It's a game he's been playing for awhile now.

Pretend that it's alright to let love consume him, pretend that it's okay to smile and laugh and be so happy he thinks he might die of it, when there is a part of him that rages and whispers and hates.

He been playing and lying tricking himself and everyone around him for years.

Not Enzo.

Enzo can see that piece of him tucked away, concealed for years, that part of Damon that relishes in the kill, aches for the feeling of flesh beneath his teeth, screams for release.

It doesn't really matter about Elena, although yes her words hurt, cut him to his core. It doesn't matter about Stefan, standing there watching him, voice layered with sympathy and eyes glinting with just a small hint of satisfaction(some part of him must be just a little happy about all this, right?) It doesn't matter that he feels some small twinge of something like joy that Caroline Forbes still hates him with a passion. Someone has too. She hasn't been fooled by his game.

But little, blond Caroline is not Enzo. She has not seen Damon at his very worst. Even Stefan, the little brother who claims to know Damon better than himself, has not see the darkest depths, the haunting agony behind the murderous rage that screams behind Damon's eyes.

The rage boils over now, pounding through his body like blood and venom and Damon trembles at the strength of it. He does not fight it, does not try to push it away and slip back into the game of smiling. He allows it to consume him until his vision is tinted red and there is a hollow pit in his stomach that is part hunger, part aching loneliness.

So he leads his old friend to the road.

"Really?" Enzo asks, raising an eyebrow.

Damon smiles, all bitter edges and broken glass, "trust me," he says, and it comes out in a purr. The rage is a pulse behind his eyes, and the ache of his fang teeth in his gums is so strong he nearly cries out with the strength of it, "it makes it so much more fun."

"A game, then?" Enzo is looking at him meaningfully, and Damon nods.

"The best kind of game."

Enzo grins up at him. "I can't wait to play," he says, and stretches himself out.

Damon waits. And snarls. And almost cries.

The whole conversation is unbearable.

While Damon is enjoying it(a little) the hollow pit in his stomach has changed to writhing knots, and he can hear Elena's voice in his ear, telling him he's a monster and he wants to break something. He wants to sink his teeth into this stupid boy's neck so badly his hands are shaking.

Enzo is watching him with a slight smirk. Damon knows that his old friend wants to see him do it. He wants reassurance that Damon will live up to his word, honor the game, play the part.

But Damon is not acting.

He feels no remorse. He feels no guilt. He is still clinging to his humanity, but not to love. He is consumed by all the worst, dark parts of himself, and those exist with or without his humanity.

Because he will always be that foolish boy who fell in love with a beautiful girl so many years ago. He will always be the brother who went off to war and witnessed killing before Stefan did. He will always be the one who enjoyed the lessons Katherine Pierce gave them in killing while his little brother vomited up old blood later. He will always be the one who after waiting to die, gave in and drank the blood that was offered to him. He will always be corrupt and eager and terrible.

Finally, finally, he lets his fang teeth slide free and he grins with genuine pleasure before sinking them deep into the Whitmore boy's neck and letting the blood-salty and hot-fill his mouth.

Damon does not sip. He bites, again and again and gulps the blood until the rage quiets and the familiar, sharp buzz of fresh blood sings through his veins. He'd forgotten how good it tastes.

Dropping the lifeless body to the ground he sucks in a wheezing, startled breath. Blood drips from his chin and he licks it away. Monster, Elena's voice hisses in his mind.

Yes, I am, Damon responds, and laughs back at her.

Enzo is nodding. Smiling. Damon can just see the tips of his fangs. "Now there's the Damon Salvatore I remember."

Damon grins at his old friend. They share much together-pain and starvation, torture and long conversations. Enzo knows him better than anyone, better than he knows himself, better than Stefan or Elena ever will.

They both know the trick to Damon's secret, the game he plays with himself every few years.

They both know the universal truth.

No one hates Damon Salvatore more than he hates himself.