It seems like it's been raining forever, but it hasn't even been a day.

Damon was gone when she woke up this morning, and Stefan was sleeping--or at least, seemed to be. He shivered when she touched him, and not knowing what else to do, she moved away.

Upstairs, she eats cold cereal, still in her pajamas, back in bed. She quietly hopes she'll get the bed full of crumbs, maybe direct Damon's anger at someone besides Stefan.

She knows Stefan is suffering--broken bones, broken spirit--but she has no idea how to help. Part of her realizes that he wants to suffer, that maybe he even wants them to suffer too, to share some of his pain so he's not alone. And maybe it's good for him, in some bizarre way. What does she know?

After all, the best thing she ever did with her life was die. Twice. Stefan's already died once...maybe he needs to do it again, and maybe this is the closest he could get.

Strange as it is to admit it, death helped Elena grow up in a way that maybe decades of living couldn't have. Not that she wouldn't prefer, sometimes, to still be Miss Queen Bee of Robert E. Lee, answerable to no one. Not that she doesn't often still wish to be a plain simple human. Bonnie wanted the fantasy romance, the dramatic life of tragedy and excitement and thrills, but Elena had just wanted control over her life. Something that was hers, and could never be taken away, and would never leave.

The one thing she still isn't sure she has.

*********

Damon loves the rain. He loves the dark, melodramatic skies, the wind whipping through his drenched hair, the constant noise of water. He loves how rain turns everything on its head.

The love of chaos, of disorder, has been the one unifying characteristic of Damon's long life. As a human, he knew he wanted nothing to do with what was expected of him--he rebelled aimlessly, whatever he could do to enrage his stuffed-shirt father, but it took death and rebirth to give him purpose.

Even if that purpose was fucking, fighting and gluttony, all over the world, he thinks, and smiles sharply to himself.

Damon is walking through the rain-drenched streets, aimlessly, in short sleeves and jeans. Today, in a very small way, he begins to understand Stefan's desire to lose himself.

When Damon wants to get lost, to dissolve, he throws himself into ecstasy however he can find it. He has never run out of ways. But Stefan...Stefan looks at the same map of the world as Damon, but sees something entirely different. Somehow, something is broken in him, something indefinable and early in the structure of his mind.

Long ago, when Damon first woke up in the tomb, he'd knelt beside his brother's body, still unconscious, wounds already beginning to heal. Pushing down the rage that told him to do whatever was necessary to kill his brother once and for all, Damon wondered--hoped--that this human death would free Stefan from his narrow little world. There had been a time when Stefan had looked up to his older brother, when they were co-conspirators, not rivals. But Damon soon discovered, in the years (then centuries) that passed, that nothing had changed.

Forget about him. Move on.

That's what he'd always said. And now look at the mess he's gotten himself into.

*********

Stefan wakes up, and it's raining.

Everything hurts. Everything.

He feels as if he has reached a point of no return. Where can he go from here? He's proven he doesn't want to die; he's also proven he's absolutely terrible at living. So what happens next?

This is the sixth time he's woken up, the sixth time to the steady pattering of raindrops, the sixth time he's thought almost these same thoughts. No way out, no way at all, but maybe if he could just think clearly it would come to him...

Then some kind of circuit connects in his brain. ...Of course.

At that moment, the front door opens and the wind slams it shut. Stefan very gingerly inclines his head in that direction, to see Damon, sopping wet, hands in pockets, his face blank and white as an unadorned canvas. He meets Stefan's gaze, eyes like embers.

Yes?

Stefan shudders at the intimacy of mental speech. He attempts to speak, settles for a cough escalates into a retch, steadies himself, tries again. "Thanks--for saving me."

Was it worth it? Silent, still, watching. Asking implicitely, not, Was it worth it to save you? but, Was what you did worth it?

"N-Not really. I need..." And Stefan has to avert his eyes. It is absolutely unbearable to ask Damon for more, after all he's done for his sorry self. And beyond that, two years ago, Stefan would have rather walked on hot coals than even exchange a word of friendship with this man.

Yes? And still Damon hasn't moved. Stefan can hear the drip drip drip as his soaked clothes continue to leak all over the floor.

Stefan takes a breath, holds it, lets it out all at once. "Take me to Lethe," he says, hoping Damon will understand what he means. Stefan looks back up, to face him, trying to muster some kind of focus, despite the cloud of pain and hunger hanging over him.

And Damon seems to relax, just a little, but more than enough for Stefan to see. In his own way, Damon's been holding his breath too. His face is still so blank, yet Stefan imagines it softens just a bit around the edges of the mouth and eyes. "Yes," he says, almost curtly. "Yes, quite." And then he sighs, suddenly pulling off his shirt and tossing it in the general direction of the hall. "You'll need blood before that can happen, of course." His head is turned, and his eyes dart to the side to meet Stefan's again, challenging.

Stefan coughs again, feeling the rattle in his chest, his lungs. "Of course." He closes his eyes, the hunger twisting in his gut, refusing to beg. He is at Damon's mercy, and must take what is offered, if he is ever to mend--in any way.

"Wait."

And with that, Damon exits the room, picking up his shirt on the way. Stefan hears him go down to the laundry, kick off his shoes and pants, pad back into the room. Stefan opens his eyes, and Damon's standing in front of him, nude, peering at him through narrowed, critical eyes. "I don't want to touch you," Damon says. "I can barely stand to look at you right now, little brother. But I will do this."

He kneels down at the side of the sofa. "Open your mouth," he says, lifting his wrist to his mouth, tearing the skin.

Of course Stefan opens to him. The pull of the bright blood, the instinct, is stronger than any will he might ever have had. He opens his mouth and the blood makes that same drip drip sound as the rain, briefly over his chest and neck and--blessedly--onto his tongue. He can feel the healing heat of Damon's Powerful blood begin to spread through him almost immediately, and the itch and ache and pull as things begin to heal. He swallows often, reflexively, never letting his mouth close. The least he can do, if Damon can do this, is waste as little as possible.

When it's just enough--though Stefan is still far from sated--Damon leans forward, neatly cleans his own wrist with his tongue as it heals in seconds. And then despite what he said, his head swoops down and efficiently licks the blood from Stefan's chest. Immediately afterward, he stands and turns away, walking toward the stairway.

You'll have to come upstairs to dress before we leave. Our Lucifer needs some catching-up, and you're grown enough to button your own shirts.

Stefan lets his head fall back, eyes closed again, overwhelmed with the sensation of at least a dozen healing bones.

Soon. I'm hoping for a window in the rain.

Something like a mental grin comes to him in response, and he settles in to wait for his legs to work, hoping he can mend this time.

END.