( he wants to hurt him. there is no victory in the anguish or the blood. his words should have torn stefan in two, just as they rended through him; he wanted them to spear and slaughter whatever softness was between them. to damage the sanctuary and sanctity of their love beyond repair.

what useless heartbreak. his despair is a deafening rage. stefan finds it in himself to pour them drinks, to spout off such ridiculous, unending, undying vows. his vision blurs with tears that he attempts to hide away, to blink away, lowering his gaze to the floor when he cannot, and they fall.

he hates this, too. not being able to hold fast to the malice and the savagery that might save him from his weaknesses. he aches, thinking of the life he has never dared to dream, to want: slow mornings and warm nights. an artist's studio and a large library. a peaceful, dreamy life.

his voice is watery. klaus cannot meet stefan's eyes. ) Save your poetry and promises. There was never going to be a happy ending with me. Surely you know... I am not fit. ( worthless. spineless. dangerous. a curse.

stefan has not deserved him. he never has. ) In any regard.