I was just reading through old documents when I came across this little original one-shot I wrote a while back. For some odd reason, it screamed Serena and Nate to me, so well, I'm posting it here for your viewing pleasure (; I can't really give you a specific time for the setting of this. Basically, it's just random. Really random. I don't own anything related to Gossip Girl, if I did...Blair, Chuck, and Nate would be in a steamy relationship (you know you all want that really.)
The End isn't Near, it's Here
As she passes him, she doesn't utter a word. To her, to them both, silence truly is golden.
She leans against the brick wall behind her, and he moves closer.
When he speaks, his voice is smooth. His voice is like honey. His voice is startling. It freezes her blood for no more than a second, before it sizzles beneath her skin, in her veins. His words have always had the same effect; always caused the same reaction.
It's completely normal for them both, something they expect.
Just like they expect the sudden rise of his heartbeat when she smiles for him. Strumming erratically in his chest, so erratically that when she presses her ear to his chest - like she did so often before - she can hear its faster-than-normal, irregular thumping.
Even now when things have changed, those tiny normalities of theirs remain the same; they can't put a sudden stop to those, try as they might.
He misses her. She refuses to think of him when not in his breath-taking presence.
He misses the feel of her hair in his hands.
Her hair almost reaches her waist: gold silk. He liked to play with it, wrap the edges around his slightly calloused fingers, and feel it run like honey through his finger tips. Nothing else had ever felt so wonderful. It's one of the simple yet stunning things he misses most about her, about them.
She misses the feel of his hands in her pockets.
The way he would slip them in, pulling her closer against him, into him. She had never liked any form of physical contact until him. She never minded his constant touches. The way he would lightly brush his lips along her jaw, and his fingers along her collarbone. The way he would lie his head on her lap and unconsciously clutch her stomach closer to his face, burying it there in his sleepy haze.
They miss the feel of their lips against the others.
How they would prod softly, before becoming abruptly demanding.
Touching and teasing. Slipping and sliding. As though their lips were made for that and only that.
Now, it's all different.
He leans slightly forward, the flickering flame on the edge of his cigarette joining with hers. They're together, one last time.
She doesn't say anything; she doesn't need to. Instead, she gazes at him through lowered lashes, silently thanking him.
But just like the orange flame of the lighter, that flickers and disappears in the mere blink of an eye. And just like the ashes with their faint burnt scent, that fall onto the ground with one flick, their time, this moment, passes, and it is gone quicker than either would ever predict.
Like everything.
Like the cars on the highway that are a blur to their eyes, and the herds of people that walk hastily by in the city, and like time - how it comes and goes without warning, never being able to be taken back.
Like her, like him.
The end always comes.
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