prodigalsavior: ([Stefan] Just give in little brother)
The sounds of the Florence streets pursued Damon into the fitful sleep, chasing him from clubs with their pounding music to a salon with strings playing something far more melodious. The press of humanity in the room slipped from a writhing mass of primal sexuality and abandon--an easy hunting ground--to something supposedly more civilized but which he recognized with a sinking sense as a shark tank he long since thought he'd escaped. Velvets and brocades draped over too small chairs, and the reek of unwashed skin layered itself over the sweeter smell of blood beneath it. Glancing down at himself, he felt the disorientation shift in his head again at the familiar sight of his black jeans and leather jacket. Glancing up he scanned the room with a frown.

The Contessina de' Bardi, Cosimo de'Medici's wife, was talking to his father on a corner settee, fan lightly tapping on his arm as she related some story. Guiseppe, Conte di Salvatore, bore it well, laughing lightly when it was appropriate and paying the right amount of attention to the wife of the man he looked to as a patron. Damon felt his lips curve in a sneer, as he turned away from the sight, pushing through the crowd far more easily with his lithe form and without the bother of a sword on his hip. No one took any note of him, despite the leather and denim in place of doublet and hose. Something whispered in his mind that things were off kilter, but he brushed it aside, intent on a hunt of his own that had little to do with society's foibles.

Cut for length and possible disturbing imagery. Warning: slashy, incestuous content below )
prodigalsavior: (Serious)
This chaos, this calamity, this garden once was perfect
Give your immortality to me; I'll set you up against the stars

Who shot that arrow in your throat?
Who missed the crimson apple?
And there is discord in the garden tonight

The sea is wine red
This is the death of beauty
The doves have died
The lovers have lied


There should be blood, he thinks, spilling itself across the snow, under the stretch of trees sillhouetted against the sky. Black and white and a glistening red to break up the pristine beauty of the crystalline stretch. Glancing down he sees there are drops in the dawn's light, glinting red as the sunrise hits them, but no widening stretch indicating the draining feeling of life ekeing out of him without an ability to staunch it.

He sways slightly, and the arm around him tightens, holding him up. It's trembling, not really any stronger than he, but perhaps more determined to hold on. Funny, really, considering just moments--was it moments--before he'd been ready to throw it all away, to literally walk unprotected into the light. But Stefan always took his responsibilities so very seriously, and apparently for the moment that means him. Damon feels the laugh bubble up inside of him at the thought, tasting the copper of his own blood on his lips at the sardonic sound. Green eyes flash to him, furious and wounded that he could laugh at a time like this, then softening as he stares into his brother's black eyes and for the first time in five hundred years seem to find a mirror.

There's an irony there, Damon thinks, that is too painful to rest his mind upon for long. Death and love and love and death, separating and destroying and binding and healing and two girls with hair like sunshine and eyes like the sky in their darkened world who could not have been more different...He swallows as he holds Stefan's eyes for a moment, trying to search the cast of his thoughts but finding too much pain there to carry along with his own. Tearing his gaze away, he squints at the damnable sun, and tightens his arm around Stefan's waist.

We're neither of us strong enough to bring the clouds, and they'll be waiting...and it's damnably cold out here. Shall we go?

Eager to be on your way?
Stefan's voice is bitter in his mind.

Damon shrugs, eyes brushing over the pure white snow again, and feels the cold seeping under his skin that even the feel of his brother's arm around him cannot drive away. There's nothing left for me here.

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Damon Salvatore

June 2013

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