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CHAPTER TWO | DISCONNECTED
Damon Salvatore spun bourbon in his short glass, sitting in the armchair in the parlor facing out at the window. The sun felt pleasantly warm compared to the frigid, sterile air in his father's home.
Upstairs, he could hear the arguments soaring, furious words leaving his brother's lips before his father agreed in frustration. Damon closed his eyes and pictured Stefan, standing tall even as he leaned to meet his father's level. Then, Giuseppe, with his graying hair slicked back, thin as it was, while his eyelids slowly slid shut and his head tilted back onto the headboard of his exquisite, elaborately carved headboard.
"I'm doing all that I can to get him out of here, but he won't listen to me."
"Well, maybe he'll listen to my foot up his ass."
Damon smiled at the overheard conversation, took a sip, and stood. He had to squint to see through the glaring sunshine. Out at the road, the trees spun in the wind, shaking loose a few leaves which danced in the air briefly before floating to the ground.
The conversation upstairs seemed to dim, and although the voices were still angry, they were not as loud and urgent as they had been before. No more flaming fury, only controlled loathing.
And that was all Damon could expect from the two of them. He knew that he wouldn't be welcomed back, and he knew that if he wanted to stay there, he would never hear the end of it from the other two occupants.
The door to the parlor opened, revealing a calm, cool, and collected Stefan. Damon turned from the window, his eyes meeting those of his brother directly.
"You will not be permitted to stay," Stefan said, closing the door slowly behind him. He strode across the room, eyeing the drink already in his brother's hand, and chuckled humorlessly. "I see you've already found father's supply."
Damon shrugged. "It's not like he was hiding it – I mean, really, it's been in the same place for ten years."
"Go ahead," he said, leaning up against the sofa's armrest. "Help yourself to whatever you like." Stefan paused, looking down before meeting his brother's eyes again. "And then leave."
"You keep telling me to leave, and I keep telling you I'm staying. I feel like we could go back and forth for a long, long time, until..."
His eyebrows raised. "'Until,' what?"
Damon stood, started toward Stefan, and paused as their shoulders met. "Until one of us get a foot shoved up their ass."
Stefan's mouth dropped open a fraction as footsteps left the room, followed by a faint "and it sure as hell isn't going to be me."
He waited until the footsteps faded before narrowing his eyes, shoving a fist into the side of the sofa, and shutting his eyes. Damon was the same irritating, unconcerned, hard-headed brother that had left three years ago, and as much as he had hated him when he left, Stefan knew now that he hated him even more after coming back.
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Elena's dark brown eyes watched out the window from her seat in fourth period, trained on the tree on the school lawn as History class dragged on. It was winding and twisted in its trunk, and at the ends of its branches, spidery twigs clawed at the graying sky.
Fall was the beginning of many things, but to Elena, it was always an end.
She felt a kick to the back of her chair, and when she turned around, a pair of glassy blue eyes stared her down from beneath long, thick eyelashes.
"Pay attention," Caroline mouthed, and kicked her underneath her chair.
Elena rolled her eyes, offering her friend a slight smile, sideways as it was. She began pretending to focus, just as her friend had instructed, but her ears rang as Mrs. Pierce's old, frail hand picked up a piece of chalk and dragged it across the chalkboard's green hue. The sound it produced was cringeworthy.
The first week of school was bad, but the second one was worse. It was the beginning of a routine, and the reminder that life dragged on even when she didn't want it to. The worst part was feeling as though she was being left behind by everything and everyone, but in a twisted way, she didn't care.
Elena Gilbert wanted to be left behind.
As the bell rang at the completion of third period, her brown eyes suddenly focused, glancing down at her notebook with nothing written on the open page except the date in the upper right corner.
Caroline shoved her chair before standing, immediately breaking into a tirade about something involving cheerleading. Elena could only bring herself to half-listen, so as her words went in one ear, they came right back out the other. She watched as pink lips moved furiously, ranting about how missing tryouts was just another misdirection in her friend's life – because Caroline was the self-appointed expert on everything Elena did – and she couldn't believe her friend had changed so much.
Of course, she didn't catch half of this, and merely stared blankly up at Caroline. A headache pierced her temples and she drew back slightly, pressing a hand to her forehead.
"Oh, I'm sorry Elena, on top of missing the cheerleading tryouts yesterday after school, and on top of not paying attention in History, I'm also giving you a migraine." She paused, huffing, and folded her arms across her chest.
"Caroline," she started, but was cut off immediately.
"No, don't even bother." Caroline walked past Elena and moved swiftly out the door, chin raised slightly and a scowl scrawled on her face – a face that was almost always smiling, which made her attitude seem out of place.
Or maybe Elena had never seen this side of Caroline. For the past year, her friend had tried to continue including her in everything; more invitations to parties, football games, hangouts with Bonnie, dress shopping for Homecoming... But the more she did to include her, the more it became forced.
Maybe it was all Elena's fault, just as it seemed everything was. She wasn't perky enough anymore to keep up with anyone or anything.
To Elena, crawling into a hole and sleeping through winter was a wishful thought.
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Damon approached his father's bedroom, slowly at first, but with a purpose after reaching the top of the spiraling staircase. The door was clicked shut, and as he raised his wrist, he nearly thought better of it.
I have to face him sooner or later, he thought, nearly rolling his eyes at the thought. And this isn't going to be pretty.
He listened briefly for any sound, and when he heard none, he knocked three times. Inside, he heard his father groan and stride to the door, muttering something about how it had better be important Stefan, and if that no-good, poor excuse for a son was still lingering about, tell him to –
The door swung open, revealing a man whose face looked nothing like it had before. There were thick creases in his forehead, wrinkles around his eyes and the corners of his mouth – wrinkles that Damon did not remember. His gray hair was thinner, he was thinner. He seemed a shadow of his former self, with dark eyes, dark lips, and a complex darkness to the way he appeared. His demeanor seemed angrier, though Damon couldn't be sure if that was due to his age, his condition, or the fact that his poor excuse for a son was still lingering about – and was standing in his doorway.
"Get the hell out of my sight," Giuseppe spat.
"Well don't get too excited to see me." Damon paused, glancing behind the old man at the bedroom he had exiled himself to. "After reuniting with Stefan, this is certainly a ray of sunlight."
The old man's grimace consumed him. "You are not welcome in my house. You don't belong here."
"I'm a Salvatore, aren't I?" Damon straightened, then nodded toward the bed. "Been doing a lot of sleeping?"
"It's none of your business."
He moved past his father and into the room, trying to ignore the protests suddenly spewing from the man's mouth, and looked around. The window was closed, the blinds were drawn, and the only real light came from a dim lamp at the bedside table. It seemed that a haze had fallen upon the room, covering it in a grayness that came when hope was gone.
"You need some fresh air," Damon said suddenly, interjecting his father's rant which he had not been entirely listening to.
"I don't need anything." His son turned to meet his gaze, which was sharp. "Not as far as you're concerned. Stefan and I–"
"Have it all under control?" Silence hung between them, thick in the air that was stale and hard to breathe. "Because, I mean, as far as I can tell you're living in a prison. I mean, this is just awful."
Giuseppe's forehead creased even further, but he sighed nonetheless. "You expect to just waltz in here, after we haven't heard a word from you in three years, and tell me that you want to help. Well, I don't believe you. And why should I?"
Damon folded his arms across his chest, wishing he had a glass of bourbon to occupy himself with at a moment such as this. All he had was this room that decayed an empty lifelessness, the guilt which gnawed at the insides of his stomach, and his father.
When he finally spoke, it was with such an honesty that Giuseppe had no words.
"I'm your son."
He hung his head and breathed in deeply, which pained his lungs to the point that he let out a cough. Damon eyed the man who in many ways was a stranger, searching for something else to say to fill the void, but there was nothing.
Finally, after the man finished coughing and made his way back to the bed, he closed his eyes and let his shoulders fall.
"You can stay," he said. "But know that you are no son of mine."
Guilt exhausted in the pit of Damon's stomach, and as he turned to leave, he saw his father look away, as though he could not bear another moment in his company... as though he could not bear to see the man his son became.
Damon left quietly, resting his head on the closed door behind him.
Well, he thought after a moment, that was a bit more painful than I had expected.