[Fic] Barely Breathing
Pairing: Damon/Elijah, implied Damon/Ric and Klaus/Elijah
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for ep 3x22 - "The Departed"
They've both lost. Lost the game, lost someone they loved, lost their centers. The world that seemed so solid just months ago has tilted all askew, until up seems down and black seems white, and it doesn't matter that they don't trust each other.
Right now, they need each other.
There is no toast across the liquor bottles. The words they might say don't come easily yet. They might not ever, not between them. The people they're each mourning shattered too much of the other's world. It isn't something they can agree on, a person to mourn.
But the holes the departed left in them seem somehow to echo each other, to fit.
Other things fit, too.
The bourbon first, and the younger nearly sobs all over again when he tastes it on the Original's tongue. Later it's whiskey, dribbled over skin, and it's the elder's turn to fight back tears as he ghosts his lips over the drops, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks that have the advantage of being able to heal.
When their bodies come together it isn't easy. It's tangled tongues and biting teeth, blood mingling with sweat. Hard and fast and giving no quarter, the Original slams into him, again and again, the controlled facade shattered and thrown aside with grief and his tie. The next time around, he lets the boy (and he is so much still a boy, even for all his years) take the reins, submitting to that fire and need as he'd done for the one who used to fill that empty place in his heart. It's just as rough, the pain excoriating the guilt he bears on his family's behalf for all that's happened in this miserable little town.
The pleasure seems a betrayal, but they reach for it again. Their releases, once, twice, a third time, even, don't come close to closing the holes, but there is a quietude that hangs in the room when they finally collapse, exhausted from exertion and emotion. They're still...whatever this is that passes for living. They'll still be so tomorrow.
If they drift into fitful dreams, imagining that the one they're holding in their arms is someone else, neither of them blames the other.
There's blame enough for everything else to go around.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for ep 3x22 - "The Departed"
They've both lost. Lost the game, lost someone they loved, lost their centers. The world that seemed so solid just months ago has tilted all askew, until up seems down and black seems white, and it doesn't matter that they don't trust each other.
Right now, they need each other.
There is no toast across the liquor bottles. The words they might say don't come easily yet. They might not ever, not between them. The people they're each mourning shattered too much of the other's world. It isn't something they can agree on, a person to mourn.
But the holes the departed left in them seem somehow to echo each other, to fit.
Other things fit, too.
The bourbon first, and the younger nearly sobs all over again when he tastes it on the Original's tongue. Later it's whiskey, dribbled over skin, and it's the elder's turn to fight back tears as he ghosts his lips over the drops, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks that have the advantage of being able to heal.
When their bodies come together it isn't easy. It's tangled tongues and biting teeth, blood mingling with sweat. Hard and fast and giving no quarter, the Original slams into him, again and again, the controlled facade shattered and thrown aside with grief and his tie. The next time around, he lets the boy (and he is so much still a boy, even for all his years) take the reins, submitting to that fire and need as he'd done for the one who used to fill that empty place in his heart. It's just as rough, the pain excoriating the guilt he bears on his family's behalf for all that's happened in this miserable little town.
The pleasure seems a betrayal, but they reach for it again. Their releases, once, twice, a third time, even, don't come close to closing the holes, but there is a quietude that hangs in the room when they finally collapse, exhausted from exertion and emotion. They're still...whatever this is that passes for living. They'll still be so tomorrow.
If they drift into fitful dreams, imagining that the one they're holding in their arms is someone else, neither of them blames the other.
There's blame enough for everything else to go around.