Of All Uncried Tears

by reddorozette

"As it turns out, you can love someone and not want to be with them." Living in denial, Elena struggles to keep her feelings in control out of loyalty to Stefan. What she fails to understand is that truth never stays hidden for long.

April 15th, 2011.

Dear diary,

I have no clue as to when I stopped wanting Stefan. I do know that I never stopped loving him because that's simply out of the question – maybe my love will change its colour one day, or maybe it already has, but it will never cease to exist. It will never dissolve or be destroyed, and it will never vanish or slip through my fingers.

However, as it turns out, you can love someone and not want to be with them. You can love someone without being in love, and you can love someone yet yearn for a change, for something different, someone different. The realization is anything but easy. I want to want Stefan. I want to be with him the way we used to, and I want him to make me feel like he used to. I want one look from him to send me down to my knees. I want him to be the only person I see in a crowded room. I want to go back to when the mere sight of him smiling would brighten up my day.

Unfortunately reality has a funny way of turning out entirely different than we want it to, and so do our feelings. No matter how much we want something to happen, it won't. No matter how much we want to feel something, we can't force ourselves into anything simply because that's how the whole concept of feeling something works. Feelings are uncontrollable and often undesired.

It's killing me, this whole situation. It kills me that around him, I don't feel a thing; not when the coldness of his marble skin meets the warmth of my own, not when his strong arms wind protectively around me, not when his sculptured lips find mine in a loving kiss.

I know he's noticed it, the way I pull back a little whenever he embraces me, and the cruel numbness in my voice whenever I echo his softly spoken 'I love you'. I can no longer feel the bond that made us unbreakable, and it scares me to a point near insanity because this, he, is all that I have, all that I know. His world is the only one I can ever imagine belonging to, and if it's taken away… what's left?

The pen stops abruptly, leaving a careless dot of colour beside the question mark. I watch the paper absorb it, my heart heavy and lonely and out of place just like the shapeless form of ink on the page of my diary as I stare at it in growing irritation. The pen is shaking in my fingers.

A feeling of guilt begins to stir in me and I run a nervous hand through my silky hair, my head dizzy with an approaching headache as I tell myself to stop thinking. Nothing good has ever come out of thinking but then again, that's who I am – I'm the girl who pours her soul out in a diary, my mind rushing from one thing to another while my pen dances on the white paper, giving a form to thoughts whose existence I know only after seeing them written on the white page.

I drop the pen on the bar counter where it lands with a sharp sound and grab the diary, the touch of its covers cold and unwelcoming against my fingertips before it slips out of my sight.

I scan around the space restlessly. The Grill is packed tonight but there's no one that I'd be particularly interested in talking with; out of my group of friends only Matt is present but he's too busy with the customers to actually interact with me. I concentrate on him for a moment, watching him perform his duties and put on a smile in front of every single customer, even those who treat him without an ounce of respect. That's Matt – noble, polite and well-behaved. I smile at his back and tear my gaze away, searching through the mass of people again.

As if on cue, Stefan steps through the door and flashes a friendly smile at me. I try my best to smile back at him with equal amount of emotion, but my attempt fails; the lack of feeling reflects on Stefan's face, his smile turning more strained, not quite reaching his dark eyes.

"Hey there," he says and drops a soft kiss on my forehead. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting."

I shook my head dismissively. "It's okay."

His observant eyes are on my face and I meet them bravely, ignoring the nearly overwhelming need to shift my gaze away. For a moment I'm convinced that he's going to ask what's wrong – he has that look on his face, that familiar shadow of concern lurking about the corners of his eyes – but then his expression softens, becomes more relaxed, and his fingers entwine with mine ever so gently.

"Let's dance," Stefan says, and the sudden and unexpected proposal changes my fake smile into a genuine one. I hesitate for the slightest moment before giving him an agreeing nod, and he leads me to where a few other couples are swaying nonchalantly to the tunes of the ballad, completely wrapped up in their own little worlds. Their love-filled bubbles are a painful reminder of all the things that I don't feel when Stefan touches me and I turn my head away in a sudden state of uneasiness.

Stefan seems unaware of my feelings, or then he simply chooses to ignore them like he has ignored everything else so far. He pulls me close, his strong arms on my waist while mine wrap around his neck, and buries his face in my hair.

"I missed you," he mutters, his hands grasping at my shirt as he draws in the scent of my bouncy dark curls. I open my mouth to reply, my lips ajar as the words dance on the tip of my tongue, but I can't bring myself to say something I don't mean. Lying isn't something that I'm particularly good at and besides, how could I ever lie to him when I know just how much truth there is in his words, how much he really has missed me although we have only been apart for the shortest of while? I know it because I know him, and I know that hint of painful longing that his voice withholds whenever he utters the words.

I sigh, resting my chin on his shoulder, and let my fingertips stroke the back of his neck. He must take my touch as a sign that I've missed him too because he says nothing more, only holds me a little tighter than before while we continue to move to the soft tunes of the music.

My eyes wander restlessly around the Grill. As much as I would like to close my eyelids and lose myself to the moment, I can't seem to be able to concentrate on Stefan alone – not when my mind is racing with thoughts I can barely make sense of myself. My hopes of having Stefan's mere presence erase the doubts considering the future of our relationship disappear, drifting away from me slowly but surely; even being this close to him fails to evoke any kind of emotion in me, despite that of great fear as I consider the option of having to walk away from him.

And then, while still observing my surroundings instead of giving my full concentration to Stefan, I spot him of all people – Damon, sitting by the counter with a glass of scotch in his hand, his eyes fixed on me and Stefan.

Our eyes lock over the mass of people and I swallow, the familiar thrill of excitement running through my body as my brown eyes meet the indefinite depth of his. Damon's expression softens immediately, the corners of his lips tugging in a smirk and his dark, brooding eyes filling with warmth as he winks at me, playful as always, and raises his glass at me as a silly gesture before emptying it in one gulp.

My forehead is bunched in a frown of irritation as I gaze back at him, refusing to return the smile but not looking away either.

I can't look away.

It's not because he's ridiculously hot – which he truly is, no one could ever deny that – or because he's in love with me; it's because the intensity of that one single moment is stronger than anything I have felt in a long while and I miss that, that weak-in-the-knees feeling when your eyes lock with someone and you realize just how much you want them, how desperate you are to touch them, how your fingertips seem to tingle at the mere thought of doing so…

Stefan's strong arms twist us around just when I begin to notice the dangerous direction of my thoughts and I heave a sigh of relief, biting my lip, my heart racing a hundred miles per hour while I try to block the stream of thoughts that has left me breathless. My back is now turned at the bar counter, but I can still feel Damon's searing stare burning holes in my back – assuming that he really is looking at me because I can't tell for sure, especially when I'm well aware of just how wild my imagination can be.

And then, just when I manage to calm myself down with tremendous effort, Stefan spins us around again and I find my assumption to be true. I shudder as my eyes meet Damon's again, my lips parting in a silent gasp when I see the bitter, possessive look in his dark orbs as he observes us – observes me. I become painfully aware of how close Stefan is, how gently his hands caress my back, how soft his lips are when they nuzzle my ear… and I wonder, for just a fragment of a second, what it would be like if it was Damon's breath tickling my ear instead of Stefan's.

I slap the thought away, force it to disappear because I know I could imagine it all too vividly – I have danced with Damon, after all, I have touched him and he has touched me, and his lips have met both my forehead and my lips, even if the latter one could barely be called a kiss. Imagining him in Stefan's place would be far too easy and therefore dangerous, too dangerous for me to handle.

My throat constricts and familiar warmth begins to gather in my eyes before I can help it, and despite my hopeless attempts to hold back the tears I break out in sobs, my lips quivering as tears trace salty paths down my cheeks.

"Hey," Stefan whispers, his voice a dark and soothing echo in my ears. He pulls away a little and cups my cheeks in his hands. "Everything okay?"

I gaze up at him with desperate eyes but tears have clouded my view. All I see are the smudged colours and contours of his face and somehow, for some completely ridiculous reason I can't comprehend myself, it makes me feel even worse and the tears start falling faster, streaming down my face in uncontrollable rivers.

"No, Stefan, nothing is okay."

His eyes fill with concern and, gently, he sweeps off the wetness from my cheeks with his thumbs. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

Every cell in my body aches at the sound of his words. It's so him, that question that isn't really a question at all but rather a gentle, inquiring whisper, caressing me in the sweetest of way with the strength of something similar to a physical touch.

For a moment I consider spilling my soul out, telling him every single thought that has passed through my mind in the past few hours, but gazing into the warmth of his eyes makes me change my mind. There's no way I can tell him something like this, not after everything we've been through, not now… not when I know how much it would hurt him, especially seeing Damon's involvement in the situation.

What makes it even worse is that I know, for certain, how Stefan would react. I can see it in my head, the hidden hurt in the depths of his eyes while he would, with a warm and loving expression, tell me that the only thing he has ever wanted is for me to be happy – even if it means for us to go our separate ways. I can hear those exact words spoken in his husky voice and the more I think about it, the more my insides twist and turn in agony.

He deserves someone so much better than me.

I drop my gaze downwards, my long eyelashes tickling my cheeks, and shake my head dismissively. My thoughts go to Damon who is probably still staring at us, wondering why I'm in tears, maybe even wanting to rush over to ask me what's wrong – and who knows, maybe even wishing to replace Stefan's hands on my waist with his own.

Then it hits me – why on earth am I thinking about Damon of all people right now? My tears of sadness turn into ones of frustration when I firmly remind myself that I do know why I'm thinking about him, that I know it all too well but shouldn't – not right now when Stefan should be of the utmost importance, when it should be his feelings that I consider and respect.

I want to scream at myself to stop being such a bitch but, given where I am and how much confusion my sudden outburst of emotion would cause, I settle on trying to think of a proper reply – in other words, a way to evade Stefan's question.

"I'd rather you just held me," I finally say, my fingers clutching desperately at the front of his shirt. The faintness of my voice seems distant and unfamiliar even in my own ears, but my words are true nonetheless; the fact that I'm trying to evade his question doesn't mean that I'd be lying. I really do want him to hold me and, indeed, his strong arms wrap around me in an instant – as is to be expected from someone as perfect as he is, someone who never forces me to talk yet is ready to be there for me, always one step ahead of me, aware of what I want and need him to do.

We stand there motionless, wrapped up in a soothing blanket of silence even when surrounded by the fuss of the people around us, my face buried in his shoulder until the tears finally dry and my breathing evens out. I pull away from him softly and reward him with a faint smile.

"It's gonna be okay," Stefan says, his words shattering the silence before I can think of anything to say. There is inevitable confidence in his voice, so strong that it reaches me too, and for a moment I almost believe him – I want to believe him, I really do, but I know my words are dripping with uncertainty when I blurt out a weak 'Yeah, I know' and step away from him.

My hand slips away from his, our fingers unwinding, and something about the normally perfectly ordinary gesture makes me feel a surge of pain that cuts right through me like a knife. I glance at my empty hand, clenching it into a fist, and quickly look back into his grey orbs.

"I'll be just a second," I say, gesturing towards the restrooms. "I need a moment."

He nods, understanding as always although I do catch a hint of worry in the way he looks at me, and I start making my way to the bathroom with slightly feeble legs. I try to keep my eyes on the ground to hide my face, unwilling to converse with anyone else and dearly hoping, praying almost, that no one has a sudden urge to approach me and ask me what's wrong.

However, as much as I struggle to keep my eyes directed elsewhere, my gaze seems to have a will of its own; it wanders to the direction of Damon only to find him sitting at the exact same spot, his eyes still on me – though this time filled with concern rather than their usual playful slyness.

I turn my head away quickly and fasten my steps.

When I pull the bathroom door open abruptly and discover it to be empty, I enter it with a sense of relief. I drag my feet to the sinks, turning the tap to leave the water running while I turn my attention to the mirrors, taking in the sight of my face. I look more or less like a zombie with my empty eyes and the streaks of mascara on my pale cheeks, my face slightly swollen and the tip of my nose red from crying.

I'm glad that no one saw me looking like this.

I bend down to splash water on my face to wash away the signs of crying, but also in hopes of relieving my anxiety. The touch of cold water on my face feels like a refreshing breeze of air on a searing summer day, and I find myself wanting to sink in waves of cool water, floating there weightlessly until a current would carry me away. Away from the Salvatore brothers, away from my troubles, away from myself…

I shook the tempting but unrealistic idea away and raise my head back up, extending an arm to grab a tissue from the shelf – just that my fingers never reach one because that's when I spot something from the corner of my eye. I narrow my eyes to see that it's not something, but someone, a dark and ominous figure hovering behind me in the mirror as if waiting to attack. A normal person would probably assume it to be nothing but another bathroom-goer but I know better, taught by experience, and immediately prepare for something a hundred times worse.

My instinctive reaction is to scream but a hand is quick to cover my mouth, muffling the sound while another hand wraps around my waist to keep me from moving. I feel the all too familiar wave of panic sweep over me and at some distant corner of my mind I find myself thinking not again, frustration building up alongside the panic as I start squirming and kicking, trying to think of a way to free myself from the attacker's hold or at least prolong the situation until Stefan realizes something is wrong.

There's something odd about it, I realize, and somewhere in the midst of panic a question awakens – why isn't the attacker doing anything other than holding me still? Confused, my eyes flicker back to the surface of the mirror.

The panic and fear dissolve that instant, replaced by a dull kind of numbness as I come to understand that I'm safe. A gush of relief attacks me and my knees buckle as I gasp for air helplessly, blood hissing in my ears and rushing to my cheeks, colouring them with a faint blush. The only thing keeping me upright is the strong arms that are still wound around my waist, although a lot less aggressive than before. The touch is almost gentle.

"Idiot," I snap breathlessly, meeting the vampire's eyes in the mirror. "What are you doing, trying to give me a heart attack?"

Damon responds to my insult with a roll of eyes, tilting his head sideways a little as the corners of his lips pull up in a smile. "I'm merely trying to be noble, Elena. I wanted to see what's going on."

"Noble is a word that no one would ever associate with you, Damon," I say dryly. My body is calming down gradually and the more coherent I become, the more aware I am of our compromising position and just how reluctant I am to change it.

"You didn't answer the question," Damon replies, ignoring my not-so-subtle hint of the unpleasantness of his character – as usual. His face is emotionless but his eyes, those captivating dark eyes, fill with concern that is so powerful, so raw, that it makes a light shudder run down my spine. I feel him tense behind me, his front pressed against my back, and the colour on my cheeks deepens to a more distinct red.

"You didn't ask anything," I mutter through lips that are barely ajar, the sound coming out all quiet and muffled like I'd be talking to him from behind a closed door.

His hands move up on my body, sliding up my side carefully and lightly. He is scarcely touching me but it's like his fingertips are on fire, leaving my skin achingly hot and longing for his touch. Once again, I register the direction of my thoughts but have no desire to fight against them.

His hands wander to grab a hold of my shoulders, resting there for a moment before he gently turns me around to face him. I drag a silent breath when our eyes meet, thinking how his face is at such a close proximity that if I were to kiss him, I would barely have to move my head. The thought sends my heart racing and for once I don't even care that he can hear it.

"What's wrong?"

The question is quiet, spoken in a voice awash with emotion, the sound of it wrenching my heart. His hands are still on my shoulders, their weight soft and comforting, and his eyes gaze into mine like they never have before. There is so much emotion present in those brown orbs, so much life hidden behind them – pain and love and resentment, the kind of life experience that you can only achieve after living through decades. I feel his love for me, I sense it on the very edges of my consciousness, yet I can't quite explain how – it's quite like what I imagine compelling feeling like. It's very vivid yet even more so unexplainable, a magical power touching the very core of my being, my mind and soul in a way I have never experienced before.

My hand jerks to touch the vervain necklace resting on my chest but, as is to be expected, it's still there, its coldness oddly soothing against the warmth of my skin. At least I can rule out the possibility of compulsion, I think to myself with a sense of relief and as soon as the thought has passed through my mind, I decide to give up on trying to figure out the reason – not because I would be running out of options to think of, but because I simply don't care.

Why should I? I think through a dizzy mind when we keep on staring at each other, the intensity of our eye contact making my heart drum a fast rhythm that interrupts my breathing, making me draw a series of breathless gasps of air.

"Nothing," I hear myself reply. I feel the words flow out of my mouth, touching my tongue, vibrating in my throat, yet it all seems like a dream, like someone else were talking. My fingers slip away from the necklace and touch Damon's chest instead, softly and hesitantly, shaking as they press against his skin.

His expression changes. His features soften and become less intimidating, less like a vampire's, and the look in his intoxicatingly beautiful eyes changes to one of slight nervousness. I drop my gaze, awkward and nervous as well, looking at my delicate hand and how tiny it looks against Damon's muscular chest, how pale the skin seems when coming in touch with the dark fabric.

"It didn't look like nothing," he says, and his voice floats through the air as soft as silk. I marvel at its beauty, my eyelids sliding close while I let it soak through me and into every single cell of my body.

I find myself leaning closer before I can help it, my face pressing up against him, my lips touching the crook of his neck. The scent of his skin sends my head spinning and my senses reeling, and my heart skips a restless beat as my fingers clutch the front of his shirt in an instinctive, desperate move. A previously well-hidden part of me has surfaced completely, silently wishing there was nothing separating my fingertips from the bare skin of his chest.

His hands slide down my back in a rather tentative manner that I don't recognize to be his because Damon Salvatore is nothing if not self-assured. I bite my lower lip nervously, wondering what he's thinking and naively hoping that I'm the very reason behind his lack of confidence – to be honest, it has been a wish of mine for a ridiculously long time now. I keep having the same image in my head, one where my mere presence makes Damon vulnerable and weak and completely helpless until he simply can't help himself, almost violently pulling me into a passionate kiss.

Then a thought strikes me faster than lighting from a thunderous sky, poisoning my mind and tensing my body – I shouldn't be doing this. My thoughts return to Stefan who's waiting for me in the next room, anxious and worried, and the guilt makes me see him even more clearly than before, my mind clinging to every detail and insignificant gesture: the shielded look in his grey eyes, the delicate curve of his lips whenever they pull up in a smile, the slightly brooding and thoughtful gaze that so very rarely softens around anyone else but me.

But the more I clutch to the image, the further he seems to slip from my reach.

"I don't love him anymore," I mumble the words against Damon's skin, again getting the disturbing feeling that it's not me who's talking but someone else – a part of me perhaps, a part that I didn't know existed, a part that has come to terms with the painful fact that my feelings for Stefan have changed. My voice is so distant and cold that I can barely recognize it to be mine.

Damon says nothing but I can feel something about him changing. Not just his body, the way he holds me, but something about his emotions, something about the way he feels for me – I can't explain it properly but I sense it, feel it, achingly realistic alongside my own feelings.

Anxious not to leave the sentence hanging in the air, I hurry to explain it further, the words blurting out of my mouth in an endless flow that is far beyond my control.

"I mean, I do love him… but I'm not in love with him, you know?" I hear the rush in my own words, the way they tumble out after one another in a panicked stream. "But he's Stefan, my Stefan, so how could I ever hurt him like this? After everything we've been through and how much he loves me, how could I ever –" Despair chokes the rest of my sentence and I feel tears gathering in my eyes for the second time that evening.

"It's okay," Damon whispers, and his cold lips touch my forehead lightly as he attempts to soothe me with a lingering kiss. His hands take a hold of me, firmer than before yet still far from hurting me, as he pushes me away softly - not completely away though but just enough to be able to gaze sympathetically into my glistening eyes.

I know what's coming when he tilts his head sideways slightly and starts leaning towards me – I know it and acknowledge it but even though that little voice of reason inside my head keeps telling me to shift away, I can't bring myself to do so. I can't, because it's something I have wanted all along.

And then, somewhere in between my hazed thoughts and feeble inner struggles, his lips find mine and my head empties of every single thought that has tormented it for the last few hours. Not a whisper of regret or a sound of conscience remains when Damon kisses me, the sweetness of his lips foreign yet oddly familiar, his fingers tangling in my hair and his hot breath tickling my lips whenever our mouths part to gasp for air. Blood boils under my skin, rushing to my face and lips, and I know it excites him because his movements become bolder, his touches more urgent and his kissing less careful.

The smallest of part somewhere deep inside me awakens in primal fear, knowing that Damon is a far cry from his controlled and peaceful brother and that there is a possibility worth considering that he might hurt me – not consciously, but simply because not holding back is in his nature. Apart from what one might think, the fear doesn't manage to knock any sense of reason to my head; instead, it seems to bring a new kind of edge to our passion, as if shaping it into a more dangerous form.

Our lips draw apart and I inhale a ragged breath, readying myself for another kiss when I suddenly feel a finger on my lips, placed there to prevent me from joining our mouths in yet another ardent meeting of mouths. The magic of the moment shatters into fine dust that floats around us in the silent bathroom, surrounding us in the sweetest of ways as if protecting us from the harsh reality that waits beyond it.

Afraid to open my eyes, I find myself standing eerily motionless while Damon's finger rests on my lips, his skin as cold as a thin crust of ice against the burning heat of my own. My fingers are still clutching at his shirt.

"We shouldn't."

His voice is low and quiet, betraying nothing, and disappointment descends upon me like a suffocating blanket. My heart gives a sudden leap before settling to a considerably slower rhythm than before, each heavy beat seeming to take a tremendous amount of effort. The warm feeling of dizziness taking place in my mind changes to a less pleasant one as reality kicks in, hitting me like a pile of bricks.

I take a deep breath and pull away from him, doing my best to ignore the searing ache in my chest when a distance comes to separate our bodies. I open my eyes but wait a moment before meeting his, wanting to keep the quivering of my lips hidden from him along with the bitter disappointment lurking about my eyes.

"You're right," I agree and snap my head up, smiling stiffly. "We should pretend this never happened."

The hurt is raw and alive in my chest, a painful burn in my throat, but I struggle to keep any trace of emotion away from my face in fear of exposing what I truly feel to him – as stupid as the mere attempt is, given his excellent skill at noticing even the slightest of changes in my behaviour and state of mind. I stare into the depths of his dark eyes blankly, determined not to let my façade falter, while trying to decipher the emotion in his. Just when I seem to catch a hold of it, a faint touch of understanding beginning to grow somewhere inside me, he shuts down completely and becomes but an emotionless, controlled face, nothing in his appearance giving even the slightest of hint about what's going on behind the shielded surface.

He shakes his head, dark curls bouncing to cover his forehead, and he raises a restless hand to push them away. "I never said that."

Something close to relief sweeps over me and I hear myself sigh heavily, the sound of it shattering my composed mask in a fragment of a second. His, however, doesn't so much as falter and I feel a cold numbness in the edges of my being again, slowly creeping its way into my very core.

He cares, I conclude with bitterness, but I'm not the only one he cares about. The realization is heavy and hopeless on my mind.

"Maybe not," I finally whisper and take a step backwards, "But that's exactly what you should have said." My head is whirling and the mixture of emotions pressing against my ribcage is like a heavy, smoky cloud, blocking my breathing a little so that my voice sounds thick and hoarse.

I spin around on my heel, taking a few determined steps towards the door that seems to be miles away from where I am. My legs and hands are shaking helplessly and I feel so utterly foolish that I want to hide, bury myself somewhere far away from the eyes of absolutely everyone and especially Stefan's, because I have no idea how I can ever face him, how I can ever look him in the eye and pretend that nothing happened. The numbness has finally reached the very core of my soul but there is another feeling present as well, slowly lurking its way to accompany the cold nothingness: guilt.

As is to be expected, Damon is not going to accept my abrupt leave. His fingers wrap firmly around my arm in such a quick manner that I startle a little, my human senses too weak to detect his movements, and the touch sends a stream of shivers right up my arm and into my heart, making me shudder. Instead of turning to face him I stay eerily still, frozen in mid-movement, my hand extended backwards where he's holding it.

His fingers slide softly down my bare arm, his cold fingertips like ice on my skin as they softly find their way down in an agonizingly slow movement until they finally reach mine and entwine with them ever so gently. My eyelids drop close as I part my lips to inhale him, my lungs filling with his heady scent, and every aching part of my being is wishing, begging at me to twist around and kiss him again.

"No," I hear Damon's dark voice whisper hurriedly as if in fear of not getting his point through in time. "I can't pretend any longer, Elena. I'm done pretending that I'm not in love with you."

I feel like someone would have snatched the floor from underneath me and sent me falling down into a dark abyss – with the difference that the darkness is pleasant rather than suffocating, and the falling feels more like flying, like I'd be soaring through the air as light as a feather. Happiness is bubbling up inside me as I let his words caress me, let them slowly sink into my consciousness and even deeper so that I can hide them somewhere in the corners of my mind and keep them there forever as a reminder of this moment, this one, perfect touch of fantasy come true.

I blink the dreamy haze away and turn my head slowly to look at him over my shoulder, giving him a faint smile that barely tugs the corners of my lips. I have no idea what to say. An agonizingly big part of me wants to rush right back to his embrace and stay there till the end of time, locked into the safety of those strong arms, but the tiny part of me that is still able to think rationally – although barely – reminds me that I can't. Crossing the line twice would be completely unforgivable.

Damon's train of thoughts must not differ much from mine. The smile he gives me is dry and humourless, scarcely a smile at all, and his black eyes are heavy with defeat and hopelessness, so that they seem bottomless to me, having penetrated their way into his soul steadily over the time we have known each other. His confidence is punctured, his slyness erased, his mind wounded to the point of endless bleeding.

A cold, piercing feeling of pain rushes through me in a restless shudder and I draw my hand away from his, ignoring the pounding agony in my chest when our fingers separate and that miserable tangle of feelings strengthens in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," I say, my voice a hesitant and fragile whisper in the nearly tangible tension that is hanging in the air between us. "It's Stefan, Damon."

Without waiting for him to reply, without even so much as allowing myself to spot any change of expression or emotion on his face, I quickly depart the bathroom with steps that I can hardly control. I don't have to see his face to know how he feels, or wait for his reply to know that he understands, that he shares my pain. My legs feel too feeble and weak to carry my weight but somehow, through a miracle or strength that I'm yet unaware of, I manage to maintain my balance.

My eyes search the room hastily and spot Stefan who is standing near the pool table with a glass in his hands, his brooding eyes fixed on me. I smile at him even while knowing how insincere it must look and allow my steps to lead me towards him as quickly as possible, my body tense with nervousness and my mind clouded by guilt and sadness and the pain of what I have done. A part of me is expecting Damon to burst in any minute and do something reckless – as to what that could be exactly, different yet equally frightening opinions spring to my mind until my uneasiness reaches an unbearable point. The forced smile starts hurting my cheeks as I struggle to maintain it.

I walk through the mass of people, evading an occasional elbow or a heavy step on my toes until I reach Stefan. His grey eyes observe me with the knowledge of many passed decades, and his lips are ajar with a silent, unspoken question that neither of us needs to hear aloud. I answer it wordlessly, inclining my head in a little nod and smiling at him with reassurance, extending my hand to take a hold of his. My fingers meet his in a slightly hesitant touch while my gaze is fixed on his face, expecting a bright smile to light his handsome features and soften the shadows on his sculptured cheekbones.

Just that one never appears. Instead, his eyes darken at my touch and his body becomes rigid, his fingers unmoving against mine while his face hardens into a bitter expression of anger. My heart sinks like thrown into icy water, and the numbness from before returns without a warning, drowning me underneath.

"Stefan?" I call cautiously, panic straining my voice. I push away the mocking voice that keeps chanting he knows over and over again in my head and force myself to concentrate on Stefan instead, knowing what's coming – knowing because I've seen it happen all too many times before, seen it so many times that I can already read the signs and spot the smallest of changes in his appearance.

I pull my hand away from his quickly and place it on the side of his face instead, looking firmly into his eyes with my lips in a tight, determined line. I ignore the empty, restless jump my heart takes when I see his face changing, his features tightening and eyes becoming clouded and cruel, darker than black and surrounded by an eerie, unnatural hardness. I have witnessed the change countless of times but it never ceases to make my insides curl into a tight, painful ball that blocks my breathing.

I need him to notice my existence, to respond to my touch, but he seems to be completely unaware of my being there. His gruesome, monster-like eyes are glued on a fixed point behind me and the look in them is nothing but pure hatred, so raw and alive that it sets his face alight, making it glow with an unpleasant darkness that I have rarely seen clouding his beautiful features. Rage surges through him in shudders that I can actually feel against my fingertips, and the look in his slit eyes is like that of a furious, uncontrollable fire, burning everything in its way into ash. Wary and frightened, I swallow the lump in my throat and glance over my shoulder to see what he's glowering at with such unnerving fury.

Damon. The older Salvatore brother is standing by the bathroom door with his eyes fixed on us and unlike before, his face is completely expressionless and so still that he looks almost dead. My heart turns cold at the sight because I have never seen him like this, without a trace of emotion, without a smug smile or a sly pair of seducing eyes – and most of all, without the need to respond to Stefan's anger with rage of his own.

I look away quickly to block it away, turning my attention back to Stefan who's still as motionless as before, staring at his brother with searing hatred.

"Stefan," I repeat desperately, everything in my voice and eyes urging for him to listen to me. "Look at me."

The demand is clear and strong in my voice, surprising even myself, and slowly Stefan's eyes flicker to mine with mild surprise, holding the gaze a little unsteadily but holding it nonetheless. I refuse to let any emotion other than determination dominate my face as I stare bravely into his black eyes, hoping for them to change to their usual soft grey.

"Talk to me," I say, lowering my voice into something barely above a whisper, something that only he can hear. "Tell me what's wrong, Stefan. You can't get mad right now when we're surrounded by all these people, you hear me? You can't. You have to let me know what's going on."

A few painfully slow seconds pass by as he stares at me as if contemplating my words, realizing the truth in them – I can almost see the series of thoughts that float through his mind. Then, slowly, the hardness on his face becomes less distinct, the sharp edges softening into smudged, hazy outlines that make him look more like a human being and less like a vicious monster. Deep behind his eyes, there is a shade of a feeling, shy and faltering as if not quite ready to surface.

"Damon," Stefan finally says, his voice so stiff and hollow I can't bring myself to feel relieved just yet. "What did he do to you?"

A hint of panic awakens in me but I stifle it before it gets a hold of me – I don't have time to be panicked, not when he's looking at me expecting an answer, his eyes searching my face for any signs that might reveal anything else but bewilderment.

"What are you – Stefan, I'm fine!" I breathe out, my eyes wide and round with faked surprise. "I didn't even know he was here, I… I haven't even talked with him today."

The lie burns my mouth like acid. I swallow in a helpless attempt to force the feeling away but it gets stuck in my throat, remaining there as a poisonous, suffocating fire. Stefan is eyeing me, not suspiciously but with tangible sadness, and I come to realize that it's what he was trying to hide from me – sadness, hurt, pain.

He knows. He must know.

I feel my body turning limp and I detach my hand from his cheek, letting it drop weightlessly to my side, where it hangs like something that doesn't belong to me, as if it were a separate part of my body. My mind is numb and blank like an untouched piece of paper and my face drains of colour, all traces of emotion fleeing despite my best efforts. I wait for him to respond, each second agonizingly long and heavy in the air between us while I wait for the words "you're lying" to slip past his lips. Laughter bubbles up inside me, unexpected and inappropriate, as I realize how ironic it is that he should be the one to destroy us – him of all people, him and his sweet, perfect lips. Those lips should never be forced to pronounce such ugly words. He should never be the one to bring the heavy shade of reality on us when I was the one who destroyed us in the first place, when I was the one who separated our intertwined lives from one another.

It should be me, I think bitterly and open my mouth – a second too late.

"I believe you," Stefan says, the sadness in his eyes shattering into something I can no longer catch a hold of. His voice is oddly controlled and unnaturally toneless, reminding me of our earlier times when everything about him was shielded and hidden from me, allowing me to barely scratch the surface and pushing everything else out of my reach. I blink, staring at him with blank disbelief until it dawns on me that he is the one lying now, and the disbelief is replaced by a haunting coldness, the same burdening guilt that I have felt all along returning with an even greater force than before.

He's slipping away with each passing second like he would be building a wall between us, one designed to keep me away and him far out of my reach. I'm all too familiar with it – I just never thought that it would come down to this again.

"Stefan, please don't –" My desperate sentence is silenced abruptly by his finger on my lips, hushing me. The plea is clear and painful in his eyes – don't talk, not right now, they tell me, shadowed by a feeling that I can neither understand nor decipher. It takes every ounce of my willpower to nod in agreement when all I want to do is tell him the truth, to stop lying and pretending like everything's okay when nothing is, and nothing will be if we continue this little game of ours.

But I owe it to him to play by his rules for now. I have to nurse whatever dignity he has left and treat him with respect, the kind that I never showed or even considered showing while kissing his older brother in the bathroom only moments earlier. The memory returns to me as a burning image, the sweet touch of Damon's lips popping into my head in the form of a hideous, tempting monster and I shove it away violently, drowning it somewhere in the stormy depths of my mind. Now is not the time to think about it.

Stefan gives me a smile that scarcely resembles one and gestures towards the dance floor. It's a languid wave of hand, ever so elegant despite the thick, brooding air that hangs between us like a storm cloud, and I respond to it with a stiff nod after a brief moment of consideration, of wondering and surprise – dancing hardly seems like the appropriate thing to do right now. Nonetheless, I grant him the privilege of a choice, ignoring my own reluctance, and slip my hand to his.

My palm is covered in cold sweat as it rests against his and by the time we reach the dance floor, my nervousness is nearly overflowing, pumping adrenalin through my veins in a pace so swift that it makes my head dizzy. Stefan's arms surround me, winding around my waist, and mine wrap around his neck just like earlier – except that the feeling is completely different from before, our bodies tense and unable to relax, and the short distance between our bodies stretching into miles of foggy darkness that neither of us can erase.

There is a sense of foreboding in the air, but also that of farewell, the both of them mixing up together into one horrifying atmosphere that wraps around us like something attached with superglue, refusing to inch away. My throat constricts as I think that this might be the last time we ever dance together, the last time he ever holds me in his arms – even if those arms are currently anything but familiar and safe. Apart from what one might think, the idea makes me relieved rather than sad, and the constricting of my throat is barely caused by anxiety and guilt.

I dare not to get any closer to him that necessarily, swaying a safe distance away, my eyes glassy and unfocused as they stare over his shoulder. The memories of kissing Damon invade my mind once again and this time I don't struggle to push them away – instead, I hastily search for the older brother's eyes, hoping to get a sense of relief from the warmth of his gaze. I need reassurance and comfort from the person who's with me in the betrayal.

I find him in the same spot as before, by the bar counter, though this time without a glass in his hands. His expressionless eyes, now the shade of an icy blue, offer me no comfort and I bite my lip in disappointment. I must not cry. Not right now.

I try to search for something in Damon's eyes. I don't need warmth or understanding or sympathy – I just need something, anything at all to appear in those cold orbs instead of their dull lack of emotion. His gaze is burning me in every possible way and I put my very best effort into communicating with him silently, forcing every emotion I'm feeling to appear in my eyes: desperation, love, care, hurt, sadness, confusion, doubt, and a list of other ones that I'm too tired to interpret. I get the same disappointing nothingness in return but while his face remains expressionless, he does give me an inconspicuous shake of a head, one that remains almost undetected by my weak human eyes.

Not now.

I almost hear his dark voice whispering the words that I understand from that single, almost non-existent movement. Not now – now's not the time for this. He looks at me for a few lingering seconds before he gets to his feet, his each movement as effortless and light as ever, as he closes the distance between himself and the door with steps that seem eager to leave the space. Then, with one last backward glance at my direction, one moment of searing longing, he exits the Grill and leaves me with a gnawing feeling of anxiety.

I stare at the closed door and suddenly, an inappropriate urge to laugh makes my insides curl in an attempt not to. The situation is ridiculous – I'm dancing with Stefan, pretending that everything is okay to spare his feelings while secretly longing to run after his brother. It's like a plot twist from a soap opera, the only difference being that it's actually happening and there's no way to erase the last few pages of the script. Most importantly, the pen is in my hand, and it's my responsibility to finish the episode.

I inhale slowly and deeply. The fresh amount of oxygen in my lungs is both a pleasant and a painful feeling, reminding me of the breath that you swiftly draw when your head breaks the surface after an excruciatingly long period spent underwater. Now that I think about it, while preparing myself mentally for what I'm about to say, that metaphor is oddly fitting. Stefan and I have spent a long period of time in the depths of swirling dark water, refusing to surface because surfacing is the same as accepting defeat – and accepting defeat is the same as allowing our story to come to an end.

At that moment, I realize that there is no more dignity that I should nurse, or rules that I should follow – rather than allowing Stefan this prolonged moment of pretending, I should express my respect for him by telling the truth. That's the only way in which I can honour the journey we have taken together.

"Stefan," I call his name softly and pull away, looking at him with newfound determination. His deathly pale face drains of animation, and the grey of his eyes is slowly fading away into a shade of dull autumn rain, merciless and cold – and yet he looks perfect, his face in the from an ancient portrait of a noble young prince. His skin lacks its usual glow like someone would have erased it carelessly, leaving behind a matte surface.

It pains my heart to see him suffering like this, and a part of me wonders whether he will ever be able to survive it. I remember Katherine and how incredibly difficult it was for Stefan to deal with the loss, how painful the process of healing a broken heart was after her departure. Even that was different, not offering a proper perspective here, because his love for me is deeper and real in a way theirs has never been – thus, much more difficult to move on from.

But I need to do this. I know I do.

I observe him lovingly for a few more seconds, my heart heavy with pain, and place my hand on his arm. He stiffens, a piercing hurt expression crossing his face, but doesn't pull away.

I drag in a long breath, my lips drawing apart as I unsteadily whisper: "We need to talk."