sorts through her own damned messages and delete, delete, delete she does.
Rebekah had gone out with Stefan but Caroline had opted out, Nah, you guys go on, I'm going to turn in early. Except she doesn't. She sits on the terrace listening to her voicemails, deletes the ones from Damon pestering yet again about a collaboration (washed up much?), skips over Katherine's drunken ones, pauses over Klaus's, thumb lingering over the touchscreen.
On nights like this it's usually Stefan who sits with her while she goes through the messages, beer in hand, the other pressed reassuringly on her knee as she hits play, chortling along to Klaus's verbal abuse even when her laughter seems a little forced. Kid, he'd say affectionately, he's nothing.
You're nothing, she mouths to her phone. She starts to steel herself and immediately hates herself for it – he's nothing. Alcohol would help, but drinking alone at such a late hour seemed a little sad. She's on the thirty-sixth floor and the night is loud in its silence. Klaus's voice scratches right through her.
"Sweetheart," he bellows over the din, and – oh yeah, Drake's party was tonight. "Have a nice night? They have you on livestream here. Even in a world removed from yours I still can't escape you, isn't that the damnedest thing?"
What do you know, Klaus sounds a little drunk.
Caroline smirks and kicks her heels up. The cushions feel good against her thrown back, and she lets her gaze sweep across the stars as he barks in her ear: "I wrote that song in a difficult period in my life, it was not meant to sound that way. Not meant to – to be sung with that Stefan, whom you touch way too much for my—for anyone's liking, really—"
—
11. darling no, that's not me – i'm a ghost in the sheets
Hayley drops into the seat next to Elijah, eyes caked black, hair like pearl-handled pistols. "Your brother looks particularly disheveled tonight."
"My brother is trying out a new look," Elijah muses. He raises her hand to his lips, presses a soft kiss on the back of her hand. "What do you think?"
Hayley tilts her head in mock thought. "Your brother isn't very good at the whole cocaine-addict-but-hot look."
"His brother can hear you," he says waspishly, knocking back another flute of champagne. His hand curls loosely around his phone, the screen dimming into darkness. He thinks he talked too much tonight, but then again he can't really remember. The party decays in a cacophonous bedlam around him: people sagging into corners laughing, others descending into the basement where Marcel and Bonnie (and Damon too, he supposes – why is he even allowed anywhere?) are probably smoking up.
Elijah stands and adjusts his jacket. "Are we ready to leave? The night has been remarkably stale."
"You go ahead," Klaus tells him, eyeing that bottle of Black Label Johnnie Walker on the counter. He nods absently when Hayley bids him goodnight, leaving with Elijah's steady hand low on her back.
It's when he's on his third shot of scotch that someone drops into the seat next to him, grabbing the bottle from his hands.
"Was that Elijah I just saw leaving with Hayley Marshall?" Rebekah muses, studying the bottle appreciatively. She swigs straight from the lip and makes a face. "Thought he didn't care much for these things."
"Well, one must keep up appearances." Klaus plucks the bottle right back. "Not that you would know anything about that."
Rebekah smiles at him, brother brother, still so bitter. She has her hair up in exultant curls like minute birds might flutter out at any moment. He can't help but stare: she's never done her hair like this, a blatant spin off of Katherine Pierce's signature style. Or was it the twin? Either way, somewhere in the back of his mind he remembers that Katherine, she's friends with Caroline. He scoffs, takes a long pull of his drink. Too drunk to be angry. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm crashing!" she trills.
.
.
"Is Stefan around, then?" He asks because he knows Rebekah hates going to these things alone. She has glitter on her cheeks and glitter in her hair but she's still so very afraid of making an entrance on her own. No wonder she needed that Caroline; that girl was an attention whore if anything else. She could do well to shed share some of that spotlight.
"We bumped into Taylor and she wanted to have a little chat. Something about business left unfinished." His sister adds offhandedly: "Oh, don't bother darting your beady little eyes, Nik. Caroline's not here."
Klaus splutters. "I never—"
"You're so transparent it's no wonder you weigh your songs down with convoluted verbiage." Rebekah leans back against the leather cushions and crosses her legs. "How does it feel to be in the spotlight for once, Nik? I know you hate it, how cleanly cut you look in the light, bare and broken for the world to see. The things you do just to get under her skin – ridiculous. How's that working out for you?"
He narrows his eyes at her. "Chatty tonight, are we?"
"I'm not scared of you. Not anymore."
They are two boxers in a ring, and she's lobbed first and what do you know, it stings. He staggers backwards into the ropes, waves his glove at her, come on, come on. He lifts his tumbler and watches his drink catch the light and gleam. Swing. "What do you expect me to do, sister? Apologize? Write you a song? We both know I've nothing to apologize for, and the second you're well equipped to do yourself. You left out of spite, and I am reveling in the afterglow. What more could you possibly want from me?"
Rebekah closes her eyes, her eyes painted to look like a cat's. She's a strange creature tonight, something only half human – like a minotaur, except she has wings and claws instead of horns and hooves. He blinks: the wings flutter out of view. He must be really drunk.
Rebekah opens her eyes, her eyes that glow like a cat caught in a car's headlights, lying still in the middle of a dark road. Run, he wants to say. Scamper. But she sits there and she says, "I want my brother back."
"You've got him," he says.
He starts to finish his drink but realizes his glass is already empty.
.
.
He goes home and tries to write a song but falls asleep instead.
Elijah is already waiting outside the door with his jacket when he wakes up; Kol's drumming his knuckles against the wall. Finn's getting tetchy, Kol tells him, but Klaus pays it no mind because when is dear Finn not tetchy?
"I don't know why we even planned this," Kol complains in the car, "Finn hates birthdays. They always put him in a mood."
And it's with a mood that Finn blows out his candles, cuts his cake and passes out the plates. Sage looks lovely against the restaurant's warm lights, hair coiled at the nape of her neck, and she eyes his rumpled hair and gaunt brows but has enough tact not to say anything. Instead, she says, "Heard Rebekah's new album. Love the sound."
Klaus glowers.
Perhaps not enough tact.
"I wish you lot would just make up," Finn grumbles. "Do you know what a hassle it is to have to go to two of these things? Rebekah's planning a soiree, something preposterous about Kanye eating fire."
"At least you get two cakes," Kol enthuses with his mouth full.
.
.
12. you're screwed up and brilliant, you look like a million dollar man
Elijah says, Bonnie Bennett.
Kol tilts his head and says, Lana. Let's go with Lana.
Klaus wants nothing of it. This is just what Rebekah wants, he thinks, them breaking up and breaking down; how satisfied she'll be. He won't let her be. I want my brother back, Rebekah says, and he wonders when he'd ever even left; wonders if it will ever be enough. Take a look, sister – this is it. This is all you get. He raises his eyes, waves his drink. "We are not conforming."
His younger brother flicks his drumsticks in his direction, it clatters somewhere in the seat next to him. "We're collaborating, not burning books. There isn't anything demoralizing about looking for a fresh sound, Nik."
"We're not selling out," Klaus bristles. "And shut that garbage off."
Kol turns up the volume.
On TV, Caroline appears to be laughing at him.
Ironically enough, the shots that follow are of him. Giuliana's every word sounds like bullets, shell casings plinking to the ground. There was once a time he'd tell her to jump, and she'd pretend not to be offended but her heels would lift off the ground anyway. Today, she's making it sound like his indignation re: Miss Atomic Fluff some sick social construct, his music a poor repackaging of their glory days.
"Hear that, Nik?" Kol hums. "Keep it up and you'll be as washed up as Saltzman. Or worse – Salvatore."
"I refuse to be called dead weight," Klaus snarls, grabbing the remote from him and shutting off the TV. The air crackles as the TV fades into darkness and he watches Elijah pretend he doesn't see the dark circles under his eyes even as he rounds on him.
"I'll write us a song," he swears. He doesn't tell Elijah how epic it will be, how it will shatter the barriers they've been skirting. He wishes he didn't have to make such grand promises: his hands have been marked with wishes unfulfilled, seeping black through his heart lines even without all the ink. He'll write them a song, you'll see.
.
.
The tabloids, they're waiting for them to cross paths, he knows. They sit outside his door; circling the air like vultures waiting to pounce.
He stays inside, doesn't go out: only chooses to take up small gigs on week nights, where the crowd isn't as large or as daunting. They've taken to chanting her name when he takes his prerequisite spot in the middle of the stage. He supposes it's his own damn fault, for singing songs about, you know – her instead of the usual favourites. He lowers his head so they might not see his lips curl.
Because you see, when she sings his songs she does it so softly, so sweetly, so different from her usual sound that he forgets to be angry, that he almost believes those sweet words coming out of her mouth, until he remembers that it's Caroline, that she's every bit as spiteful as he is, that she bites with her lips curved into a deceptive smile.
Everything she does is a taunt.
So dim the lights and let the speakers bleed—if she is to stay he'll make sure she listens. He strums his bass, fully aware of Elijah's eyes bearing holes in the back of his head. Before, he would have teased them with upcoming songs, but lately Elijah had blatantly refused to even sing them.
"Too bitter," he'd say of his lyrics. Too erratic. Volatile. Dangerous. Niklaus! The list went on, but so do the songs, even if Elijah does stop asking about them.
"We can't live on our old stuff forever, 'Lijah," Kol says quietly. His brother goes around quietly these days, looking almost relieved for the nights he announces more cancellations, leaving the house immediately after. He knows Kol goes to see Rebekah, pretends the stone settling in his stomach isn't bitterness. He chases it with rum, pretends he isn't drinking it all away.
It's when he stumbles onto the roof that he finally pulls out his phone. Another night, another show, another one of his songs plundered by her red-gold lips. He wants to say her name, it shouldn't be so hard, but his fumbling mind deems it so. He settles into a wrought-iron seat and punches out her number, insists she cease and desist her entire existence, and somehow asking the question he's wanted to ask all along. "Why?" he rasps. "What is it about me that you hate so much? I'm here, I listen to you sing, and it's like I didn't even write those songs. You've made them yours, and I can't have that. I'd ask for them back but they're no use to me now, are they? They're yours now, take them."
He presses his hands into the lids of his eyes until they hurt. He presses until he sees stars, but they're not the ones he wants.
.
.
She sings so sweetly, her head thrown back as she keens right into her studded mic stand. For once, it's not one of his. It's something softer, slower, something she wrote with some help from Stefan, she tells the hyper-alert ears, flirting across the stage drinking in their bright eyes and bated breaths – and the people waiting, they sigh.
You're so poisonous, she sings like a languid sigh, you're so mean.
Lamenting.
Seeking you out.
But her eyes, they don't reach as far as they usually do.
She flicks her lashes like she's already bored, and one is left to wonder what it is that would hold her captivated.
He pauses the livestream and falls back against his pillows, thumb ghosting his jaw. It's not about him, he decides. It's not, he needs to believe it's not – he needs to believe that not everything she sings is about him. Because that would be a bit too like being swallowed by a labyrinth, feeling the walls in the dark, a bit too much like avoiding the minotaur in the room. He thinks of Rebekah, thinks of birds flying out of her hair and her too-high heels and feels immense relief that they don't look the way they do in the nightmares he refuses to acknowledge he has.
The screen goes blank. It's the first night that he doesn't call her.
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(1/2)