A/N: I know I posted this yesterday, but my internet was acting up, so I had to delete it. Sorry for yet another story alert! This idea came to me while reading Still Alice, a book about a woman with early-onset Alzheimer's. It's a really beautiful novel.

But anyways. I don't know how to categorize this, but hopefully you'll like it despite my vagueness :)

Enjoy, and please don't favorite without reviewing!

You have bewitched me body and soul,
And I love – I love – I love you.
I never wish to be parted from you from this day on.
- Pride & Prejudice, directed by Joe Wright

Her mother once told her that butterflies only live for a few days. She cried over that, cried for how sorrowfully fleeting their lives were, how sparingly these wondrous creatures flew the earth. But her mother told her she shouldn't waste her tears on the butterflies. Just because their lives were short, she said, didn't make them tragic.

Because they lived in those few days. They lived.

And that made them beautiful.

…

The night before Klaus' predicted arrival, Elena finds herself at the Boarding House. It's an odd destination, she realizes; Stefan is at the meadow, ensconced in preparations with Katherine (strange, she knows), so theoretically, only Damon will be in the cavernous house.

As she's walking to the door, though, she realizes she's here for him anyways.

She doesn't bother knocking. Her hand hesitates on the doorknob, as if she feels somehow what this will cost her, but she's helpless to resist the magnetic pull. He has always had a hold on her, and she is sure he always will. Even now, when her life hangs in a balance that none of them can control, she must be with him.

It should be an unpleasant realization. But the thought of him is like air in her lungs, wind beneath her wings. Any and all clichés apply, because she is breathless for him.

Desperate.

He is sitting by the fire. She wants to make some snarky comment about how he's even more brooding than Stefan, but it feels wrong. Joking with him has always been easy, but she supposes that was before emotions came into the equation.

He looks breathtaking, in that reckless way that scares her. His hair is that glossy black that never fails to unhinge her, and as he turns to look at her, his eyes swimming with something she won't identify, there's such beauty in the pain nestled in his exquisite features that she winces.

"Elena," he breathes. The word is a caress. Her knees buckle.

She closes her eyes. She doesn't really know what she's here for, only that they have been dancing around this for too long. She wants to be brave. For once.

Her mother's voice reverberates in her head: What they live for makes them beautiful.

She wants to live for him.

This might be fleeting, she realizes. It might end tomorrow. And yet, somehow, it is what she wants.

"Damon," she sighs, and it is a release of something hard and dark in her heart. Light flickers in his eyes, and there's no time for second guessing, no time to wonder if she should take a chance. There's simply no time.

She strides over to him and pulls him into the deepest embrace she can muster. She is shaking, trembling, bereft. He doesn't hesitate; there's no trepidation in the way his arms tightly encase her, holding her closer, breathing her in. She wonders if he's been waiting for this, too, for this simple, intrinsic comfort between them.

She wonders if this could last forever.

His mouth is by her ear, his body pressing against hers so tenderly, so achingly, that even her attraction to him is lost in how much she cares about him. He kisses her skin. "Elena," he says again. "Elena, Elena, Elena…"

The words brim with agony, and she wants to cry. He is so afraid for her. More than anything else, he is afraid for her. And she does not know to handle the knowledge that this might be the only night they will ever have.

She pulls back after a moment, her hands lingering on his face. She feels bright, luminescent.

It was never about forgiving him. It was about forgiving herself for ignoring her feelings. She brought them to that night, that night when his murderous instincts nearly broke them both. She couldn't deny it then, and she can't deny it now.

She is his. If nothing else – if all else fails and Klaus takes her – she is his. Maybe nothing else matters.

"If I die tomorrow," she whispers, her fingers caressing his smooth cheek, her gaze tracing the horror in his blue, blue eyes, "I want you to know –"

He shakes his head, cutting her off, anguish flitting through his stark blue eyes. This is a new kind of pain, something she's not accustomed to. This is the pain of someone who is on the verge of losing everything he knows.

And she can't bear it.

She grimaces, forcing herself to hold back her tears. She doesn't want to cry right now. She has cried so much, and all for him.

"If I die tomorrow," she repeats, a hard sort of steel settling in her voice, because she won't deny this inevitability any longer, "You need to know that –"

He kisses her instead of letting her say the words she has waited so long to say.

And she knows she should be mad at him. She knows she should hate him for being so selfish. She knows, even, that she should run away, cry out, slap him for presuming so much. But all she can feel, really, is the warmth of his lips on hers.

She would be lying if she said she didn't remember what it feels like to kiss him. Even though their last kiss was tinged with desperation and alcohol, she still remembers the electricity, the sparks. She doesn't want to forsake that. She doesn't know if she can forsake that.

His hands are gentle on her face. His lips are gentle on hers. And his tongue sweeps into her mouth, probing, delving, searching. All for her.

Always for her.

So she kisses him back, her lips rising to meet his, the butterflies soaring, fluttering incessantly in her stomach.

…

He wakes her up at half past three with tears in his eyes.

"Damon," she whispers groggily, her voice failing to convey her alarm. She is curled into him, her hands clasped on his chest, braced against him, the way she'd like to stay forever. "What's wrong?"

He shakes his head. He strokes her cheek with his hand, his touch unbearably soft. Suddenly, she feels completely awake.

"I just…" He begins, and maybe the words are trembling on his tongue, the words he made her forget (she thinks she's known all along), and maybe he just needs to be with her these last few hours, needs to feel her with him.

Her heart clenches.

He turns away from her, just slightly, and she sits up, worried that he is embarrassed or ashamed. He hasn't shied away from her tonight, and she doesn't want him to start now.

But when his eyes find hers again, he is glittering, shining. He looks hopeful.

Happy.

She cocks her head. "What?" She asks curiously, instinctively moving to hold his face in her hands. She would apologize for her cynicism, for assuming that something must have gone wrong, but given the current predicament, her reaction makes sense. "What's going on?"

He just shakes his head again. Now, she's certain he's smiling.

She cannot reconcile his joy with their impending doom. She cannot make it work in her head. But so much light bursts through his face that she allows herself to stay with him, even if being this happy when everything is falling apart must be wrong.

Even if it can't last.

"If I die tomorrow," he whispers, the words flat, and she just looks at him. It was acceptable when she said that, but now…it doesn't sound right coming out of his mouth, such a blatant resignation to the possibility of his death.

It seems so wrong. He can't die. He burns too brightly. He lives too much. He feels and he hurts and goddamn it, he flies. That can't end.

Her heart feels like it might implode. She understands why he was so angry when she asked Rose to take her to Slater. She understands why he asked Bonnie to put a spell on the house. She understands why he physically restrained her. God, she understands. He can't lose her to Klaus. He can't lose her.

And she can't lose him. It is fierce, honest, real.

So.

"If you die tomorrow?" She echoes, and her voice is small, weak. He brushes his lips across her forehead.

"If I die tomorrow," he continues, the words unbearable, his lips murmuring against her skin, warm and soft and unthinkable, even, "I need to know that you're going to survive."

She starts. It's not a sentence that she understands. She raises an eyebrow, tears welling in her eyes. She doesn't know how they can ever ensure that, short of –

Oh. That.

She shakes her head. "No," she manages to grit out, even as his face contorts prettily, that telltale mix of pride (pride that she doesn't want a damned eternity) and pain. "No, I can't, I don't –"

He seems for a moment as if he might accept this. Indecision flits through his eyes. And then he makes a decision, and she doesn't hate him for it.

"Please," he pleads, his breathing ragged, out of step. "Please. I can't do this unless I know there might still be hope." His hands search her face insistently.

She shakes as she stares at him, the clench of his jaw, the dark hollows beneath her eyes. He is so lost. He looks exhausted, too. Worn-out and tired and sad. So sad.

It kills her.

She never wanted this for him. Any of it. She might have hated him at one point, but it wasn't real. None of that was ever real. She has always, always cared about him. Despite her best intentions, despite what she wishes she felt. She cares about him.

She needs to fix this for him.

She nods at last. "Okay," she whispers, her heart nearly overflowing when he smiles, so wide and bright that she feels like she might fall into him. "Okay."

He just nods.

And somehow, even though the blood is metallic and repugnant, even though the lingering breaths are too intimate and definitely too binding, even though he barely manages to hold back his tears as he finally finds assurance that he won't lose her….it's okay.

Because this is beautiful. No matter what else, her mouth on his wrist is beautiful.

…

When it all happens, the Originals smiling their sinister smiles, Stefan snarling with foam on his mouth, Bonnie chanting maniacally, Caroline blurring about the meadow, Elena doesn't cry. She can't cry. Everything is falling apart, and she feels stagnant, like she's finally stopped moving, like she's not fluttering about, feeling the sunshine.

She's just here.

Klaus' fangs are at her neck, and she knows somehow – knows with the certainty she used to reserve for her "I love you"s to Stefan – that it's all going to be over soon. It may not be poetic or elegant, but it is the naked truth, and she no longer has the strength to grit her teeth and fight against it.

Maybe she never did.

Klaus' teeth just barely graze her skin, and the sound of it, the feel of it, is sickening. She closes her eyes and wills herself to think of things that make sense, of things that made her happy, once upon a time.

She should be surprised when all she can conjure is Damon's face. But she's not. She's not surprised at all.

And she's going to die.

She wants to tell him everything she should have but never mustered the courage to. She wants to make sure he knows how much he deserves her, how much she needs him. She wants him to know that she doesn't want to live without him, that this is the only way, that he is the greatest man she has ever known.

She wants to set him free.

So she finds his eyes in the middle of the meadow. She finds that bottomless blue, and the thought of hesitating, of taking this back, doesn't even cross her mind when she smiles a fleeting smile and shouts, "I love you."

Blistering joy breaks out on his face for the briefest of moments, a moment she feels more keenly than anything else, and she feels full, full and right.

And then she is flying, flying, flying like the butterflies she used to cry over.

…

When her eyes open to a new world, she realizes something very important: that night with Damon, he made her drink his blood. Of course, she muses as the darkness seems to permanently set in. Of course.

She opens her eyes, and he is hovering above her, worried and scared. She feels such palpable relief that she smiles weakly. She just has to smile at him.

As usual, she should be mad at him. She should be mad at him for cruelly taking away her right to make this decision on her own terms, if at all. She should be mad at him for condemning her to an eternity she never said she was ready for. She should even, really, be mad at him for assuming that she wants to see him right now, not Stefan.

But she's not mad at him. Not really. Because all she can feel is the warmth of his eyes on her face, kind and yet severe with the depth of his emotion.

He looks wary, like he's afraid of her reaction. There's something like apprehension in the planes of his face (strange, she thinks, considering they just survived an attack by the most powerful vampires in the world), and his hands are tentative on her cheeks, unsure.

His eyes are soft. "This is your forever, you know," he reminds her, his voice bleeding, broken. She realizes with a shock that he's crying.

She nods slowly, reaching up to touch the tear sliding down those dear cheeks. This is wrenching.

For a moment, and only a piercing, devastating moment, she feels an inexplicable sorrow. Living forever has never been an appealing option. She's always wanted to live the most she can, and leave the earth when she's ready to, like those lavender butterflies in her garden. She was ready tonight. She was ready to be tragic and beautiful. And a small part of her hates him for taking that away from her.

But then, as if she was waiting for this the whole time, a single, solitary butterfly lands on his shoulder. It flutters its wings, and it is the color of his eyes.

She knows the impossibility, the improbability of this; butterflies do not enjoy undead things. It must be a sign. Even though she doesn't believe in signs, this has to be a sign.

So she pulls herself up, launches herself at him. Her lips find his, and she holds on for dear life.

When she withdraws, her eyes linger on his. She's oblivious to everything but his fingers, intertwined with hers.

"This is our forever," she corrects him at last, her voice thick. The moment feels impenetrable, unbreakable, and she wishes she could keep them here, right here, as long as she can.

Forever.

A smile blooms across his face. He opens his mouth to speak, and she muses idly that she doesn't want him to apologize. She doesn't ever want him to apologize for wanting to keep her. She doesn't want him to regret giving her forever.

Because it's just like her mother always said. It's not their short lives that make butterflies beautiful. It's what they live for.

And she lives for him now.

That is more beautiful than death could ever be.

fin

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