A/N: This will be a several chapter story, focusing on the relationship between Damon and Stefan. Flashbacks will lead up to present day (end of Season Two). Warning: Mature Themes. Enjoy and please review!

He could feel the young man's life force fading, the heartbeat growing weaker and weaker with each contraction. At the exact moment the all-important muscle ceased to function, he pulled out, retracting his bloodied fangs.

Lying there, his face buried in the ravaged neck, he continued to inhale and exhale, slowing his breathing to mimic the fading pulse of the human under him. He held his breath at the exact time of death, and raised his head.

Gently, his long fingers smoothed closed the blank eyes staring up at him. He softly brushed back the boy's hair and gazed down at the now still face, noting the fine features, the dusting of freckles across the nose bridge, the delicate sprinkling of blood covering the pouting lips, checks and eyelids.

He lowered his head once more, resting it upon the lad's unmoving chest, his hand still caressing the dead boy's curls. He lay there as the night moved on, motionless except for his unceasing stroking.

Finally, as pre-dawn light began to creep through the drawn curtains, he rolled off the cold, stiff form beneath him. Lying naked on his back, staring up at the water-stained ceiling, he forced himself to focus, to plan his next move.

He needed to leave town. This would make the fifth 'late-teen white male' found naked and lifeless inside of four months, a gaping neck wound indicating a common thread, the unnatural 'cause of death'.

The metallic taste inside his mouth began to overtake his previously numbed senses. He suddenly became aware of the sticky, drying blood covering his lips, chin and neck. Simultaneously, his mind registered the sticky, drying cum on his public area, his abdomen.

Clambering hurriedly over the body, scrambling off the jumbled bed, he barely made it to the adjoining bathroom, vomiting streams of blood and semen into the toilet. He continued to dry heave for what felt like forever, kneeling on the cold, uneven tiles; welcoming the discomfort the hard ceramic provided his body.

When he could move without the entire room spinning, he hauled himself into a semi-standing position. Staring at himself in the mirror, he searched for some small remnant of the person he once had been. The carefree, confident, 'fuck-you' young man he had embodied before his death.

There was no trace of that human in the cold, soulless eyes staring steadily back at him, not in the blood stained face, nor the pale, chiseled flesh. He had become an immortal killer, a hater of mankind. A predator who sought something, someone he could not find.

He had tracked him for months, using his intuition and the occasional report from a fellow 'traveler'. Had found him living on the edge of a forest, subsisting on deer and raccoons.

After the usual initial period of watching each other warily, treading lightly and speaking carefully, they had resumed their familiar pattern, the always-present acrimony and hurt kept at bay by the over-riding joy of being together.

For a year, it had been enough, more than enough, and he had reveled in the closeness, the love he had felt for the other male.

The final night had started out a little differently than most, sharing a meal, together, in public. They rarely ate, food tending to make them feel slightly nauseous. However, they were celebrating something, what exactly, he couldn't remember.

He had glamorized the waitress into bringing them bottle after bottle of a fine red wine, dusty from the classy restaurant's well-stocked cellar. They had talked idly, if at all, the silence between them comfortable. It had been a pleasant evening, the culmination of many.

He had glanced up, in time to catch his beloved crassly licking his spoon, attempting to gather every last morsel of a decadent chocolate mousse.

Laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners, he had drawled, "That is some serious tongue action you've got going on there. I'm getting hard just watching. Can I just say that your obvious skills are being wasted on a steel utensil?"

He had been rewarded with said appendage being stuck out in his direction. With inhuman speed he had lunged across the table, grabbing and holding onto the protruding tongue.

"Ha!" he had exclaimed, leaning awkwardly across dishes and lit candles, "Now what are you going to do? Because I'm not letting go."

Unexpectedly, instead of trying to pull away, the tongue's owner had managed to continue his licking, sucking. But now it was the restraining fingers receiving his attention, the spoon forgotten, resting on the floor where it had landed with a clatter.

He had quickly released his hold on the moving, seeking tongue, yet left his hand suspended, gasping as each digit was drawn into the other man's mouth. One by one, slowly, seductively, fingers had been pulled in with firm force and released with a suggestive, popping sound.

He had felt himself growing hard as he continued to look into those fucking fantastic eyes. Finally, his task completed, the other male had sat back in his chair, raising an eyebrow.

"I thought you weren't letting go?" the smug son-of-a-bitch had murmured, affection in his voice.

"Check please" was all he could manage in response. Laughter had echoed in his ears as he had attempted to navigate the small space with his pant front still glaringly tented.

They had rented a small cottage at the each of the forest. It was far away from the nearest building, close to a small lake. A peaceful, quiet setting, it had been 'home' for that entire year.

Their clothes hadn't made it through the door that night; a Hansel and Gretel trail of pants, shirts and undergarments marking a path from the car up the creaky front steps.

The rickety lounge chair on the wooden, peeling porch had groaned under their combined weight. He had landed on top, having walked the slighter male backwards from the car, kissing him fiercely all the while.

"Oof. You're heavy. Shift please." He had refused, intent on marking that graceful neck, needing to grind against that long, slender, hard-as-nails cock. His own erection had been heavy, throbbing by this point, he hadn't been confident about his staying power.

Reaching down, he had hooked his arms around the knees that willingly bent for him. Had hoisted those slim, strong legs over his shoulders. He had paused, intently scanning the green eyes that had regarded him with openness, a trust that threatened to sweep him away, to drown him.

"You OK?" he had whispered. The nod and hands pulling him closer had been all the encouragement he had needed. Moaning, he had entered the waiting body slowly, carefully. Had waited, allowing him time to adjust.

Again, another nod, a grunted "Move. Now. Please." Their passion had built, bodies pushing together, pulling apart, steadily moving towards climax. Eyes had remained locked, husky voices had exchanged the occasional word of encouragement, of endearment.

It was like this every time. He had no restraint, no ability to hold back when he was with him. He craved him, almost as much as he craved human blood.

And therein lay the rub. As someone bastardizing Shakespeare would say. Or as he put it, "You choose killing over me. Every time. I can't be with you when you are killing humans. I fight so hard to resist. Every day. But I do it, I manage. You don't try. Not hard enough. If you really wanted to be with me, forever, like you say you do, you would stop."

Which wasn't fair. Because he did try, each and every time the two of them managed to find their way back to each other.

He just couldn't commit to the forest-fed diet, the herbivores or even the occasional fox or its cousin, the wolf. He could manage for short periods of time. The joy of being with him (and lots and lots of alcohol) helped keep the thirst abated for a while.

But the urge, the inner command to hunt, to kill returned, unwanted, unbidden. And no amount of love the other offered was enough. And it killed him inside.

His inner struggle would become their outward war. The verbal taunts and jabs starting up yet again, consuming their days and destroying their nights. Their fighting would continue, unabated, escalating until it threatened to overtake them both, destroying everything good about the two of them together.

And then his world would collapse. He would awake one day, like that last morning, and he would be alone. Left behind. By the one he loved. The only one he had ever truly loved, without reservation, without hesitation. He would flick that inner switch and resume the quest for human blood, without feeling, without remorse. On his own.

Almost two years had passed since that night and the following final, fateful morning. The early dawn that had precipitated his spiral into this present abyss of darkness. Because this time had been the worst. Things had, (to put it mildly) 'gotten out of hand.'

Snarling, he smashed both fists into the glass, shattering it into small pieces. His knuckles opened, spilling blood and flesh onto the wall then dripping down onto the counter top.

He turned quickly, nearly falling as a new wave of nausea caused him to lose his balance, caught himself on the wall.

The shower stall was filthy, moldy. He didn't care. He stood under the boiling hot water until it turned frigid, repeatedly soaping and scouring his skin until it burned, became raw and bled.

The only towel was damp and smelled like ass but he didn't pause in drawing it over his sensitized skin, rubbing himself semi-dry with rough, careless movements.

He began to collect his clothes, which were strewn about the messy room. His shirt (the first item of clothing to have been removed) was draped over the bedroom's only lamp. He located his pants under the lone blanket puddled on the crusty carpet.

Pausing, he stared down at the body on the bed.

"Hi, I'm Bobby. Can I buy you a drink?" The teen had wanted it, wanted him. Needing cock in a small town in the late 1950's couldn't be easy. He must have seemed like a godsend to the tall, handsome, eighteen year old.

Repeating what had, sadly, become routine for him, the two had spent several hours drinking and flirting in the gloomy, almost empty bar. Leaving together, he had ignored the pointed look of the disapproving bartender.

He had laughed when the younger man seemed to almost cream his pants at the sight of the gleaming Porsche Spyder parked sideways in the lot, under the tavern's only streetlight.

"Geez" the youngster had exclaimed in awe and delight, "This is the exact model of car James Dean was killed in. Same colour and everything. Wow." The boy had run his hand lovingly, carefully, along the well-polished silver hood. "Can I really ride in it?"

"Yeah" he had responded, opening the passenger door gallantly, "And if you're a really good boy and don't get any on the leather, I'll even let you blow me in it. That would be one for the record book."

It was 'Bobby' who had eventually suggested the nearby motel, a shit-hole that rented rooms by the hour. The smitten, sexually charged young man had been happy to have him pay for an entire night. In cash.

The sex had been good, really good in fact. As the saying went, what 'Bobby' had lacked in experience, he more than made up for in enthusiasm. And stamina. Ah, the energy of youth.

And then, as always, at the height of his arousal, memories had flooded him, pulling him down, taking him to that dark place. He had quickly become overly conscious of the human's breathing, the blood surging through that young body, and his hunger grew.

He had tried to fight the all-encompassing desire, this burning need for human blood. He always fought it, every time. But he couldn't beat it down. The hunger overcame him, his fangs fighting their way through, his rapacious nature taking over, pushing all last vestiges of control away, out of reach.

Shaking his head, he pulled himself back into the moment. He spent the next few minutes trying to locate his underwear and socks. Giving up, he stepped into his shoes, which, interestingly enough, had been placed carefully, properly, beside the closed door.

Dressed, he cautiously pulled open the heavy metal door, glanced up and down the dingy hallway. Finding it empty, he stepped out and let the door swing shut behind him, clicking as the lock settled into place.

He quickly walked down the corridor and exited the motel through the unarmed emergency door. He strode purposefully to his waiting car, cursing under his breath as he discovered the keys were no longer in his pant pockets.

Shrugging, he turned and casually sauntered away from the shabby, single story building, its neon sign flashing behind him, painting him in red and then fading to black.