Chapter Three: The Things We Don't Say
The dream came suddenly.
Stefan stood in the hallway of the old Salvatore estate, but something was wrong. The walls were too tall. The windows were too narrow. The air smelled like candle wax and ash.
He recognized It, and he didn't.
Footsteps echoed from behind a closed door—the study.
Then came the voice.
"No son of mine will live in disgrace!"
Giuseppe Salvatore's voice. Sharp. Brutal.
Stefan moved toward the sound, his hand reaching for the doorknob, but it swung open before he touched it.
Inside, a shirtless boy knelt on the hardwood floor.
Damon.
No older than fourteen. Hands clenched at his sides. Shoulders trembling.
Giuseppe stood over him with a belt in one hand and a glass of bourbon in the other, red-faced and fuming.
Stefan tried to move, to step between them—but his feet wouldn't work. He was frozen. Watching.
Giuseppe snarled something Stefan didn't catch, then raised the belt again.
Damon didn't flinch.
He just closed his eyes.
Guiseppe hit Damon again and again. Thick welts appearing on Damon's narrow back.
Stefan tried again to step forward to stop their father, to yell at him, to do something. But he was frozen to the spot. He watched as Damon faltered and fell forward, catching himself on his hands. Guiseppe continued to strike Damon. Blood was now oozing from open wounds, dripping down his sides.
Stefan's heart broke further when he was the tears falling steadily and silently from his brother's closed eyes.
Stefan tried again to reach for his brother.
The dream shattered into blackness.
Stefan woke gasping in his bed at the boarding house, sheets twisted around his legs, fingers curled like claws into the mattress.
He stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling.
It had been so vivid.
Too vivid.
But it was just a dream. Maybe from seeing Damon for the first time in decades.
Wasn't it?
Damon was already downstairs when Stefan came in. Damon was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a glass of bourbon—at 9:00 a.m.—and reading a paper he clearly wasn't interested in.
"You look like hell," Damon said without looking up.
Stefan went to the coffee maker and set about making some coffee. "Didn't sleep," he murmured.
"Should've had something stronger before bed." Damon took a sip from his crystal glass, ice cubes clinking merrily. "Works wonders."
Stefan watched his brother for a moment. There was something… tight around Damon's edges. His movements just a little too sharp. Like he was holding himself together with tension alone.
He thought of the dream.
Of Damon as a boy.
Of their father's belt.
"You ever have dreams that feel too real?" Stefan asked.
Damon paused, glass halfway to his lips.
Then, without looking up, he mumbled, "every night."
The next morning, Bonnie stood by the edge of the picnic tables at Mystic Falls High during a break between classes, staring at the sky. The storm from last night had passed, but the clouds hadn't cleared. The light was dull and silvery, like the world hadn't decided whether it was awake or not.
Elena found her there when she went outside for some fresh air. She thought her friend looked especially ethereal today; her dark hair flowing around her face, she was dressed in a flowy deep purple top that rippled in the breeze, paired with black leggings and silver ballet flats. She looked like a beautiful, young sorceress.
"You've been quiet today," Elena said gently as she approached her.
Bonnie didn't look away. "I keep thinking about what I saw when I touched him."
Elena nodded knowingly. "You think it was a vision?"
"I think it was worse." Bonnie wrapped her arms around herself, turning to look at Elena. "It felt like I stepped into something I wasn't supposed to see. Like I was standing in the middle of someone's nightmare."
Elena's voice dropped. "Do you think it was Damon's?"
Bonnie hesitated, turning her gaze back to the sky. "If it was, then there's something seriously broken inside him."
Elena didn't respond right away, her brows furrowing as she thought about what she knew about Damon so far. Or what she felt around him at least, since he didn't seem like the type to open up to people. "I don't think he knows how to ask for help."
Bonnie looked at her sharply. "And you want to be the one who helps him?"
Elena's answer was quiet. "I don't know. But I think he's already trying to push me away."
Damon stood at the edge of the Salvatore crypt, hands in his jacket pockets, staring at the moss-covered stone that bore his family name.
The shadows were longer today. Colder.
He hadn't slept since the night he saw the figure in the mirror.
He could feel something watching him now, always watching, but whenever he turned, there was nothing there.
Except that once.
A flicker. A silhouette.
And Katherine's voice.
"You'll always come back to me."
He closed his eyes and breathed through his teeth.
"Not this time," he whispered.
But even he didn't believe it.
Elena found him in the cemetery.
She hadn't planned to—she had just come for a quiet walk, a chance to think, but something about the day felt like it was pulling her here.
And there he was. Dressed in darkness as usual.
Damon stood in front of an old marble headstone, one hand resting lightly on the top as he leaned forward like he was listening to it. He hadn't heard her approach.
She stopped a few feet away.
"You visit cemeteries often?" she asked gently.
He didn't turn. "I like the company."
Elena stepped closer. "You okay?"
Damon gave a soft, humorless laugh. "That's a dangerous question."
"Why?"
"Because if I answer it honestly, you might never talk to me again."
His voice wasn't teasing. Not this time.
Elena watched him carefully. "I don't think that's true."
Damon finally turned to look at her.
He was still handsome. Still composed. But his eyes looked tired. Raw. Like whatever mask he usually wore had started to slip and he hadn't bothered fixing it.
"You should probably stay away from me," he said seriously. "Anyone who hasn't has quickly regretted it."
"I don't scare easy," Elena replied.
"That's the problem," he murmured.
They stood in silence for a moment, the wind rustling the dead leaves at their feet.
"Is this where your family is buried?" she asked, nodding toward the crypt.
"Some of them," he said. "Not all of us stay dead."
She smiled faintly. "You're really bad at normal conversations."
"I try not to pretend anymore," he said, and this time there was no trace of irony in his voice.
Elena hesitated. "Bonnie said she saw something when she touched you yesterday."
Damon went as still as the statues surrounding them.
"She said it felt… dark. Like a nightmare," Elena whispered.
He looked away.
"I know what you are," Elena said softly, taking a few small steps toward him. "And I know there's something else. Something hurting you."
Damon's jaw clenched. "You don't know anything."
"Then tell me," she urged, gently.
He shook his head slowly, staring at the crypt. "You don't want to know the kind of things I remember."
She took another small step towards him. "Maybe not. But I want to understand you."
He turned to her again—and for just a second, something broke in his eyes. Not anger. Not flirtation.
Just fear.
"Don't," he said, voice barely a whisper. "Don't try to save me."
"I'm not trying to save you," she said. "I'm trying to see you."
That, somehow, landed harder than anything else.
He took a slow step back. "Then you're already too close."
She blinked, and he was gone.