Title: Welcome to Squeezebox
Author: Ashke
Email: deadclinic@windiain.co.uk
Rating: R
Warnings: incest, drug use, homosexual themes
Spoilers: VD 1-4
Disclaimers: The VD stuff belongs to LJ Smith and not me, bah.
Summary: Damon takes Stefan to the legendary gay-oriented club
'Squeezebox' for a night of first time experiences.
Stefan had only been waiting in the crowded bathroom for ten minutes when, above the swell of noise, he heard the scrape of shoes coming to a halt behind him. He didn't bother to look up as bare skin slid against the back of his neck. He already knew who he'd see, whose slender fingers briefly entwined themselves in the curls of his hair before coming to rest on his shoulder.
"You're tense," Damon sighed in his ear.
Stefan did look up then, at the figure in black designer button-down shirt and jeans that was his brother. Even dressed casually Damon was elegant, like a panther radiating a teetering balance of danger and beauty. And he was leaning in close enough to Stefan that the younger Salvatore had to take a step backwards to look into his eyes. Thin bands of dark iris encircling glazed, darker pupils, stared back at him.
Damon's vision was as sharp as the talons of the crow form that he often took. In the darkened sea of withering flesh and pounding music that awaited them in the room beyond, it was a useful trait. But beneath the bathroom's abundant fluorescent lighting, it was unnatural for Damon's eyes to be as opaque and swollen as black pearls.
The smile that graced Damon's lips, a lopsided curve of mouth threatening to bare teeth at any moment, provided Stefan with an explanation.
"You're on something," he deadpanned.
It was neither a statement nor a question, but Damon tilted his head and looked up at Stefan with those featureless eyes as if he'd been issued a challenge.
"That I am." The older Salvatore's arm tightened around his brother's neck, pulling them together as if they were lovers about to embrace. "And I have more to spare."
Stefan let his breath out in a rush and gave his brother a simple shake of his head. He longed to shove Damon away; to escape the piercing gaze in which his brother fixed him with, to shake the pinioning arm from around him. But he did neither for the sake of preventing an argument, merely focused his attention on the row of cubicles that lined the far wall.
There was a woman slouched against one with a tangle of blonde spikes that only vaguely passed for a hairstyle. Wearing what appeared to be black fishnet stockings and a striped torn bodysuit with the words 'Jailbait' stitched across the chest in orange lettering, her lips quirked in a smile when she saw Stefan looking at her. He turned away before she could see his face flush crimson, embarrassed at his insolence.
"Why the hell are we here?" he asked Damon.
A chuckle, soft but with a razor-edge that was distinctly his brother's rang in his ears. "Because, little brother, I have something special planned tonight."
A neatly folded handkerchief produced from Damon's pocket was suddenly in view and the older vampire unwrapped it to reveal two halves and a whole of a small, yellow, round pill. Carved into it each was the motif of a sharp-angled 'M', split down the middle in the case of the broken halves. Damon took the whole one gingerly between forefinger and thumb and pushed it between his lips, swallowing it dry. Another half was selected and the handkerchief tucked away.
"I've always thought we should be close," Damon continued. "I've said as much before. I don't think you've ever quite understood what I meant then, and you probably still don't understand now."
"And this is what you've asked me here for?" Stefan sighed. "Fine, so you want to be closer to me. We can manage that, since we've waited five centuries to settle our differences anyway."
"You are missing my point."
"Then what /is/ your point, Damon? I haven't heard you mention anything that's resembled an answer yet."
"It's a simple concept…Stefan."
Damon opened his mouth to reveal canine teeth that had grown as sharp as daggers, capable of tearing through flesh with disturbing ease. He placed the half-of-pill against his tongue and spoke around it.
"There just aren't any more obstacles between us."
And then the older Salvatore lunged.
There wasn't enough time for Stefan to mull over the comment. He was pinned to the wall by his brother's weight before he could even register what had happened, Damon's mouth pressed so hard against his it was as if he was trying to draw the breath from his lungs. Panic crept into his thoughts like an unfurling tendril of vine, and then drew back as if burnt as something round and hard and tasting of rotten blood slid against his tongue. The voice that rang in his mind gave a single command.
/Swallow/.
It was only after the pill had slid down his throat, leaving a horrible aftertaste in its wake, that Stefan realized he had no idea what it had been. The urge to ask was overwhelming but Damon's mouth hadn't pulled away from his yet. It wasn't exactly a kiss, but in the stillness of the moment Stefan could feel his brothers hands slowly tracing the contours of his body. Fingers danced along his collarbone, outlined the bulge of his ribcage, made swirling patterns against his chest and stomach. The feelings it awoke in him were made of razors and velvet, cutting deep into his psyche with sharp steel edges yet enfolding it in the softest of embraces. Warmth rippled through his stomach like gently lapping waves, and beneath his feet the bathroom floor seemed to disintegrate and plunge him into an eternal abyss. He raised his arms, tried to escape Damon's grasp only to find his hands were snarled in his brother's hair. He was the one holding him there, coaxing him to continue his explorations.
He let go and almost immediately Damon drew back and opened his eyes. They stared at each other, oak green meeting haunting, empty black.
"Elena has been dead and buried for years," Damon whispered, each word as slow as sweat rolling off overworked muscle. "Your human friends are dead. We're the only things that remain constant in each other's lives. Why not embrace that?"
Stefan's eyes fluttered closed again, and he stood slumped against the wall. Damon watched him take slow, even breathes, enthralled by the rise and fall of his chest in the taught confines of t-shirt. Silence stretched on between them, tension as heavy and thick on the air as double-paned glass.
When Damon finally spoke it was like the rumbling warning of thunder that came before a torrential downpour.
"You'll start feeling it in about half an hour," he told his brother.
"Feel…what?" Stefan's asked, his voice almost too quiet for even Damon's sensitive hearing.
Damon sighed in exasperation and pressed the flat of his hand against his forehead, as if dealing with an idiot who didn't quite grasp the concept. "Just don't fight it. I made sure it was top-quality, so it won't harm you. And I need to know, are you hungry by any chance?"
"No. But what--"
"You will be. Inform me as soon as you are."
Stefan gave up on trying to understand and hunched his shoulders in defeat. He didn't know what Damon had given him, had only a vague sense of why he and his brother were here together at all. And he knew Damon was baiting him on purpose, drawing out the game by being as cryptic as possible. It was aggravating but Stefan was in no position to argue at the moment. He accepted his fate with as much grace as he could muster in the face of such a situation.
The woman with the 'jailbait' bodysuit was suddenly there offering a bottle of water in long, tapered nails with celestial patterns painted on them. Damon took it from her and shoved it into his brother's hands.
"Is he alright?" she asked.
Damon nodded. "He's just never done this before."
"Ah, a cherry." She patted Stefan on the shoulder, giving him a candy-apple colored smiled. "Keep it together, sweetie, and you'll be fine."
Stefan's eyes swung from one of them to the other, lingering long enough on the woman to realize that her spiky blonde hair was in fact a wig. His gaze trailed downward, realization slamming against his mind like the business end of a hammer as he took in the prominent Adam's apple, the narrow hips, the large hands that were ridged with the deep grooves of veins. His stare slid to his brother, who gave him a smile fit for the devil himself.
"Welcome to Squeezebox, little brother. I'm sure you'll find your stay interesting, to say the least. Now drink some of that so you can give the bottle back to our friend here and I can show you around."
The roar of the crowd was loud enough to shatter his eardrums, and it thrummed beneath his feet like some ancient tribal drum. Damon glided ahead of him through a tangle of arms and legs that surrounded them on all sides, stopping only to pull a boy wearing a white collared shirt and a pinstriped tie into a crushing embrace. The older vampire's lips hovered just above the pulse point and for a moment his brother feared he might tear into the flesh and feed right there in the crowd. But he pulled away after a few seconds, letting the boy caress his face with tattooed hands before moving on.
Stefan lingered behind long enough for the boy to notice him standing there and wave him over. He shook his head in polite declination and hurried after his brother.
"What was /that/ all about?" he asked Damon when he had caught up to him.
"What?"
"With that man just now."
They'd reached the far wall where there was slightly more room for them to move. Damon found an empty space for them and claimed it, turning a smile on the female couple wearing schoolgirl uniforms next to him.
"And how are you ladies this evening?" he asked, his voice practically oozing joviality.
They answered and the three of them conversed for several seconds before Damon turned back to his brother and unleashed that smile upon him. It was startling, seeing Damon in such a good mood. Like stepping into fierce, unrelenting sunlight after being holed up somewhere dark all day.
"Are you starting to feel anything?"
Stefan made himself relax, his body keying down from the heightened state of tension he was in. He stood, quietly trying to sense the nature of his current mind-set. Nothing seemed different.
"Not at all," he answered.
"Alright. I'll be right back. Don't wander off."
Stefan glanced at his watch, making a mental note of the time. It had been almost forty minutes since he'd taken the pill. How long had Damon told him it would work in? A half hour he remembered and frowned. He didn't even know what he was supposed to be feeling, let alone know when it did hit him.
Tens more minutes passed as if in the blink of eye. Still he felt nothing, and there wasn't any sign of Damon returning. His attention was on the stage where a shirtless bald man in leather trousers and green day-glo suspenders had entwined himself in the limbs of another man wearing nothing but underwear with metal bindings. Stefan didn't know what they were doing but, aside from the microphone that dangled limply from the bald one's hand in phallic symbolism, he was pretty sure it wasn't musically oriented.
The two of them disentangled themselves, sliding like serpents against each other's skin until they were separate beings again. The man in the underwear picked up a battered guitar and pulled the strap tight across his chest; the bald one dangled the microphone above his head and gave it a suggestive lick. Stefan was close enough to see there was a bolt the size of a quarter through his tongue and thought the way in which the metal caught the stage lights and glinted looked fascinating.
The guitarist brought his hand down hard on the strings, belting out the first chords of the band's set, and it was the most melodic thing Stefan had ever heard in his life. It flowed into the second, and then the third note, until there was a whole accumulation of music pouring out of the speakers and mingling to compose a song as beautiful as the break of dawn. He let it carry him upward, nodding his head to the beat as the crowd ascended into a frenzy and seemed to float before him.
A flood of voices swelled around him, the vocalist's voice rising to a crescendo and cascading down upon them to drown them in its raw power. It was not unlike the sweet, flitting sounds of 'Concerto in D Minor,' with its intricately woven violin notes. Stefan had never felt music so intimately before; had never been so enamored by it.
Hands slid around his chest and propelled him backwards and it didn't cross his mind to protest. His predatory instincts had drawn back for the time being, waiting at the threshold of something much more compelling like lean and hungry dogs. A familiar scent invaded his nostrils. It was raw earth, cologne, and, strongest of all, blood.
"Did you miss me?" came Damon's voice.
It was on Stefan's lip to tell him he hadn't but his tongue seemed glued to the bottom of his mouth by the strangest of feelings; Tingling feelings that seemed to crackle through every nerve ending in his body. He wanted to tell Damon everything he was feeling. Damon was the one here holding him close, and he seemed to be the only thing that mattered in this small slice of his universe. To share this sensation that was making him as giddy as if he had drunk a gutful of blood with his brother would fulfill the utmost of his momentary desires.
But instead what came out was, "This music is wonderful."
"How do you feel?"
"What is it you gave me?" Stefan retorted. "I've never felt anything like this. I can't describe it."
Damon turned him around so that they were facing each other and smiled. It was unlike his usual grin, small and genuine and concealing nothing. The first real smile Stefan had ever seen his brother give him. The younger Salvatore could see his brother's happiness, his desire and need shimmering above their heads in a halo of rich darkness and glimmering light. He knew somehow that his own desires were a part of it, bound to his brother's like conjoined twins.
Damon had unbuttoned his shirt to expose the supple curves of his body and the shirt itself looked like it would come off easily. Stefan wanted to see him without it, complete and unhindered by the soft fabric. He tugged at the sleeves and Damon helped him slide it off, shedding an unwanted skin. Lean, muscled, and absolutely flawless, he resembled the statues carved by the master artists of their time. His brother couldn't fathom how anyone would have ever mistaken him for human.
They stared at each other, neither one saying a word.
It wasn't like in the bathroom. This time when their mouths met it was in perfect harmony, their lips simultaneously parting for one another. The iron-like flavor of blood flooded Stefan's mouth and by its lingering presence he could tell his brother had just fed. The sensation ignited his own bloodlust, made it burn through his veins like an itch he couldn't scratch. He'd been on the verge of starvation countless times through the centuries. And many decades had passed since he'd come close to mindlessly slaughtering Tyler Smallwood that day in the Quonset hut. But those incidents hadn't been brought on by shear desire, had had purposes for inciting such an intense form of the hunger.
The older Salvatore seemed to sense what the younger was feeling and pulled them apart.
"There's always willing ones by the bar," he said. "Shall we make our way over there?"
The thought of feeding sent a thrill of happiness through Stefan and left him nearly trembling. He felt like some poverty-stricken child who had just been offered an entire loaf of bread.
Damon didn't wait for an answer. Once again they weaved together through the mass of bobbing and crowd-surfing bodies—male couples with bright blue Mohawks and multiple piercings, men in too much make-up and clothes that looked like they'd been fashioned from plastic, people who were androgynous in all aspects. Stefan noticed them all now, and could see by the throbbing of their combined energy how none of them were considered outcasts here. They were all accepted as one amorphous mass of living tissue and organs. Even him in his plain t-shirt and his shirtless, statuesque brother had a place amongst these people. It was exquisite, the sense of being a part of such a thriving collection of humanity. He had to remember to tell Damon just how exquisite it all was later on.
The bar was crowded and they had to squeeze in between two men with spiraling, black horns affixed to their heads. They'd tied themselves to each other with what appeared to be a combination of wire and metal chains, and had to move as one being to let the brothers pass. Stefan eyed his own hand. His brother's fingers were interlaced with his, the silver and lapis lazuli rings on their ring fingers nearly identical. It brought a smile to his face. It was perfectly all right being like this; it was happiness made flesh. They were brothers and all these centuries they should have been closer.
In a shirt made of a silky, shear material and vinyl pants the violently deep orange that only engulfed the sky just before dusk, a man with lemonade hair done in spikes caught the brothers' attention. He stood tucked into a corner at the far end of the bar, rail-thin and with skin so pure white that only a New York native could have been able to achieve it. From beneath heavy, dark makeup, brown eyes that were as dull as old coins watched them the way a drug dealer would watch a potential buyer. The faint tracery of scars that started at his neck and ran down beneath the collar of his shirt were all the information Stefan needed to figure out what he was.
"I believe I've had him before," Damon mused as if contemplating the vintage of a wine. "Full body, not to dry, and just the faintest hint of a bitter aftertaste. He should do nicely."
They approached the man like two hunting cats eager for the kill, Damon's arm gracing the width of Stefan's shoulder as if he were a protective lover. Stefan reveled in the contact. The way his brother's skin rolled and glided against the back of his neck felt delightful. He didn't want it to stop but Damon was already pushing him forward, away from him.
"Just him," Damon told the man and handed him a bill he'd extracted from his pocket.
While the two of them exchanged words and money the younger Salvatore found himself fascinated by the man's hair, with its pale yellow glow. Though spiked, he could tell it was as soft as the feathers on a chick. He found himself running his hands through it, letting the spikes occasionally brush his palms like the protective quills of a porcupine. But touching it wasn't enough for him. He needed to bury his face in its bright strands, imbibe its scent so he could commit it to memory. One tug and the man was pressed against his chest. And the hair smelled just like it looked; like homemade lemonade.
"I wonder how it tastes," Stefan thought aloud, more to himself then to anybody in particular.
Damon chuckled and was suddenly at his back. "I can assure you his blood is better. Now drink."
The drug in his system had eradicated his morals as if they had been nothing more then thin, useless veils. Not even a residue of guilt remained as he licked down the man's neck, drawing out the game.
As he sunk deeper into this synthetic bliss, he found himself falling in love with it. The way colors burned into his eyes and how even the slightest touch felt like thousands of insects crawling over his skin—he wanted so much more of these sensations. So did his prey apparently, for he arched his neck at Stefan's lips grazed his throat and let forth a soft moan.
Damon was breathing in the younger Salvatore's ear and it was growing heavier, as if he was running a race. Stefan tempted him further, biting down on his prey's skin but holding back just before breaking the surface. From behind him he heard Damon grumble, a low, impatient sound that would have been dangerous under different circumstances.
When Stefan finally pierced the man's flesh it was without ceremony, and he'd never had such sweet blood. He swore he could taste the essence of the boy's emotions. Fear and love and desire bled together as they rolled across his tongue and down his throat like a great red river. He drank of this as if he were a dying man confronted with his last meal. To the rhythm of the beating musical heart that vibrated through him, he indulged with tongue and teeth and lips and flesh until the lines between were streaked with pleasure so intense he knew nothing but the primordial lust for it. A moment passed in which some nagging sensation that what he was doing was against his ethics crept up on his mind but it was lost beneath the layered waves of sensation before it could plant its roots. He couldn't stop now anyway, not when he was so thoroughly entangled in the warm, wet taste of fresh blood. He didn't think he wanted to even if he could.
It was Damon who finally intervened, tearing them apart with gentle fingers that became steel claws when Stefan, reluctant to be parted from his prey, fought him off. His donor didn't prove to be any easier. Riding high on blood loss, he clung to Stefan even after they had been separated. His eyes were half-closed and clouded like a junkie who had just had his fix, his body jerky and uncoordinated as if he had forgotten how it worked. But he managed to land a few sloppy kisses on Stefan's mouth. The younger Salvatore reveled in the candy and cigarettes taste of his victim's lips as if it were the potent blood that still stained his teeth and tongue. He'd formed a strange imaginary bond with the boy, whose blood satiated his inhuman hunger even now. And the allure to complete that bond was like the call of the Sirens. He need only to slice through the vein in his wrist as if it were butter and wash that delicious mouth in crimson liquid….
"No."
Stefan's wrist was halfway to his mouth when his brother caught it and brought it to his own mouth. He placed his lips gingerly against the pulse point and let them linger there.
"What?" Stefan's voice was hoarse and he couldn't manage to get more then a single word out.
Damon licked delicately at his brother's wrist as if tasting it to decide if it was to his liking or not.
"You may give your body to anyone you like, but your blood is mine alone to taste." Damon bit him then. Nothing more then a nip, but Stefan understood what it meant even through his drugged haze. He could feel everything draw into itself around him as the reality of it made impact and threw his balance even more off course then it already was. But before he could say anything Damon pulled him into his arms and silenced him with a passionate kiss on the lips.
"There will be time for talk later. We only have a couple of hours before things go back to the way they were. Would you like to dance with me?"
Stefan had the briefest mental images of Damon's semi-naked body flailing amongst the crowd, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his muscles slick with it.
"Yes," he answered without hesitation.
They found keeping with the erratic rhythm of the band near impossible so their disjointed dance quickly became far more sexual than it was intended to be. With Stefan's blood donor slipping between their tangled limbs like a cat who couldn't decide which person it preferred to be stroked by, they teased and taunted one another. Fangs scraped against flesh, feather-light kisses traced ropey veins, fingers tugged at the firm nubs of nipples. They left no plane of each other's bodies unexplored and the energy built until Stefan, if not for his brother, would have surrendered himself to the crowd and let them do as they pleased with him.
Most of the club's patrons had staggered on home already by the time he and Damon found themselves back at the bar. The small space that served as the center of the dance floor still had a few dozen bodies gyrating madly to pre-recorded music that pumped from the speakers set all around the place. But the atmosphere was languid, subdued almost to the point of inertia. Stefan could feel the drugs releasing the hold they had had on him for the evening. It was like a cloak being drawn back, revealing to him the true nature of what lay underneath. The music didn't sound so delightful anymore- more like a distorted meshing of mechanical noise and broken instruments. And he no longer welcomed the lingering taste of the boy with the lemonade hair's blood in his mouth, the same boy his brother had his teeth imbedded in at that moment. The soft, wet sounds of Damon feeding drifted over to him as if beckoning him to join them, but the bloodlust had collapsed under the weight of his fall from a drug induced heaven and he felt only a shadow of desire. Still he couldn't help but stare at the two of them before him.
Damon's skin looked slick and oily under the dim lighting, the graceful arch of the boy's body pressed up against him. Damon's face was buried in his shoulder, and he'd pinned the boy to the bar top by his wrists so that neither of them would slip. The noises that emanated from the both of them teetered the edge between animalistic and obscene. Damon was growling like a dog worrying a bone, and the boy's constant whimpers where interrupted only by the occasional groan of pleasure. It drew the bartender over —a twenty-something man dressed in a ringed collar and a bright orange muscle shirt- but he must have been used to such spectacles for he just smirked and leaned back to watch them from the corner of his eye.
Stefan watched them too, his eyes following the flex and pull of his brother's sinewy body as he ground against his writhing prey. Moments ago it would have sent a well of pleasantly warm emotions bubbling up in his mind but now it merely filled him with overwhelming anguish. He suddenly wanted out of this nest of debauchery, away from his brother and his emotion-altering drugs.
"Good night, Damon" he said on a breath and propelled himself away from the bar before he could see his brother look up at him with the expression of someone who had been punched in the gut.
At the coat check he ran into the spiked-blonde woman with the 'jailbait' shirt that he'd met in that bathroom at the beginning of the night. She smiled when she saw him.
"Hey," she greeted him in a voice thick from cigarette smoke and drew him into a hug. He stiffened as if bracing for a blow but she didn't seem to notice. "Get through your devirginization ok?"
"Not exactly," he deadpanned.
"Oh, hun. I'm so sorry. Maybe you'll have better luck next time, huh?
"Thank you, but I don't believe there will be a next time for me." He attempted a half-hearted smile for her but it only came out forced. "Have a good night…oh, I don't believe you told me your name."
"Miss Carlata."
"Stefan."
"Well, Stefan, at least come down and visit us sometime again."
"Perhaps I will, Miss Carlata."
Stefan knew as he wished her farewell again and walked out Squeezebox's door and into the cool, crisp air of the late New York City night that he would never step foot into the club again. Without a backward glance he headed for the nearest subway entrance, the scuffling of his shoes on the pavement the only sound to keep him from drawing too deep into his thoughts.
Stefan awoke the next morning to the smells of cooking – bacon fried in too much oil, French toast layered with the sharp-scented shavings of fresh cinnamon, scrambled eggs drenched in Tabasco sauce. It wafted into the bedroom and wound such a thick cloud of scent around him that he was up and in the kitchen before he could ponder /why/ the apartment should smell that way.
In boxer shorts and nothing else, the blood donor from the night before sat at the younger Salvatore's breakfast bar picking at a plate piled high with various breakfast foods. He waved and muttered a greeting without looking up from his newspaper when Stefan entered the room. In the morning light that spilled forth from the window, Stefan could see the dark roots of his natural hair color poking up beneath the crayola-yellow dye like rotting grass.
"We just got in a little while ago," came a soft and ironic voice and Stefan watched as his brother used the fire he was cooking on to light a cigar. "Took in a late film. 'The Good Old Naughty Days.' Have you seen it? Ah, of course not. Vintage erotic French cinema isn't your style, is it?" He took a drag and let it out slowly, adding the pungent odor of Nicaraguan tobacco to the already cloying scent of the cooking food. "But this is Randal. I found out he's only sixteen, a street kid with all the classic symptoms of a vampire junkie. We were just wondering why you ran off in such a hurry last night."
Stefan looked at Randal, whose attention was on the billowing smoke that curled upward from Damon's cigar and caressed the low kitchen ceiling. His eyes seemed glazed, as if he was thinking of some place that was far, far away from the expensive apartment. Then Stefan looked at his brother and said one sentence that turned the air frigid.
"Take him and get out."
Stefan turned on his heel and stormed into the living room. He was gazing out the floor to ceiling windows that overlooked Times Square, feeling as withdrawn from the noise and crowds of the city as Randal had seemed in the kitchen, when Damon came in and stood beside him.
"Do you really want us to leave?" he asked quietly and with an elegant twist of wrist, made the simple act of flicking cigar ash into a nearby ashtray an art.
Stefan looked at him, into the black eyes that looked nothing but dead serious at the moment. Gone was the glaze the drug's had produced the previous night leaving nothing in their wake but deep darkness.
"Yes. I find your presences here intrusive."
"You liked us enough last night." Damon took another slow drag on his cigar, letting the words worm their way to the core of his younger brother's mind. "Perhaps you don't understand the situation at hand, dear brother. Randal sells himself to any vampire willing to pay. And not just his blood. Now correct me if I recall our upbringing wrong, but isn't it our duty as the upper crust to take pity on poor peasant souls?"
"Since when do you give a damn about 'peasant souls.' Or anyone else besides yourself for that matter?"
"Did you learn nothing from last night's experience? Do you think I called you to one of the most notorious clubs in the city and gave you a thorough mind-fucking simply because I wanted to play with you?"
"It would have been suiting of you."
"You can be so bleeding thick at times, little brother. I can't fathom how you've survived this long with that mindset of yours."
"Perseverance, Damon. And morals. Something you have absolutely no concept of."
"Oh, shut up with your witless and defensive banter. You didn't have many morals last night now, did you?"
"That's because /you/ shoved a drug down my throat."
"Ah, but that drug only served to draw forth and enhance the desires that were already within you." Damon closed the distance between them and slid the hand that wasn't holding the cigar around his waist. "And you wanted me on that dance floor the way humans want me. I felt it in the way you watched me, when we kissed. You remember it, don't you? How can you deny the existence of something that intense? Did you ever feel anything like that with Elena, or even Katherine?"
Stefan stiffened in Damon's grasp, and the memories flooded back to him like the ghosts of those long forgotten. He could feel his tongue yearning to curl around the syllables of denial, trying to get him to form the words that would shake the foundation of all Damon had said. But it wouldn't work and he was left staring at his brother, through him really, with his mouth agape.
"I'm right, aren't I?" Damon continued. His cigar had burned down nearly to his fingertips but he paid no heed to the heat if he felt it. "I told you before we proceeded with the night's events. We're the only things that remain constant in each other's lives. All around us we are faced with that which withers and dies. But we stay the same, always. And it will be like that for eternity. So do you want to taste of that fruit and reap its every bounty? Or would you rather deny it even in the face of it? The choice is yours to make, brother."
"What exactly do you want from me?"
Damon pressed his forehead against Stefan's lips. They were cool and dry to the touch, much like his own skin, and he heaved a sigh.
"Your blood is already mine alone to take. Now all I ask is for your body."
Morning bled into afternoon, afternoon into night and with it came the welcome relief of cloaking darkness. From the recliner across the living room, Stefan watched his brother slowly drift awake. He'd sprawled out on the couch somewhere around noon and had given him a look that read he would have liked to have Stefan join him. But Stefan had just shook his head and walked out the door. He'd had no actual destination in mind and so he spent the day wandering around the city, venturing into silent light-dappled streets and alleys he'd never visited before. It had kept his mind blissfully empty, like the blank pages of a journal awaiting its owner's scrawling to mold its world.
Damon had been sleeping on the couch with Randal when he'd returned, the frail human boy curled around him. The scent of sweat, and semen, and blood filled Stefan's lungs, sent him almost gagging. Filled with a mixture of sickness and disgust at the mental images that flashed through his mind like a perverse slideshow, he'd stumbled to the recliner to gain his composure. And hadn't had the will to pull himself back up. So there he had sat for hours, his brother and the boy unaware as they slept under his watchful presence.
And then Randal's eyes had slid open a crack and looked at him, like a cat who was wary of an intruder.
"May I use your shower, Stefan?" he asked, and his voice had been a groggy whisper but unmistakably innocent. It occurred to Stefan that it was the first time he had listened to the boy speak and he was taken aback by what he heard. Despite the telltale scars of vampire bites that marred his body, and the smell of sex that clung to him like the stench of death, Randal was beginning to appear as something not entirely bad to have lurking about.
"In the bedroom," he'd answered and pointed the way.
Damon sat up on the couch and gave Stefan a look that would have been puzzled if not for the traces of lethargy that marred its effect. It didn't seem to matter for Stefan understood and made a gesture towards his bedroom.
"He's in the shower."
Damon grunted but said nothing else. His fingers darted underneath him, came up with the television remote control as if it were a prize catch. He gave the 'on' button a jab and cycled through the plethora of available cable channels until coming to rest on an image of two men grinding against one another to a throbbing club soundtrack. Stefan's TV was quite large and the floor to ceiling windows opposite it only served to throw a life-sized reflection back at him. There wasn't any way to escape the view short of leaving the room.
"Ah, brings back fond memories," Damon commented.
Stefan didn't bother to stick around to hear his brother bait him further. He stood and padded into his room.
But even when he was groggy Damon was quick, and he grabbed Stefan by the upper arms and propelled him forward before the younger Salvatore had time to figure out what was going on. Randal had been changing into a clean pair of clothes when the brothers had come in and he scrambled out of the way just as Damon pinned Stefan to the bed and straddled him.
"I think I've had all that I can stand from you, Stefan," Damon growled, angry enough that he'd used his brother's actual name. "You've rejected everything I've offered you last night, and this morning, and even now. And you deny me of the only unadulterated desires I've had for anyone in centuries. Your fucking 'moral code' is more precious to you then the experiences we shared at 'Squeezebox.' I'm tired of trying to convince you otherwise. I'm not sure what even possessed me to try."
Damon let him go and slid away from him as if he were a leper.
"Gather your things, Randal," he said. His gaze never wavered from the form of his brother, who was lying as still as a corpse. "We're leaving."
The sound of the front door slamming was the only thing that Stefan heard clearly.
:Epilogue:
Days passed in which Stefan slept on and off, slipping from the dark confines of his bedroom only to feed. He neglected bathing entirely. And went into the bathroom only when necessary, to relieve himself and refill the glass of water he kept on the nightstand at all times.
The phone rang once in a while and the answering machine picked up. It was always a telephone solicitor, or a charity collector. Never anyone important. He didn't know anyone worth picking up the phone for save for his brother, and Damon hadn't rang him since he'd stormed off.
Stefan's mind lingered on that night; had been playing it over again and again for days. The memories assaulted him like so many fists pummeling his body. The sweet, delicious experience of Randal's blood sliding down his throat. The throbbing lights and swirling colors that danced and weaved around his vision. And rising to overtake him with yearning, Damon's mouth as it tasted and explored him. The latter memory was like being bound with barbed wire, inescapable and unbearable, and he knew then what his brother had been talking about the morning after the events. He hadn't wanted to admit Damon had been right, but now there wasn't anybody left to deny it to but himself.
So many centuries wasted on animosity, and only a handful of years spent accepting the nature of one another. He'd been a fool for all that time and in one night Damon had exposed him to the absolute truth. Ignorance had blinded him, though, as he was content to keep such emotions behind a wall that only chemical bliss could smash.
So when the first night of the weekend rolled around he found himself slipping into an outfit his brother would have been proud of. A tight short-sleeved v-necked shirt that accented the curves of the muscles in his chest and arms matched with a pair of black jeans that were equally tight. He'd seen some boys down on St. Mark's wearing oddly squared boots that had caught his interest and had purchased a pair earlier that day to complete the outfit. He stared into the bathroom's full-length mirror, pleased at what he saw reflected there. Dressed as he was, he couldn't help but feel a strange thrill at the way he so closely resembled his brother.
He rode the subway to Greenwich Village then walked the rest of the way from the directions Damon had given him the week before. The streets were as silent as ever, the rustle of garbage or a car speeding by on its way to a night out on the town the only occasional breach of quiet.
Even with the night still young the que outside the door was long already, people lining the dingy brick wall in their leather and plastic and multi-colored drag clothing. Stefan passed a sign that read 'Pansy Division Live at Squeezebox Party at Don Hill's' with the present date scrawled on the bottom in red marker. He was busy reading it when someone came up to him in a raggedy-anne wig and ice blue baby doll dress and gave him a hug. It was Miss Carlata, he realized, and he greeted her with a hug of his own that was surprisingly genuine.
"Hey, you made it! I was afraid we'd scared you away."
Stefan ginned at that, not bothering to elaborate on how close to the truth she had been.
"Come right on in," she was ushering him, practically dragging him towards the front door. "I know the doorman. He'll let us in right away."
Miss Carlata's word turned out to be sound. Stefan paid the man in biker's leather working the door and stepped into a swirling, oddly familiar world of light, color, and nerve grating sound. The club seemed even more packed then the previous week and the younger Salvatore could only chalk it up to the way the crowd roared and cheered at the four guys on stage like warriors gearing up for battle.
"I think I saw that man you were with last time around the bar area. He came in a little while ago with some pretty boy," Miss Carlata shouted at him over the noise.
Stefan would have been able to hear her just fine without her having to raise her voice, but there wasn't any point in letting her know.
"Thank you," Stefan answered. "I'm going to go try and find him."
"Good luck, hun. And I hope all goes well for you this time around."
"I think it just might."
They parted company and Stefan slipped and ducked through the crowd until he reached the bar. Just as Miss Carlata had told him, Damon was there watching a man slathered in baby oil and stripped down to his briefs swagger across the bar top. As Stefan approached, the man smirked at him and nodded his head in greeting.
Stefan nodded back.
And Damon turned around.
The older Salvatore was wearing a strange shirt with slits cut out of the sides and shoulders. His skin looked as white as freshly fallen snow against the dark black material, and it clung and molded to the contours of his body like a second skin.
"Stefan," Came Damon's voice, and it managed to sound just as threatening as it was soft. Like sweet candy laced with poison, an effect Damon had honed and perfected through the centuries. "What a pleasant surprise"
Unexpectedly, Damon's words didn't fill him with trepidation. Nor did the way his brother eyed him from top to bottom as if he were undressing him in his mind. Instead Stefan welcomed the attention, drawing on its energy to fuel the very needs he'd denied only days ago.
"You look…delicious," his brother continued.
Stefan's pulse quickened and for a moment he almost considered turning back and leaving. But he stood his ground, refusing to be intimidated so easily.
Damon smiled then and suddenly his brother knew that things were going to be alright. He wasn't exactly sure why he had such optimistic thoughts for their future, but he didn't care to conjure an explanation either. Logic was a principle of the human world and sometimes it just couldn't be applied to the rotations and spirals that were present in the lives of their kind.
When he took his brother into his arms and pulled him into a kiss, it was if the universe had clicked into place. Without the drugs in his system and his state of mind altered, he was free to explore his true feelings.
And they were as pure as morning dew, born of the essence of camaraderie and the bond they shared as brothers. Then shaped from trust, and need, and the latent desire to smooth the crevices that had been left by the past. He needed this type of intimacy, where the undercurrent of lust lurked deep below the surface. And he understood that it was what Damon needed, too.
Over Damon's shoulder he caught a glimpse of Randal leaning against the opposite end of the bar. The boy smiled at him.
And Stefan smiled back.