Alaric is drunk.
He swears off whiskey forever after that.
Alaric is very drunk.
He gets a hangover to end all hangovers the next day, his tongue numb and dry, his throat hoarse as all hell, head pounding in a mocking rhythm that might be something Damon sing-songed the night before.
He tries not to read too much into the fact that Damon apparently took time and made the effort to clean Alaric up before he left. Alaric remembers coming pretty damn hard all over himself, all over Damon’s insistent fingers, and there should still be dried come on him, and it should be troublesome as a motherfucker to get rid of.
He swears off whiskey and meeting Damon fucking Salvatore in bars and fucking Damon Salvatore after leaving bars.
It probably won’t stick.
Alaric is just slightly drunk, but he’s also fucking exhausted, beyond his muscles, deep down to his bones, and that accounts for some of the nonsensical behavior that he can’t blame on booze.
“You don’t even breathe,” he tells Damon, and it might have been intended as an insult in whatever argument they were having, but it comes out whimsical and curious. He waits a beat before continuing, as if it was the logical conclusion. “You must be great at giving head.”
Damon brushes off a non-existent speck of dust from his shoulder. “I had no complaints,” he says, half-smug, half-matter-of-fact, all fucking asshole.
Alaric doesn’t complain either.
Alaric is stone cold sober and so angry it runs cold, freezing up his veins. He thinks idly that if Damon tried to bite him right now, and he might, judging from all the snarling and threatening; he would break his fucking fangs.
“I don’t even know why I didn’t fucking stake you when I could,” he mutters, his knuckles white as his fists clench too hard.
“Not my heart you’re interested in,” Damon mutters, all smiles and teeth, but his eyes are hard and hot. “And it’s not a stake you want to pound it with, Rick,” he adds cheerfully, pleased with himself and the punchline, but the joke falls flat somewhere between them, shattering to the floor with all the pretense and all of Alaric’s self-control.
It’s best if you wound them with the truth, someone told him once, and he doesn’t remember if it was Isobel or Damon, can’t tell his demons apart and doesn’t care which darkness swallows him up whole.
Alaric is sober and he kind of wishes he was drunk and had this excuse for seeking out Damon fucking Salvatore.
“So, I’ve heard you staked your evil bitch of an ex-girlfriend,” he doesn’t say. “Any pointers? I have this ex-wife…” he doesn’t add.
“I’m really not in the mood for company, but if you get to your knees and suck me off, I may not rip your throat out,” Damon says fondly, and there’s that.
Alaric is sober at the beginning, and quite drunk at the end of the evening, courtesy of a rather excellent whiskey.
“Good year,” Damon says, teeth flashing in an actually honest smile, like he’s sharing an inside-joke Alaric doesn’t get, but he’s invited to laugh at anyway.
He’s not sure when he falls asleep, but apparently his survival instincts are shot to hell, or maybe he’s learned to trust Damon fucking Salvatore not to kill him in his sleep. Wonders never cease, and it would serve him right if he woke up dead.
Damon’s watching him when he does wake up, alive and all the worse for it, his lids heavy and his lips chapped. Damon has this puzzled expression, head tilted to the side, like he’s trying to figure something out and there’ll probably be hell when he does.
“I need some fucking coffee,” Alaric mutters and Damon rolls his eyes.
“Well, fuck off or make it yourself.”
Alaric dreads to think what kind of coffee you can find in a fucking vampire’s house. He goes to find out.