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Damon and Alaric have been sitting at the bar of the Grill drinking for a couple of hours when Alaric suggests it. Damon blames the alcohol, or maybe just the fact the whole mood tonight has been fun and casual, the topics of conversation not dipping into the occult, for the way he is taken totally by surprise.
“I think you should compel me,” Alaric says like he is remarking on the weather or the fact that Damon is pathetic when he pines.
Damon spits his overpriced bourbon across the bar, spraying the unamused bartender, while somehow still managing to choke on it, despite the impressive amount he sprays.
“Whoa!” Alaric exclaims leaning back out of his casual pose, a bit more out of their shared space. The bartender puts down a pile of napkins, mops up the mess with their towel, and walks away, clearly uninterested in proceedings. Damon dabs at his face with the napkins, mind spiraling away in a thousand different directions.
“Hey, warn a guy before you drop a bombshell like that on him, buddy. Like where the fuck did that even come from? I thought it was part of your whole MO that you don’t want to be compelled,” Damon says as he begins trying to organize his mind. He gestures to the bracelet on Alaric’s wrist that they both know contains vervain. “Besides, you know, you’re essentially wearing mind fuckery protection. I bet you don’t ever leave the house without it, a boy scout like you.”
Alaric looks thoughtfully at the bracelet and then back to Damon. “I can take it off.”
Damon can feel his eyebrows trying to escape into his hairline as he fully faces the man he thought he knew so well seated in the barstool next to him, pushing down the thoughts of him taking off other things as well. “Well, yes I suppose that removing it would allow me to compel you further than my natural charms allow, but you haven’t made clear why.”
Alaric shrugs, sipping his drink, refusing to meet Damon’s eyes. “Call it curiosity.”
“I could call it that. Or I could call it stupid. Naive. Entirely too trusting. There is a whole bevy of terms I could call your sudden idea, but again, Ric, you’re dodging my real question. Why?”
Alaric snorts. “I thought you would be jumping at the chance to have me at your mercy.”
Damon smirks. “Oh, you’re always at my mercy. But seriously. Why now? What can you possibly want from this?”
Alaric seems to mull it over in his head a moment, swirling the bourbon in his glass before taking another drink. “How about instead I lay some ground rules.”
“Okay, I’ll play along. Since it’s you offering yourself up to me.” And what a lovely idea that is.
Alaric nods. “One: I want to remember. What you say, what you ask, what I say.”
Damon shrugs. “Easy enough.”
“Two: I want you to ask me something I won’t tell you otherwise.”
Damon squints at him. “Why? Don’t you trust me enough to tell me anything, compadre? Besides the baffling origin of this weird little drinking game.”
Alaric continues, ignoring Damon’s commentary and question. “Three: I only want you to ask one thing. You can decide. But pick carefully. No stupid dares. No dancing on bars-”
“Now you’re giving me ideas.”
“-just one question,” Alaric finishes.
“Do I have to answer the question in turn? Is this going to be a whole ‘you compel a secret from the recesses of my mind, then you confess it in turn to me because of the magic of trust and vampire magic’ quid pro quo?”
“If you like. We’ll see how it goes,” Alaric remarks, still calm despite Damon’s intense focus. His heartbeat ticked up slightly under Damon’s keen hearing when he began to outline how specific it was. Whether in nervousness or born from whatever has brought this strange turn of events on a Wednesday evening (at least Damon is pretty sure it’s Wednesday) is unclear.
“Four: no blood drinking.”
“Well, duh.”
Alaric shoots him a look that says well no, Damon, it is not in fact a “duh” and then returns his gaze to his drink, like maybe it holds all of the answers of this evening. “Those are the terms.
Damon pretends to take a second to really consider it. There is too much intrigue, too much opportunity to say now. Plus the blatant show of trust is heady.
“Sure. Why not. Nothing better to do,” Damon replies, downing what’s left in his drink before refilling both his and Alaric’s glasses from the purchased bottle between them.
Damon stills Alaric’s hand as the human goes to remove the bracelet around his wrist. “You know, once that is off, there is nothing holding me to honoring those rules.”
Alaric simply smiles and undoes the bracelet, letting it fall softly to the bar top underneath his wrist. “I know.”
Damon feels a strange rush go through him at the thought that Alaric is offering up his trust so freely to him and expecting Damon to actually keep his word. He honestly can’t remember the last time someone so openly and brazenly trusted him. It shocks part of him to his undead core at the idea that he has somehow earned this from the man sitting next to him. After all the lies and murder and petty squabbles, the miscommunications and misconstrued intentions Alaric is essentially giving Damon free reign to fuck with him.
Damon clears his throat, looking into Alaric’s steady gaze. He can feel himself relax into the power, feeling the way his own body language shifts into mirroring Alaric, his already slow heart rate dropping minutely. He sees the moment it begins to work, Alaric relaxing, his face losing some of the anger and tension and pain he always carries clenched in his jaw.
“Hi,” Damon says in light purr.
“Hi,” Alaric responds in a dreamy tone.
“You’re going to remember everything about this moment,” Damon says, voice turning syrupy and soft.
“I’m going to remember everything about this moment.”
“You are going to relax and take a deep breath in, letting go of whatever is keeping you from telling me what you need to say.”
Alaric breathes in slowly and then out, his shoulders losing their rigid posture and he smiles. Damon finds his eyes tracing the ease of Alaric’s pose and thinking about how he never could have imagined this man so relaxed and open after he killed him. Even after becoming a team, drinking buddies, best friends, the way Alaric is so vulnerable and trusting in this moment is not lost on Damon. So Damon takes a moment to think about what he wants to ask Alaric, his first instinct is a question somewhere between “where the fuck did you come with this idea?” and “why the fuck do you trust me to compel you in the first place?”, but quickly discards those because neither question would get to the root of whatever this moment is. And Damon wants to know, needs to know why Alaric is letting down his guard so completely to him.
“What do you need to tell me, but haven’t been able to?” Damon asks, watching Alaric’s face closely like it might hide what even compulsion can’t reveal.
There is a moment of silence before Alaric answers. “I prefer the taste of Irish whiskey to bourbon.”
Of all the answers Damon has considered, of all the secrets he imagined pulling from Alaric, this one never even crossed his mind. It’s so shallow, so frivolous compared not only to the weight of Alaric’s gesture but the general tone of their day to day lives. The surprise of what Alaric says brings Damon out of his trance, taking Alaric out of it too.
“What?” Damon asks, sounding almost angry in his shock, mind flying off in a million different directions.
“I uh…like Irish whiskey better than bourbon,” Alaric repeats, sounding a bit confused himself.
“No, no, I heard that the first time. I’m just,” Damon gestures with his hand showing the degree to which the confusion has rattled him. “Y’know?”
Alaric purses his lips slightly. “No, I’m afraid I don’t know what,” and repeats the gesture Damon just made, “means exactly.”
Damon sucks in a breath. “I was expecting something more profound than this. Not that I don’t still feel lied to. And betrayed.”
“Betrayed?”
“Yes! The foundations of this relationship, our glorious bond, has been forged with mutual badassery, and I thought up until a moment ago, a shared love of bourbon.”
“But I still really like bourbon,” Alaric protests.
“Clearly not enough. As my compulsion has just revealed. And I’m hurt. I’ve shared some of the finest whiskey in this state, nay the world with you and you haven’t appreciated it. Not the way I thought.”
Alaric sighs at Damon’s bluster. “Well, I’m from Boston. It can’t really be that much of a shock to you that I enjoy Irish whiskey.”
“A shock? No. But you said ‘prefer’ not just enjoy. What is our relationship built upon if not this mutual enjoyment?”
“Don’t me so melodramatic, Damon.”
“I’m not the one who grandly proclaimed I wanted to be compelled and that my big confession turned out to be a lie. One you were clearly too ashamed to just tell me, as if you knew it would rock us to our core,” Damon responds, pressing his hand to his heart in his played up hurt.
“You’ve killed me. You fucked my wife and turned her into a vampire. I’ve tried to kill you. A slight difference in taste won’t ruin us,” Alaric responds, frustration building in his expression.
“But what if the bourbon is a metaphor!” Damon exclaims.
“A metaphor?”
“Yes. For all the finer qualities about me. What if you’re really trying to say you’ve lied about how much you like me and trust my decisions?” Damon can feel doubt beginning to swirl in the edges of his mind he prefers left ignored. What if it really is a metaphor and this is the beginning of the end for them. Damon does not like that idea one bit.
Alaric fixes his bracelet back on his wrist, downing his glass in one slightly pained looking gulp. “Yeah, now that just sounds like bullshit.”
“You’re the one who needed to confess it, apparently. It was eating at you so badly that you implored, nay, demanded I compel you,” Damon says, pointing his finger at Alaric. “That means it isn’t nothing.”
“Okay. I did not demand nor do I believe even agree with your rant once. Especially in regards to our minorly differing opinions on alcohol being some larger symbolic truth.”
“Then why did you ask me to do it? What did you even want to say? What was the purpose if not to break my heart against the rocky shores of your mistaken whiskey favoritism?”
Any openness Damon saw before in Alaric’s face shuts down. “Maybe this was a mistake.”
“See! I knew you would regret it! I am vindicated once more.”
Alaric pulls his wallet out of his pocket in a sharp movement that betrays some darker emotion boiling inside of him. “If you really thought it would go that badly, maybe you should have said something beforehand.” Alaric slaps bills down on the bar before pushing backwards, standing up. “And you don’t even know what I’m regretting.” And with that Alaric leaves the Grill, leaving Damon alone on his stool.
Damon considers stopping him or following him before rejecting the notion. It would help if Damon knew where things even went wrong in the first place before he even begins to try and fix them. Having preferences isn’t the world rocking secret Damon pretends it is and he knows Alaric, when pushed, can freely and very vocally express the depth and breadth of his opinions. There had to be some other goal in mind for the human in this little game, something he either wants Damon to know or is unable to admit to himself that he is hoping the vampire could help him with. What are best friends with supernatural abilities for if not to help and aid those they care about with whatever tiny problems and identity crises that seem to befall them so often. And for whatever reason it either did not work or revealed something to Alaric that Damon could not see.
With the idea of solving his little mystery in mind Damon takes the bottle he has already paid for and leaves the Grill, heading in the direction of the boarding house. Afterall he has been an observer and student of human behavior for decades. How hard can this be to solve?
Damon is unsure what time it is or what bottle he is on when the front bells chime, but he is pretty sure it is late and willing to admit that he might be a little lost in the sauce, as it were. Picking himself up out of his thoughtful repose in front of the fire, he ambles to the door, crystal tumbler in hand. A little interruption won’t stop him and his quest for the answers.
Damon really should have expected it to be Alaric. Part of him acknowledges his lack of sensitivity and general poor handling of tonight’s events and it is feeding into the portion of his brain that loves to tell him how good at fucking things up he is. The part that loves to whisper about how maybe the affection of everyone around him is built on lies and false notions of who he is. That part of his brain is currently driving things and so he expects to have to slowly worm his way back into Alaric’s good graces with some clever scheme or machination, plots already swirling. And it’s not like he can blame being drunk on his failure to hone in on who is on the other side of the door. Damon just imagines Alaric so often now he has had incidents, that he will admit to no one, where he swears he can hear his heartbeat nearby or smell his blood pumping under his skin. So annoyed, shirt half unbuttoned, flushed from the bourbon but not quite tipsy enough to warrant texting other people to loop them into whatever the craziness of this evening has been, Damon gets the third surprise of the night. It is Alaric standing there, looking brooding and gorgeous in a tight blue shirt and leather jacket, hands in his jean pockets, slightly hunched. As guilty as Damon currently feels it is a surprise that Alaric is the one looking apologetic.
“Hi,” Damon says.
“Hi,” Alaric replies, face neutral, echoing their exchange at the Grill hours before.
“What brings you to this neck of the woods? I’m afraid the only libation I can offer you is the finest bourbon in the county, but I know it doesn’t meet your high and exacting standards.”
“Shut up, Damon,” Alaric says, stepping into the house, pushing past the vampire who truly offers little to no resistance.
Damon closes the door behind them. They stand in the hall, Alaric seeming suddenly very interested in the spot in the wall inches to the left of Damon’s head. Damon knows for a fact that it is a very boring place to brood at and even Stefan doesn’t stare at it so intently during his moodier days.
“Not that I don’t love the company, what are you doing here?” Damon asks, trying to meet Alaric’s eyes.
Alaric shuts them, as if trying to find his center. “I came to explain.”
Damon nods and realizes Alaric can’t see him because for some reason his eyes are still shut. “Okay. Shoot.” Damon honestly has no idea what Alaric could possibly have to say, hiding his curiosity behind a mildly disinterested tone. Damon does not want to risk getting more skin in this weird little game if it continues to be so out left field. Who knows where this evening will end.
Alaric sighs deeply, opens his eyes, and then plucks the glass of bourbon expertly out of Damon’s hand. He throws it back like drinking it might save him from whatever he has to say next and then looks to Damon. “I wanted you to compel me.”
Damon says nothing, not feeling at all surefooted. He is pretty sure they already covered this.
“There is something I feel like I need to say to you and it isn’t about your taste in whiskey. It’s..fuck,” Alaric cuts himself off pressing his palm his face, like whatever he’s about to say is going to cause him pain. “I was wondering if you could get me to say something I can barely admit to myself.”
Damon nods slowly, pretending to be following what Alaric is saying. “That you like Irish whiskey.”
“It’s not about the fucking whiskey, Damon! I was wondering if you could push past my own mental block I have and then I realized I’ve been fixating on the fact I lied to you at some point about what drink is my favorite and I started to spiral and that became emblematic of the larger issue!”
“So I was right. The whiskey is a metaphor,” Damon interjects smugly, feeling no less lost.
Alaric huffs, starting to look genuinely a little angry. Damon wonders if he is going to punch him. He kind of is hoping Alaric will, just so he can feel those hands on his skin. Though he is about three drinks too early for his very own lust spiral, by his own rough calculations. Damon wonders if it is the heat in Alaric’s eyes or the way he was so trusting earlier or even his simple proximity after writing him off for the night that is getting Damon to his boxed up feelings sooner than normal.
“Well, I’m not really offended that you lied. You didn’t even manage to hurt my one feeling. I mean I am something of a liar myself and I know I made it seem like it was the most important thing about me, but we can still be friends even if you can’t fully appreciate the vintages I have to offer. Me and my one feeling forgive you” Damon says.
“Maybe I don’t want to lie to you,” Alaric shoots back, eyes judging Damon for his self depreciation.
“Then don’t,” Damon replies easily. “Just tell me what you wanted to say. I’m right here.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do! I’m trying to tell you I love you, you asshole!” Alaric shouts.
Damon feels his body freeze, his eyes widen, mouth dropping open slightly at those words. “What,” he breathes out, barely sure it is audible to Alaric’s human ears.
“I love you,” Alaric repeats, looking a little softer, eyes open and affectionate, though no less frustrated.
The words repeat and Damon can hear ringing in his ears. This is not where he thought the evening would go. If he had bet on what Alaric would confess, he would have lost it all to the house. Alaric loves him. But then why the whole compulsion game?
“You thought it was a good idea for me to compel a love confession out of you?” Damon asks, sounding equally floored and indignant.
Alaric shrugs, looking away. “I needed to say it. Whatever else happens, I just needed to say it. To not lie by omission anymore. To not hide how this,” he explains, gesturing between the two of them, “means more to me than I ever thought it could. How I had to tell you that you’re good enough and-” Alaric's words die in his throat as Damon closes the distance between them, pressing their lips together.
Damon has dreamed of this moment before. He has imagined closing the distance between them after Alaric laughs at one of his stories, tasting the laughter on his tongue. He has imagined them high off a good fight, blood singing in their veins, the air hot and heavy and the way the switch would flip from friends to more as they fight for dominance in a kiss. He has imagined it being soft and gentle, mouths sweet with bourbon. He has imagined it angry and bloody. He has imagined it so many times that some days when he looks at Alaric he almost remembers it as having happened, his brain lying to him. Nothing could have prepared him for reality.
Alaric comes alive under Damon’s hands, moaning into the kiss immediately, opening his mouth to Damon’s questing tongue. His hands are all over Damon’s back, pulling the vampire closer to him as he tastes Damon. The wet slick sound of their mouths fills is only broken by the noise of pleasure they make in the back of their throats. Damon can smell the way Alaric grows aroused under his attention, can hear his blood rush faster through his veins, flushing his face and flowing down between his legs. Damon lets Alaric fight for control of the kiss, licking into his mouth and tangling their tongues.
Damon pulls back, remembering that Alaric has to breathe, feeling flushed and warm with lust and desire. Alaric’s hand is idly tracing patterns under his shirt, against his lower back. Damon can feel the calluses on his hand and wonder what they will feel like wrapped around the length of him.
“Damon,” Alaric says, voice rumbling in his chest. His pupils are blown wide and his lips are red and slick with their spit. Damon needs more. He closes the distance again, hungrily kissing Alaric, teasingly nipping his lower lips before slipping his tongue back in, tracing his teeth and tasting his tongue. Damon could lose himself in the simple heat and pleasure of them making out, pressed against each other in the hallway, pressed up against each other. But Alaric seems to have other ideas, pulling away from Damon’s mouth to begin kissing at his neck, working a hand between their bodies to touch the exposed skin of Damon’s chest, leaving trails of heat and electricity in their wake.
“God, Ric,” Damon moans, rolling his hips against Alaric. He’s searching for something clever to say, some innuendo but what comes out instead is, “I love you too.”
Alaric stills, pulling back to meet Damon’s eyes. “Don’t lie to me. Not about this.”
Damon knows how desperate he must look, wanton flush high on his cheekbones, his mouth swollen, eyes dark and hungry, but he finds the sincerity within him. “Never. Not about this.”
Alaric pulls him back into a kiss that lights Damon on fire from his toes to the roots of his hair. In this moment Damon would let Alaric take everything from him, whether it be the greedy sounds he is making in the back of his throat or his money, his body, his soul. Damon realizes as he makes out with his best friend and about-to-be-lover in the entryway to his home that maybe he was lying to himself about how important this relationship is, how life changing it has become for Damon. And he finds himself oddly okay with it, as he drags Alaric upstairs to his bedroom, ready to make good on all the fantasies he told himself he could never have.