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The spotlight burns hot, sweat trickling down Jeremy Gilbert’s temple as his fingers fly across the fretboard. The crowd at Lockwood Manor is a blur—rich Mystic Falls elites nursing cocktails, bored vampires pretending to care about acoustic indie covers—but two faces stand out. Tyler Lockwood leans against the stage wing, arms crossed, grinning like this is the proudest moment of his life. Damon Salvatore lounges in the front row, lazily sucking on a blood bag through a straw, his smirk sharp enough to draw blood on its own.
Jeremy’s bladder pulses in time with the strumming. He’d chugged three Red Bulls before the set, too wired to piss, too nervous to think straight. Now, each step sends a sloshing ache through his abdomen. The final chord rings out, the applause is polite, and then... warmth. Tyler crushes him into a bear hug before he can bolt for the bathroom, Damon materializing behind him, one arm slung over his shoulders.
"Not bad, kid," Damon murmurs, breath hot against his ear.
And Jeremy’s body betrays him. A hot rush floods his jeans, soaking through fabric, dripping onto the polished hardwood. Tyler jerks back, staring at the dark stain spreading down his own khakis. Damon freezes.
"What the fuck?" he hisses, nose wrinkling at the acrid tang.
Jeremy’s face burns. He’s fifteen, he’s humiliated, and the tears come fast, ugly hiccups tearing from his throat. Damon moves before Tyler can react—vampire speed blurring the room—and suddenly they’re upstairs, dumped unceremoniously in the bathroom adjoining Tyler’s bedroom. Jeremy peels off his soaked shirt like it’s infected, collapsing onto the tile floor.
"I’m sorry," he chokes, knees pulled to his chest. "You can—you can hit me. Or fuck me. Or piss on me back. Whatever. I’m garbage."
Tyler exhales sharply, crouching beside him. "Dude. It’s pee. We’ve all—"
"Speak for yourself," Damon drawls, but his voice lacks its usual bite.
He eyes Jeremy’s trembling form, the way his breath hitches between sobs, and something unreadable flickers across his face. "Christ. Clean up, Gilbert. Then we’re talking."
Jeremy wipes his snotty nose on his arm, staring at the two of them—Tyler’s worried frown, Damon’s sharp gaze—and wonders if this is where they leave him. (It isn’t.)