Title: The Art of Coming Undone -­ Falling Apart at the Seams Author: Idolatrie Email: idolatrie@gmail.com Rating: 18 Warnings: slash, borderline non-con Spoilers: Vampire Diaries Pairings: Damon/Matt Disclaimers: The concepts and characters of Vampire Diaries belong to L.J. Smith. Summary: Matt is unravelling as Damon picks apart his seams. Comments: Written for the ljs100 Morning After challenge and somewhat expanded. Bloody Quills 2003 - Adult - 1st It was late when he called, voice distant over the phone lines. Tone uncaring as he told you to meet him at a motel in an hour. You knew the place by reputation, cheap and anonymous - a favourite with the prostitutes. You want to ask what he's playing at, but he's already hung up. With the phone still clutched to your chest, you look around at the shabby flat - sagging couch with coffee stains on the armrests, unsteady table that bruises your hips each time you walk past, kitchen with the broken microwave and leaking fridge, the thin mattress pretending to be a bed in the other room. You're twenty-two and you've stopped living, you cross each day off your calendar and think you're one closer to death. There's no question whether you'll turn up or not. He owns you now, he knows enough to send you to jail, death row even. Ever since…ever since that day you've never held a job for more than a month, your employer would receive a note, phone call, something, and you'll be fired again. A few times Damon even turned up in person, threat evident in his eyes contrasting with the polite words on his lips. You've stopped looking for work, living from meeting to meeting with him. You pull on your coat and ignore how it's coming apart at the seams, turn up the collar against the rain and start walking, breath curling tendrils in the air like a post-coital fag. You think about how you're tattered now, fading out of sight as you mist into another shade more skeletal. You wonder if there's an art to coming undone that you've haven't learnt. The motel door hinges scream when you enter, the blank faces populating the foyer turning to look at you then glance away. You're relieved you don't recognise anyone as you lean against the wall in the shadows, ignoring the dirty looks from the receptionist. Damon arrives a few minutes later, leather pants and cashmere sweater making him stand out beside the denim and faded flannel. He sees you immediately, gesturing you to his side with an abrupt motion you daren't ignore. He pays for a room for one night and you cannot meet the eyes of the receptionist. He takes out a roll of money and shoves it in your pocket - your cheeks burn with the humiliation but your survival comes before your pride and you say nothing. You wonder if the people in the foyer think you're a whore. You wonder if you are. * The motel room is bare - a bed, a table, a chair; it's not like there is a need for anything else. You walk in behind him, closing the door and dropping your coat in a sodden heap, pulling your shirt from where it was tucked in your pants. You know what you're here for, there's no longer any need on your part to pretend its anything other than sex. Once, a long time before, the first time actually, you believed it was more. You believed in love and affection and tender touches, rather than the mechanical, blank-eyed motions you now share for your keep. You wonder what changed, then you laugh at the idea; what hasn't changed? After all, the only constant is the person fucking you - it's always been him, only ever him. That's why the half-spoken sighs of 'Stefan' hurt so much more, though you do wonder if he does it intentionally since there's nothing about you he doesn't know. Your shirt is off by the time you reach the bed, pants unzipped and sliding down your legs. He is already behind you, hand trailing up your spine. You shiver and let his fingers retrace old caresses as you close your eyes and unwillingly remember: //…his ready smile flashing at you, blinding you, cool hands writing patterns into your skin, pale thighs between yours, soft lips trailing your jaw line. Your ankles hooked behind his neck, pushing harder against him, each muscle straining with burgeoning tension, haze of heat spreading through your body burning burning, forcing yourself closer to his cold marble body in respite, torture, deeper. Lips capture his, tongue sweeping into his mouth drawing him closer, trying to make your body segue into his…// Your face is pressed against the rough sheet; eyes squeezed shut to stop the tears leaking out. Your elbows tremble with your weight, your legs ache from being stretched half-out, but you do not move and wait for it to be over. Try to block out what you do and hate yourself that tomorrow when you get yourself off alone, it is still his name you call, his face you see - but open and inviting, not smirking and cruel. That even though you hate each moment with him, you collect every gesture in your mind and turn the harsh thrusts into gentle strokes. You can feel his cock hitting against your prostate, spreading pin- pricks of tingling pleasure writhing under your skin. You can feel your muscles tensing up, your already erect penis rubbing against the sheets as your hips move almost against your will in rhythm with Damon's. And then its over for you, your body tightens up completely as the sheets below your belly are smeared with come, making the intrusion in your anus almost painful. You try to stop moving, but hands grab your hips in a bruising grip and pullpush painful friction against against there oh god…and you're coming again, spiraling down bringing him with you, sticky liquid spilling uncomfortably from your arse as he pulls out. He grabs the sheets and wipes the residue of lube and come from his body, ignoring your panting body lying limp on the bed. He moves around the room silently, picking up his clothes. He pulls up his pants, sits on the edge of the bed to slide feet into shoes and gets ready to leave. You want to reach out, hold him back. You always think of it, but never go through. There's a ghost between the two of you, holding down your hands and flicking his hair to cover his face. "Why?" you ask, the question startling you more than him. Your voice is hoarse and weak in the thick air of the room. He turns empty eyes to you and your senses heighten ­ you hear the cars passing outside in the rain, a distant horn sounding, the beat from a dance club escaping in fitful bursts as its doors open and close, and the silence silence silence of the room. You would beg him to say something, anything, but your throat has tightened and mouth frozen shut. You feel the ghosts of the past rise and coalesce in air, swirling webs around you both. Your fingers tremble and skitter to worry the sheet twisted around you. Your eyes drop to watch your hands, unable to stand the void of his. You feel his weight lift off the bed, you sense him walk across the room, you hear him close the door leaving you alone yet you do not look up. * It's the morning after; you're back in your apartment with the empty cupboards and dripping tap. There's a note on your doorstep, black ink on thick paper that probably cost as much as your lunch. It's rain-splattered and crinkled; your hands tremble slightly as you unfold it. 'You wanted to know why,' it reads. His answer is one line; you read it twice then crumple the sheet and let it fall from your hand. You are not sure if it is raindrops or your own hot tears that first fall on the letters smudging the ink. The black runs lacerations across the page but the image of the words remain solid in your mind. 'You chose the wrong brother.' Details of that night come back to you, technicolour flashes in your sepia world. The gun wavering in your hand, single wooden bullet left and a choice between brothers. Elena dead already on the ground, drained of her blood, knife in her neck you know you used to cut the vegetables last night, your fingerprints marching up and down the handle. Each brother blaming her death on the other, demanding you revenge her, shouting shouting shouting. You screwed your eyes shut to cut out the noise, aimed the gun and pulled the trigger. Silence and your heavy breathing. The gun clanked as it dropped from you nerveless hand as you searched Damon's eyes for reassurance through the air where your best friend once stood. His lips curved into a smile as he whispered, intimate and warm, an echo of the line on the paper and a promise to never let you forget. It's the morning after and you're crouched broken on the floor. You're falling apart at the seams in the slow art of coming undone. It's always the morning after now; you can never go back to before. Fin.