A lazy smirk falls across Damon's lips as he falls back against the pillows. The leggy redhead curls up into his side, her breasts rest atop his chest. He reaches over and grabs the flute of champagne, taking a long sip. The faintest smell of cigarettes come from out the window, mixing with the aroma of rich breads and cheeses. Damon has been to many places, but Marseille may be one of his favorites. The alcohol, the blood, the sex. He may just have to put roots down here for a bit. Two weeks isn't enough.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand. The redhead-Annette, Claire, Gisele, he can't remember-stirs but doesn't wake. Damon drops the flute and picks up the device. He's ready to press ignore when he sees the 434 area code. He gently lays her onto the bed and slips from beneath the sheets. Without bothering to pull anything on, he walks out onto the balcony and presses "accept".

"Hello?"

"It's Richard Lockwood."

Damon arches a brow. "Dick," he says coolly. "What can I do for you?" He chuckles upon the uppity mayor's scoff.

"Can't be professional for a second, can you?"

"I'm not one of your lowly subjects, Dick." Damon looks out at the darkness, lit up by the bright lights of the city. "What time's it there, anyway? 6?"

"Just about."

"Working late. Anything to avoid the wife and kid?"

"Damon. This is serious. If you could shut your mouth for about 5 seconds."

He gestures, despite the mayor unable to see him. "By all means."

"Thank you. We've had an uptick in residents lately, mostly vampires returning home. Your brother was among the group."

Damon nods. "I'm well aware." Stefan keeps him updated of where he's headed most of the time, especially when he settles down for more than a month. "Not a choice I would agree with, but what can you do?"

"We've done what we can to accommodate him. He's 17, but we know he's not like the mortal teenagers. He doesn't have to attend school, but can't drink publicly."

"I'm aware of the rules." Damon pokes his head back into the room. Unnamed Red Head sleeps soundly. "If we could wrap this up, I'm very busy."

"Fine," Richard exhales, annoyed. "I was going over the records of the newcomers' classifications. When Stefan came to town, he informed me that he's a caregiver. However, when I went back into his original documentation from the early 1900s, it said different."

Damon frowns, anxiety bubbling up in his stomach. "What are you trying to say?"

"Stefan's not a caregiver, Damon. He's a Little."

Little.

The word bounces around Damon's brain, barely registering. He blinks a few times.

"Little," he repeats.

"Yes. I can fax you the information if you'd like."

"You…you do that…"

"It's not required for Littles to have a caretaker, but I thought you should know. If he's lying to us, I'm sure he was doing the same to you."

"Yup," Damon's voice comes out haunted. "Lying all over the place."

"Where are you currently?"

Damon stares out onto the busy streets below. He's far from his brother. Too far.

"Damon?"

His head snaps up and he remembers who's on the other line. "Hm?"

"Where are you right now? I can get the information to you."

For once, the mayor sounds calm, almost nice. Damon shifts uncomfortably.

"C2 Hotel, in Marseille. I…I uh, don't know the fax number."

"Rachel can look it up. I'll have it to you within the hour."

"Okay. Um…how is he doing? Stefan, I mean?"

"To be quite honest, I don't see much of him. He hangs out with Tyler occasionally, but I admit I spend a lot of my time in the office. He's stayed out of trouble, followed all of the rules we set. A model citizen. But of course, I can't tell you what goes on behind the walls of your boarding house."

"Of course," Damon breathes. "I have to go. You fax that over."

"Right away."

Damon disconnects the call before the mayor can say anything else. He stands frozen in place, the anxiety in his stomach rising.

He sits in the Mystic Tavern, knocking back a shot of bourbon. Every so often, he checks his pocket watch. The night is young, but Damon impatient. A hand claps his shoulder and Damon shakes his head.

"You're late."

"Sorry," Stefan says, hopping up on the stool beside him. "'Tis only 8."

"You were meant to be here an hour ago."

"I was waiting for my results."

Damon arches a brow. "And?"

"Caregiver."

Damon takes in his brother for a moment. Frozen at 17, he'll forever look like a child. The height of a man, with the slight baby fat in the cheeks and innocence implanted in those green eyes. Light brown, nearly blonde, locks that curl when wet. Stefan is close to being a man, and yet in so many ways, Damon still sees a little boy in him. The way he always sees the good in others. That pout on his face whenever things don't go his way. His slight clinginess. While Stefan can go months without seeing his big brother, when they are together, he's never far from Damon's side. He still has that stuffed bunny for Christ's sake.

He's a caregiver. A caregiver.

Damon opens his mouth to argue when a blonde comes into his line of sight. He knocks back another shot and passes the remaining to Stefan.

"We have much to celebrate then. Catch up."

Damon's wobbly legs bring him back into the room. He slowly looks around. Clothes strewn everywhere, his boxers somehow on the ceiling fan. Empty bottles of champagne and bourbon, ready for housekeeping to pick up come morning. Unnamed Red Head naked beneath the hundred count sheets. They're within walking distance of a bar that could easily offer more women for the night.

This has been Damon's life for the past hundred years. Change the country, the city, but the activities remain. Partying, sex, booze. Occasionally, he'll enroll in university but that never sticks. Even when he's with Stefan, his baby brother is along for the ride. They're not taking care of each other anymore, they're each other's wingmen.

The times they are together aren't that often. They always try to land in the same place for Christmas, but there's been a few years they've let it slip. Damon prefers to travel alone. Stefan is occasionally with Lexi. They'll reconvene at least once a year swap tales. Even if they do head out somewhere together, the longest trek was 2 years.

"We have all of eternity to bug the hell out of each other," Damon told his brother once. "We can take our space."

Stefan's happy with the arrangement, or at least that's what Damon saw.

"It's what you wanted to see," he whispers.

It was easier to tell himself that Stefan was okay. He ignored the abandoned puppy dog eyes whenever the two parted. Told himself that his brother was just a hugger when he'd cling on a little too long upon reuniting. The whining, pouting, that's just who his brother is. Becoming a vampire heightens your personality and Stefan's always somewhat turned into a little baby around his big brother. It makes sense. Damon acted as both dad and brother after Lily died. He always babied Stefan a bit. That's what brothers are supposed to do. That doesn't mean Stefan can't live alone. He's managed just fine.

Right?

Damon flinches upon the memory of seeing Stefan with slightly red eyes and paler skin. He dragged his little brother out of the bar in Seattle, grabbing the nearest squirrel and forcing him to feed.

"I've partied a little hard," Stefan argued. "I forgot we needed blood for a bit."

Stefan had been a vampire for 90 years by that point. No one "forgets" to feed at that point. At least not adults.

He's a teenager. Turned at just 17. You can't expect him to have the same capacity as you.

The signs were there. Always. Damon ignored them. Every cry for help, every signal that his baby brother needed him.

And for what?

Damon stands naked, slightly buzzed, in a French hotel room. He refused to help his brother, so he could have a fun eternity. Make up for all those years spent becoming the man that Father wanted. Joined the war, despite not agreeing with the practice. Planned to marry someone of society. All to keep Giuseppe proud, and hopefully the expectations on Stefan lowered. If Damon was the ideal son, then Stefan could have the life he wanted.

In the end, that's exactly what happened. Stefan forced him to feed on human blood and turned him. Damon's feelings be damned, at least Stefan was happy. It took so long to forgive him for that, well after the classification system was put into place. And by the time the anger and resentment was gone, that was just their relationship. Even though they never spoke of it, Stefan knew how he felt.

Likely contributing to the lie. Stefan hid what he needed, so he wouldn't be selfish once more.

"Stupid little brat!"

The redhead's eyes flicker open. Damon groans, tilting his head back.

She sits up, clinging the sheets to her body. "Something wrong?" She's got an American accent, a tourist. Just like him.

"Nothing." He bends down and grabs the slinky black cocktail dress, tossing it her way, "Wakey wakey, time to go."

She glances at the glowing alarm clock on the nightstand. "It's nearly 1 in the morning."

Damon finds his wallet and digs out some cash. He walks right up to her, getting on eye level. Her green eyes link with his.

"Take this money, get dressed, go down and hail yourself a cab. Never come back here."

She nods and climbs out of bed. Once she's dressed and located her purse, she accepts the bills and exits the room. Damon grabs the bottle of champagne and downs the rest of it in one sip. Little by little, frustration builds up inside of him. He throws the bottle across the room.

How could Stefan not tell him? How could he lie?

How could Damon ignore every sign in front of him?

Damon is angry with his brother. He also pities him. He wants to smack him and drive a stake through his chest. He wants to wrap him into a hug and never let go. He wants to scream until his voice is hoarse with rage. He wants to coo at him and soothe every fear.

He needs to be with his brother. Now.

It'll take nearly 17 hours to get back. Damon isn't even sure when the next flight takes off. Times like these make him wish he invested in that private jet like he wanted so long ago. After this, he's looking into it. Not that Stefan will be allowed to go anywhere for a very, very long time.

So much must change but he can't begin to make a list. Even Littles with the youngest states aren't in them 24/7. Stefan will be a teenager often. He'll need rules and boundaries for both spaces. There's a good chance, no a guaranteed chance, that he's going to fight all of this.

"Oh fucking well."

Stefan may hate him for this, but it'll never compare to how Damon hates himself. He let all of this go on for too long. It's time to fix it.

Damon's in his robe by the time he smells the concierge outside his door. He quickly accepts the envelope and tips the man heavily before he exits. Damon slides out the fax from Mayor Dickhead's office. It's a photocopy of the original tan print, bringing Damon back to a much different time. The harsh cursive is clear as day.

It is of the council's assessment that Stefan Antonio Salvatore, aged 17 years, is classified as a Little. Mental age for Little Space: unknown.

Damon clings to the paper as he sinks back onto the bed. He rereads the document several times. Stefan's score is clear across the board. He's a Little.

Damon expels a strangled cry. "Bunny Boy."

His brother has spent 106 years keeping this secret and hiding this side of him.

It ends tonight.