Damon picks up a few dark clothes from the dresser, does not bother closing it and limply throw them in the general direction of the opened bag on the bed. They miserably miss and land on the raffled sheets. He ignores that fact, and heads toward the bathroom. But on the threshold he has to stop, and to lean against the wall to fight off the white spots dancing in front of his eyes.

By the time the dizziness ebbs away, he is sitting on the floor, his back to the wall, arms resting on his knees. He suddenly feels cold. Very cold. He swears under his breath. He is dead, he should not be bothered by the cold. He leans his head back against the wall, letting his mind go empty.

This needs to end, he thinks distantly. One way or another, it has to end.

And although he tries to stop it, his mind wanders around the room, takes in the furniture, the dust slowly flying and dancing in the light like little gold particles, the cracks of the fire that Saint Stefan had insisted on starting earlier. The sound used to always soothe him. But not anymore. Nothing soothes him much nowadays.

Truth be told, he had always figured he was above caring for such trivial, simple things. You come with nothing, you leave with nothing. He had enjoyed life like very few had, and when his time would come, well, that would just be it. No need to make a big deal out of it. He would leave with no regrets. He was above this all. That is what he thought, before. And now, in between fits of pain and cough, he sometimes finds himself giving lingering looks to some things full of memories in his room, like... well, just like Stefan would. Which pisses him off. Which is good he guessed, pissed off was much more his style.

Fuck it, he thinks with feelings, and he makes to try and stand up.

But mid-movement, blind burning pain pierces through his chest. He coughs, coughs and coughs again until he can taste blood on his tongue. He feels like his lungs are on fire, and maybe they are because some scarlet drops escape his lips and fall on the floor.

Please make it stop.

.

She does not stop when she reaches the top of the stairs, does not hesitate at the door, barely knocks before entering the room. She does not take time to think, and maybe break.

She remembers she used to think a lot, back then. She would think, turn everything that happened in her mind, trying to make sense of it, to foresee and anticipate. She scoffs a little. How much good that had ever done her. She had been caught in a tornado since she was 16, and there was no point in asserting how to make things better. You leave, go somewhere else, and do what you have to do.

The way she saw it now, there are some things you have to do, wether you like it or not. No need to cry or be a baby about it. You just do it. Things take a turn for the worst the moment you stop, ponder, and try to get out of doing them.

And that is how she has lived since that fateful day she cut her ties with Mystic Falls.

The door opens to his room softly lit by a dying fire, curtains drawn. The familiar smell of old wood hits her senses and tries to force memories of another time to her mind, but she brushes the feeling off easily. She is stronger than that now.

The room is a bit messier than it used to, but otherwise nothing has changed, her mind vaguely notices, before her eyes fall onto him.

Only wearing one of his trademark black jeans, he is sitting against the wall, legs propped up, arms resting on them, eyes closed. But all she can really see are the blue veins on his torso, starting from his heart and spreading in all directions, dark tentacles gnawing at his life.

She calls his name, or barely whispers it. No sign that he can hear her.

She starts towards him, not very sure how to do this, and finally drops to her knees when she gets to him, and tentatively makes to touch him on the shoulder.

He thinks he sees her worried face dancing in front of him, can feel the warmth of her fingers on his forearm.

"Damon?"

The voice has him focusing, and he makes the effort to slowly blink.

"Are you with me?" The same damn voice.

What is happening to him? Klaus had not said anything about going nuts. He distinctly remembers the original gloating about the excruciating pain, the getting more and more feeble every day. The little fucker never said mind fuck was on the menu.

He looks, around the room, a bit lost, before focusing back on her.

She smiles then.

"Hey."

It dawns on him with the strength of a punch. She is here. Staring at him worryingly while he fights to keep his breathing as even as he can.

"So, I leave you for 2 minutes, and you get yourself in this mess, huh?"

He just plays along for the hell of it, refuses to think of the how, the why, and the what-the-hell? He would scowl if he could, but settles for a short snort.

"2 minutes? Funny. It seemed longer."

There is malice in her smile now.

"I was talking in vampire time."

That has him laughing.

And then coughing, coughing so much that it seems like it will never end, coughing so much he cannot even take a breath in and feels like he is on the verge of suffocating.

In the fuzzy fog that is his mind, he feels her touching him, gripping his wrist and gently pulling at it, and then lifting his arm over her head, on her shoulder. A tender arm finds its way around his waist, and just like that he is on his feet. Or as close as he will get.

She still smells like home, he thinks, surfing on the wave of pain.

They made it to the bed so quickly he is almost sure he must have passed out a bit.

But it does not matter. All that matters is the warm body he is relying on, the reality of her hands as she settles behind him on the bed, one leg on each side of his hips, and tries to make him confortable. All that matters is her breathe against his forehead, her hair that tingles the other side of his face.

And suddenly even all of this disappear in a blink, and all that really matters is the tender skin pressing hard again his closed lips. He doesn't waste half a second opening them and his first instinct is to playfully nibble on it, before lazily passing his tongue on the bite. This sends a shiver down her arm, and like if it was the signal he had been waiting, he tightens his grip on her and his fangs break through her skin without hesitation.