#291.2

Volume by volume, he returns his journals to their proper places on his bookcases, noticing more than one of the shelves that is practically brand new, yet near-identical to the one that stood in its place before. He looks at it puzzlingly, wondering what has happened in his absence, but none of it troubles him. He doesn’t bother flipping through pages, reminiscing, he still knows each word put down on them by heart. Switched on or switched off, there is no escaping memory and, despite what so many have tried to tell him, Stefan knows who he is (and who he is not.)

He ponders this, tries to find this line he has crossed. Drinking human blood has never changed the fundamentals of who he is, or what he believes. He still thinks that sunrise is the most beautiful part of the day, that Bon Jovi is superior to Axl Rose, and that freshly made mozzarella is always worth the trouble, because the stuff in the grocery store just doesn’t taste the same. He has always loved the salty-sweet tang of young, blonde blood hitting his tongue (even when he hadn't tasted it for decades) and he has always seen suffering in others so clearly, finds himself deeply affected by it regardless of his diet. Now, he simply chooses to use that acute awareness to inflict rather than to soothe.

For a moment he just stands, amidst all the things that used to matter to him, remembering what it’s like to feel. He stands there, teetering on the edge that lies within himself, between heartless monster and guilt-ridden saint, trying to feel out the balance. He has never once been permitted to be both these things, always choosing. Favouring one, denying the other. Only Damon, with his attempt at reconnection over waitresses and whiskey, seemed to ever understand how Stefan is not a dichotomy: not two separate persons contained within a whole, but one man shifting between the polarities of self.

In this room, he is surrounded by one extreme, consumed by the other and he closes his eyes, just breathes, trying to be both, to be Stefan and all that it embodies. He glances down the hallway in the direction of Damon’s room (even though it is empty, in another wing of the house) and thinks for a moment: Maybe...

The moment passes when he hears movement in the bowels of the house, pulls himself back from the edge, and strides out quickly, shaking it off, closing the door and locking it behind him with all of those remembered feelings, his experiment in being. Safe. In case he wants to try again later.

a/n : this back catalogue entry was originally written and posted in 2011. We have preserved it's original format, and no additional editing or alterations have been done. many thanks to @aniresrene, @velvourne, @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth and @middleearthislife for the encouragement, the fics are being released.