THREE : cigarettes and grills
Smoking used to be Thomas' thing with Finn. Before their relationship was irreversibly destroyed, the duo would smoke together. It was an olive branch, and the only aspect of their relationship that stayed unchanged for a hundred years.
Thomas doesn't like his eldest brother. Hasn't actually liked him, or enjoyed his presence, or been grateful for his life, for well over a thousand years. But that doesn't mean Thomas hates him, or wants him in dead. If anything, he misses him. He misses his brother, all his brothers, more than anything. Yearns for the relationships they had as children, when things were simpler in a way they never would be again. It's harder to have anything, to cultivate any kind of relationship, when immortal. Grudges fade. Anger fades. Love fades. It comes back, and leaves again. Nothing is resolved and nothing is permanent and nothing ever fully goes away.
Thomas stares at the burning bud of his last cigarette. Just being given it by his siblings was an extraordinary feat. He wonders how pathetic he must've looked for them to do it.
He's weak, hasn't drank blood since Kol gave his. He'll be feeling hunger pangs soon, and will start shaking from withdrawal, along with other symptoms. Thomas huffs, taking a look around. There's plenty of humans he could feed from, but blood doesn't sound appetizing. Drowning in a lake would be more fun.
As his eyes go from person to person, eventually meeting a man's. Tall, blonde, pretty. Thomas can work with that. "Excuse me," He says, trying to put on a friendly smile. "Could you point me to a pharmacy, drugstore, anything like that? I'm new in town."
The man smiles, prompting for Thomas to return the gesture. "Sure. I'm headed to one now, if you'd like to come with me."
God, Thomas wants to eat him. "Of course, thank you." Fuck, this guy's tall. Thomas could use a distraction.
"I'm Alaric Saltzman." The man introduces, snapping Thomas out of his thoughts. "But everyone just calls me Ric."
"I'm Thomas Mikaelson," He says, shaking Alaric's hand. He forces himself to ignore the sound of Alaric's blood pulsing under his skin. "My friends call me Tommy."
Alaric huffs out a laugh. "We're friends already?"
"We could be, Ric," Thomas grins. "You could show me, the helpless new guy, how things work around here."
The implication isn't lost on Alaric. "Perhaps I could," He says, the corners of his lips quirking up. "Say, what made you move to Mystic Falls?"
"My mother is— a lot," Thomas says. "Wants a family reunion after what, a hundred years?"
Alaric raises an eyebrow. "That long? What drove her to come back?"
"Fuck if I know," Thomas shrugs. "Haven't seen her in— forever. She's basically a stranger."
"Shit," Alaric whistles. "I'm sorry, sounds hard."
"Yeah." Thomas says. "Can't imagine living with her."
"Why'd you all follow her here?" Alaric asks. "You're all adults, right? You could leave."
"I could," Thomas whispers. "But I'm the youngest. They don't— they don't like letting go."
"Ah," Alaric nods to himself. "I get it. My brother and I were the same." He stops walking abruptly, causing Thomas to bump into his back. "We're here." Alaric motions to the drugstore, oh-so-cleverly labeled Alvin's Meds & Stuff. Christ. "He wanted to name it Alvin's Drugs and Stuff, but the neighborhood association wouldn't let him," Alaric snorts. Thomas has no idea what those words mean. "Several cease and desists were sent." He opens the door for Thomas to step through. He murmurs a thanks as a bell rings above them.
Thomas immediately stalks to the counter, where a young woman stands with several bottles of liquor and cigarette boxes behind her. She asks what brand he wants. "Dealer's choice," He responds with a shrug.
Alaric comes to a stop at Thomas' back. "Not those," He says. "Get him Marlboro instead, please." It takes all of Thomas' willpower to not think about how Alaric is basically trapping him against the counter. Unsubtly, Thomas leans back against him. He's only a little sad when Alaric leaves seconds afterwards.
"Thanks," Thomas says to the cashier. "You got anything for a headache?" He asks, picking out a lighter. "Whatever's cheaper," He shrugs when she asks which brand, rummaging his pockets. He comes up with a twenty, which he doubts is enough if he takes inflation into account. He misses when everything costed 15 cents. More importantly, he misses thinking with his head and compelling human playthings before going on walks with them.
"I'll take care of it," Alaric says, placing down a six pack of some beer with a German name on the counter. He smiles at Thomas, kind without a hint of malice.
"Oh," Thomas says, doing a piss-poor job of hiding his surprise. "Thank you." And Thomas hadn't even compelled him yet.
"No problem," Alaric says, handing the cashier his credit card. Thomas gets a plastic bag, shoves his things in, and immediately stalks out the door.
He's got six pills on his tongue and is halfway through a cigarette by the time Alaric exits the store. He swallows them dry. It's not enough.
"You alright?" Alaric asks. "You took those dry."
"Head's killing me," Thomas lies. "Family does that to a person."
"Right," Alaric says, slow. He looks like he wants to say something else, but doesn't. Thomas get through three before Alaric speaks again. "Are you okay, Thomas?"
Thomas' breath stutters, throat aching. He doesn't think he's ever heard those words directed at him. "Yeah," He says, hesitant. The pressure in his chest isn't Esther's doing, he knows, but it feels similar. "Why?"
Alaric glances at Thomas' hands, then at his eyes. "I used to smoke when life was hard. I stopped for a while, then my wife died, and I almost got hooked again, but I realized I didn't want to fall back into old habits."
"Lucky for you, then," Thomas says insensitively. He winces at his own tone, expecting to get yelled at. He's surprised when Alaric doesn't even react, he only tilts his head so he can look at Thomas.
"Whatever your siblings have done, I'm sure they didn't mean to hurt you."
"Why?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why do you care?" Thomas snarks.
Alaric shrugs, looks away. "You remind me of myself, I suppose. I needed someone to offer me a hand, to tell me there was something else." He pauses, "My brother wasn't all that great either. I wish someone had told me it was okay to leave. That I didn't owe him anything."
Except Thomas did. "I owe my brothers." He owed Klaus his life. He owed Elijah and Kol and Rebekah and Finn. He hated them and he owed them and he could never repay them. "I owe my brother... I owe him my life. I'd be dead if— if he hadn't been there, I'd—"
Alaric reaches out, wraps an arm around Thomas' shoulders, pulls him into his chest. "It's okay," He murmurs, rubbing a hand up and down Thomas' back. "I— I live with my niece, and two other kids. If you need somewhere to stay, there's always room."
"I don't need that from you," Thomas snaps. "I don't even know you." You don't know who I am, he thinks desperately. You don't know what I've done.
"Maybe," Alaric replies. He doesn't acknowledge that Thomas has yet to move away. "But having the option doesn't hurt."
Thomas pulls away, barely restrains himself from pushing. "You don't even mean that, do you?"
"I do," Alaric says, unflinching. "My home is open to you, if you ever need it." He waits, eyes Thomas' reaction. "Just consider it, okay?"
The thought is laughable. An Original, a thousand year old being, being offered the home of a human. Being treated like a child. "Fine," Thomas says, taking a last drag from his cigarette, and stomping it under his foot. To be offered such a kindness from a stranger is— it's not real. Not from someone Thomas was thinking of killing minutes prior. That kind of thing doesn't happen to him. People aren't kind to him just because. There's always something else. Always. Family taught him that.
_________
Thomas' next stop is the Mystic Grill. He figures he can do some shots, get so drunk he forgets his own name, purge out his insides in the morning, compel a human or two as soon as his vision stopped spinning. The perfect plan.
He should've eaten Alaric, but ultimately didn't have the heart to. Humiliating. If Klaus found out, he'd kill Alaric in seconds. (Thomas can imagine. His brother looking down at him, holding Alaric's corpse by the hair, neck snapped, bled near dry. A few pretty words and you folded, baby brother?).
Thomas takes a seat at the bar, struck by a wave of something that resembles fondness and— and deep sadness. This used to be Thomas' favorite part of the village; the spot underneath a tree, where he could dip his feet in the river. Klaus would sketch, Elijah would clean his knives, and Thomas would sleep between them, head in one's lap and feet in the other. Or it'd be him, Kol and Henrik, splashing each other and competing for who could climb fastest. It'd be Finn recounting a story as Thomas skipped rocks and Rebekah threaded flowers into his hair.
The booths are red, the lights dimmed, walls adorned with mismatched paintings, dirty pool tables and borderline unusable dart boards. It's like being back in New Orleans. It resembles home, or as much as a home Thomas hadn't seen in hundreds of years could be.
Thomas taps his knuckles against the bar, catching the attention of a blonde bartender. He looks up from the counter, a smile on his lips as he meets Thomas' eye. "What can I get you?"
"Shots," Thomas deadpans. "Your cheapest vodka will do."
The bartender snorts. "Congrats, you're the first person to ask for shots this early in the day." He leans against the counter, closer to Thomas. "May I recommend anything else, instead?"
Thomas glanced at the name tag. Matt. "You got a favorite drink, Matty?"
The man laughs. "Oh, you don't want my suggestions. I'm told I have awful taste."
Thomas grins, all teeth. "Vodka soda. All vodka."
"I'll do my best," Matt laughs. "Got I.D.?"
Thomas reaches into his pocket. Klaus had a habit of keeping fake I.D.s for all the siblings; a paranoid habit kickstarted sometimes in the 40s. Thomas had thought that, with being daggered for centuries, Klaus would stop at some point. He evidently didn't. Old habits die hard. (Thomas watched him dig through an embarrassingly large pile for several minutes before finding Thomas'. Paranoid fucker).
Something in Matt shifts as he looks down at the card. His heartbeat races, breath hitches, fingers tighten. He schools his expression quickly; his smile is still friendly, but there's a tenseness to him that Thomas doesn't miss. "Is there a problem?" Thomas asks, tilting his head.
"Nope." Matt says. He swallows uncomfortably, pulls slightly away from the counter. "No, just— you're from Denmark? Thought you were British."
"Scandinavian, born and raised," Thomas replies. He glances down at his I.D. as he pockets it. Nothing out of the ordinary. So Matt knew, then. "You?"
"Nah, born and raised in Mystic Falls," Matt says. His movements are jerky, voice strained, whole body coiled to run.
"No need to be nervous, Matt," Thomas smiles. "I don't bite."
Matt doesn't look at him. "Yeah, no, I don't—" He swallows uncomfortably. "What brings you here? To Mystic Falls."
Thomas sighs. "My mother, mostly. Seems to think our family can be fixed in one afternoon." He rolls his eyes. "My siblings are pushovers."
"Well, gotta love 'em, right?" Matt says. It couldn't sound more fake. "They're family." He places down Thomas drink, and backs away.
"Right," Thomas says. He resigns himself, picks up the glass. Maybe Matt doesn't know. Maybe he's just bad at flirting. He takes a sip, feels the familiar burn of vervain, like acid being poured down his throat, and sighs. He spits the liquid back into the drink, putting it down harshly. "That was fucking disgusting," He laughs to himself. "And I was so nice, Matty." Matt is petrified on the spot, so tense it makes Thomas roll his eyes. "I come for a drink and get vervain instead. Rude. Do you treat all your customers this way?"
"I can't be compelled." Matt says, all in one breath. As if that would make a difference.
"Here's an idea, Matt," Thomas says. "Between you and me, telling a vampire you can't be compelled just makes them want to snap your neck, or bleed the vervain out of you. Next time, just pretend to be compelled. Or pretend you don't know what they're talking about." He waits a beat, and laughs. "Come on, I'm not that scary, am I?"
"Who are you?" Matt snaps. His heartbeat quickens, his blood rushes, he turns pale. He'd be so easy to kill.
Thomas sighs, rolls his eyes. "Thomas Mikaelson, but you knew that already, didn't you?" He glances at Matt, up and down. "What tipped you off?"
"Your last name," Matt says after a beat. "On the I.D."
Thomas glances at it. "Mikkelsen? My brother's never been subtle." He murmurs. "Look, Matty— don't look at me like that. What, you prefer to just be Matt? Fine, Matt," Thomas huffs. "My day has been long, my siblings irritating, and my mother— do you have a mother? It's the fucking worst. She comes back from the dead, activates my family's mommy issues, and somehow it's become my problem." He shakes his head. "Point is, if I face one more set back on this day, I will kill someone." He takes in a deep breath, forces himself to calm down when Matt shifts uncomfortably. You reveal you're a vampire and suddenly murder jokes become off limits. "In a non-threatening, non-violent way, of course."
Matt slowly uncurls. "You still want a vodka soda, all vodka?"
"No vervain," Thomas says. "Tastes like battery acid. And yes, I have tasted it before."
Matt snorts, quiet. "Why?"
"The whole immortal thing gets old," Thomas shrugs. "I've tried basically everything."
Matt hums. "Absinthe?"
"Whilst it was on fire."
"Lead?"
"Tastes quite sweet."
"Mercury?"
"Delicious on a sandwich," Thomas deadpans. "The high is wonderful if you're a vampire. Not so much if you're human."
Matt actually laughs at that. "Yeah, Mad Hatter Syndrome or something." He places a new glass down. "Promise not to eat me?"
"You have vervain in you," Thomas says. "You'd be fucking disgusting." He takes a sip. "And it's not like I go out killing people for no reason." Well, not always.
Matt tapped the counter twice as a group of men came in and approached the counter. "Please don't eat anyone in here."
Thomas waves a dismissive hand. "Don't worry, Matty, I know how hard it is to get blood out of wood. And ceilings." He grins as he says it, and Matt pursues his lips like he's trying not to laugh. Good. Thomas knows he's fucking hilarious.
A basket of fries is placed by his hands. He locks eyes with the waitress; pretty girl, dyed lilac hair, earrings that looked like stars. Her name tag reads Phoebe. "From that guy," She says with a teasing grin, pointing to a duo by the pool tables. Thomas can hear said duo arguing, and hears the guy slap her arm repeatedly, claiming betrayal. Thomas laughs.
Said guy eventually takes a seat beside Thomas. "Hi," He says. He's shaking, knee bouncing incessantly.
"Hi, Oliver," Thomas replies. He enjoys watching the boy twitch. "What brings you here?"
The boy smiles; strained, caught off guard. "How do you know my name?"
"Your friend is very loud," Thomas says, taking a fry. "And unsubtle."
"Right," Oliver murmurs, running a hand through his hair. "Well, point is, Emma dared me to come over here and talk to you."
How juvenile. "You sure now how to make a guy feel special."
"Not like that," Oliver clarifies. "I just didn't— I didn't want to bother you, or— you know, be weird, but she wouldn't shut up until I did it."
"Could've brought the fries yourself," Thomas points out. "Instead of making Phoebe do it."
"Right," Oliver murmurs, scratching the back of his head. "I'm an idiot, sorry, this—" He laughs, self-deprecating, but somehow still charming. "This is awkward."
Thomas laughs. "Wanna start over?"
"Please," Oliver laughs. He shakes his head, takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders. It's cute. "I'm Oliver. I really want to know your name." He extends a hand, all formal.
"Thomas," He replies, taking Oliver's hand. He can't stop grinning. "Nice to meet you, Oliver. Thank you for the fries."
"Where you from?"
"Denmark," He says. "You?"
"Here," Oliver shrugs. "My mom's Honduran, though." He waits a beat. "You any good at pool? Emma's the unbeaten champion, and I really wanna see her lose."
Thomas couldn't hold back a smile. "Lucky for you, I'm very good at pool. I'm also the youngest of five, so competition's in my blood."
Oliver grins. "Where have you been all my life?" He takes Thomas' hand, gently tugging him along. He goes willingly.
Emma grins as they approach. "You're welcome," She says. "Took him a whole fucking hour just to walk over to you."
"Thanks for the ego boost," Thomas teases. "Good to know I still got it."
"Shut up," Oliver hisses, smacking Emma on the shoulder. "Seriously." He turns back to Thomas with a smile. "This is my third best friend— though currently fighting for last place— Emma."
"Third?" She gasps. "Out of four people, I'm third?"
"You're about to be fourth," Oliver deadpans. "After Thomas."
"I'm already climbing the list?" Thomas chuckles. "You like me that much?" He teases. Oliver winks. A far cry from his introduction moments ago. Seems his friend's given him confidence.
"You're picking a white boy over me?" Emma gasps.
"You're also white," Oliver deadpans. "And he's got an accent. He's spicy white."
"Accent, sure. More like crush. If that's all it takes for someone to become spicy to you, then Jer—"
Oliver smacks her in the back of the head, hard, promptly shutting her up. He turns to Thomas with a tight smile, "Please ignore the stranger standing beside me."
"If you date him, this is how he'll treat you," Emma says. She points her thumb at Oliver, then hits him with her pool stick. "Kind of a dick, don't you think?"
Thomas laughs, thoroughly amused. "You're confident. What makes you think we'll date?"
"You should see him manifesting," Emma deadpans. "Ridiculous amount of candles and way too much sage. And incense. And somehow shit just kinda works out for him."
"Except friendship, clearly," Oliver deadpans. He elbows Emma in the side. In return, she elbows him back. They continue this little cycle as Thomas sips his drink, and end it once he's finished.
"Nice to meet you," Emma says, extending a hand towards him. "Please ignore the insane person beside me."
"I'll try," Thomas says. He glances at the pool table. "I'm told you're the undefeated pool champion. Wanna change that?"
Emma grins. "Someone's confident."
Thomas shrugs. "Half of Oliver's pitch was me promising to beat you."
She turns to Oliver, appalled and offended. "Seriously? You finally talk to a guy and that's your line?" She turns back to Thomas, "That worked on you?"
Thomas shrugs. "Bad flirting endears me."
"Not that bad!" Oliver defends. "I had a plan."
"And the plan was telling me you were dared to approach me."
Emma turns to Oliver with a gasp. "You didn't!" Her eyes dart from Oliver to Thomas. Finally, she smacks her friend repeatedly, and proceeds to chase him with the pool stick. "You're so fucking stupid! Why would you say that!" Their bickering makes Thomas laughs, something warm and unfamiliar. He'd missed— this. Something easy, carefree.
He picks up his own pool stick, watching the white ball scatter the others. "Come on, Emma, I can't wait all day."
She momentarily stops chasing Oliver, and instead settles on the side of the table. "Wanna bet on this?"
"Yeah," Thomas shrugs. "Forty for whoever wins."
"You're so on," Emma retorts, getting into position. She gets two solid balls into the net before missing. "I love scamming the rich."
Thomas raises an eyebrow. "Where'd that come from?"
"Forty on the jump? That's such a rich person thing," Emma says. "Plus, you look like one of those rich guys that get sent to a small town for disappointing their parents."
Well, she's not too far off. "Wish it was that way. Instead, I'm here with an overbearing mother, and five siblings that are just as bad." He gets four in before missing. Emma tuts.
"Five? I can barely stand just one," She says, immediately missing on her turn. She groans, Oliver laughs. "Or two, if you count this idiot."
"I am not claiming you as a sister," Oliver says. Emma retorts in awful Spanish, which makes Oliver burst out laughing. He wraps an arm around Thomas' shoulders, leaning against him. "You see what I have to deal with, Tommy?"
"Así es la vida aveces," Thomas replies, to Oliver's delight.
"I knew I liked you for a reason," He hums. "Learned in Bolivia, right? Accent."
Thomas grins. "And Peru, yeah."
Emma rolls her eyes playfully. "I hate rich people. I've never even been outside this country."
"You should look into traveling," Thomas says. "Actually experience the world." He wins on his turn. Emma gasps in offense.
"Dick! And to think I let you win just to be nice," She huffs, cheeks red, as Oliver cheers.
Thomas laughs. "Come on, Em, don't be a sore loser."
"Best two out of three," She says immediately, digging through the nets to restart. "And I'll double the wager."
"Pretty sure that's how gambling addictions start," Oliver comments with a snort. He and Emma start bickering again.
Thomas can't remember the last time he laughed this much.
_________________
ALARIC SALTZMAN
( jensen ackles )
EMMA FORBES
( maya hawke )
PHOEBE SALTZMAN
( abigail cowen )
word count: 3.7k
merging this chapter and the next broke my heart since the old comments are now lost forever </3 seeing you guys commenting and reacting is literally my entire motivation to keep writing