A/N: Title comes from a song by MGMT.
Takes place in the indeterminate future, midway through their first year of college.
Any feedback is lovely, so thanks in advance!
Disclaimer: I own nothing, obviously.
Electric Feel
Blair finally breaks down one night over a pint of Karmel Sutra ice cream and a bottle of Tanqueray.
- - - - -
They've been in college for two months and her roommate, an aspiring business major, is pouring over this month's copy of the The Economist when the realization hits and she looks over at Blair.
"Hey Blair," she begins, curiosity evident in her voice. "Can I ask you something random?"
"Sure," responds the brunette, not looking up from her copy of Bleak House.
"The article I'm reading right now says this guy went to St. Jude's for high school. Isn't that where you went?"
"What?" Blair asks, finally closing her novel and glancing up. "St. Jude's? Yeah, that was like my school's male counterpart. Who is the story about?"
In response, the girl holds up the cover and suddenly there he is, staring back at her with all his hard angles and smoldering brown eyes, and Blair inexplicably feels her breath catch in her throat as her front teeth come down hard on her tongue.
"It says he graduated the same year as us, so do you, like, know him?" The girl's eyes are shining brightly and she's smiling broadly at the possibility that her freshman roommate could hold the keys to a fabulous job right out of college.
"Yeah, a bit," is all Blair can manage to say before the tears start coming, fast and furious, and suddenly her roommate is there—sitting next to her on the tiny bed and enveloping her in a hug—with a box of tissues, a carton of ice cream—two spoons—and a bottle of gin.
"Oh Blair I had no idea," she apologizes softly, "I won't tell, just let it out."
This girl reminded her a bit of Serena, with that ability to comfort her no matter what, (although the blond hair probably didn't hurt) and before she realizes it, Blair is spilling her heart out into the girl's waiting arms.
It didn't end well, Blair recounts. Something about the future, not being tied down and him wanting to give her the chance to be her own person. Yeah, that and some other bull shit to cover up the fact that he just didn't have the balls to say what they both needed to hear. There was a fight the night of graduation, which included a broken Blahnik and a rip up the sleeve of a hand-sewn Brioni suit jacket. It didn't end with sex. She went to go conquer the historic halls of New Haven and he went to try and take the corporate world by storm, though he may have had a leg up starting out as a CEO of a "Fortune 500" company and all.
- - - - -
When she heads home for Christmas, it is five months later and everything is exactly the same. Except for the part where it's not.
Blair brings her roommate into the city for a few days before she goes back home, allowing her to experience a piece of this world, and simultaneously apply for a summer internship with Bass Industries, much to Blair's chagrin.
Serena manages to persuade the four of them to meet for drinks and dinner, at The Palace of course, for old time's sake.
Blair is there first, sipping delicately on a martini and looking every bit like the Upper East Side queen that she is in a black Catherine Malandrino dress, fresh from the Bloomingdale's in Soho that her overeager Midwestern roommate had insisted upon visiting to buy a "knock out" after Blair had shared she would be running into Chuck tonight. Serena makes it there second, surprisingly punctual, and she looks mostly like herself, save for a few small wooden beads braided easily into her blond mane and a handbag that looks like it could get her arrested for possession.
"So it's almost dreadlocks," quips Blair, her crimson lips turning upwards into a smirk. Serena just laughs and smiles that easy smile of hers before wrapping the petite girl in a bone crushing hug.
Nate shows next, tan and fit from his fall out on the west coast. The three slide into easy conversation and Blair can't help but think how nice it is to just be here with her two good friends, reminiscing about the past and discussing their current lives. The absence of the final guest lays heavy in the air, though, and Serena is on her third Sidecar by the time he finally decides to show up.
He meanders in, idly pushing the glass door open as he peruses the room with a look of bored indifference plaguing his inscrutable features. Blair knows better than to buy it, though. There's a crease in between his brows since they're pulled together, enough to be only just noticeable, signifying that he's doing everything in his power to remain serene. After all, that bastard never surrenders control.
He actually cracks a smile when he finally spies them at the table and heads over. Nate stands up and the two embrace while Serena giggles something about a man hug and Blair just rolls her eyes. He gives Serena a kiss on the cheek and takes his seat, across from Nate and next to Blair, of course, and takes her hand, lifting it to his lips to brush a kiss across her knuckles and whisper that she looks beautiful. Serena senses the exchange and takes it as a good time to ask who is seeing anybody new.
Serena and Dan's relationship ultimately went down like the Hindenburg, splintering into a million pieces of fodder for Sonnets about unrequited love and novellas better suited for the Spanish language channel—just add eyeliner. Now, she says, she's just seeing what is out there, so nothing serious. Nate shares that he and Vanessa are trying, and apparently succeeding, at the transcontinental long distance relationship. Suddenly, Blair realizes it is her turn to speak.
"Nothing right now," she says with a shake of her head as she pops the olive from her martini into her mouth. Serena raises an eyebrow in Chuck's direction while he stares at Blair's lips, subconsciously licking his own and taking a long sip from the single malt in the lowball glass he's currently clutching like a lifeline.
"Don't worry, B," Serena jumps in after a moment, "I'm sure some fabulous Ivy League boy will fall head over heels in love with you. Didn't you mention some cute junior in your Latin class?" Serena watches with smug satisfaction as Chuck's knuckles turn white against the glass he's holding as his grip intensifies.
"Oh, yeah," replies Blair airily with a nonchalant flick of her wrist, "I guess we'll just have to see what happens next semester." She risks a glance over to her left and sees Chuck, lips pursed together to tacitly display his irritation.
Serena then takes the opportunity to launch into some ridiculous story about how she and her entire environmental studies class sat in a giant tree for thirty six hours so developers wouldn't cut it down. Chuck seethes when he realizes that he had a deal with those developers—they never got to build the property—and Blair finds herself thinking the story is somewhat banal, for Serena that is, and she itches to leave the table, her foot tapping rapidly against the marble floor of the restaurant as she politely declines Serena's invitation to join her at Bungalow 8 after dinner; there's something about Christmas time that clashes with palm trees.
Before she can realize what is going on, she feels cashmere creeping up her calf and it takes a minute to process, but she finally understands that Chuck is running his sock-clad foot over her calf to stop its incessant bouncing. The feel is electrifying, and she turns to look at him, making genuine eye contact for the first time all night. He looks away after a moment and she lets his foot continue to stroke up and down her skin, and she quickly feels her Blackberry vibrate in her purse. She checks it, hiding a sly smile upon realizing what the message says.
I think we should take a walk. – C
Instead of typing out a response, she shifts in her seat, turns to fact him and nods, inadvertently biting her lower lip out of nervous habit.
- - - - -
The rest of dinner comes and goes with little fanfare and by the time they all are ready to depart, Chuck helps her into her jacket before buttoning up his own wool overcoat and holding open the door.
They walk four blocks before either of them speaks. It's him first, oddly enough, but this was his idea after all and therefore he should speak first. His words are so quiet that they're almost swept away by the wind, to be lost forever in the melody of a Manhattan night.
"I'm sorry."
That's all it is, and that's all it takes. She stops walking and spins around on the soles of her Prada ankle boots to face him.
"Say it again," she demands quietly, her face now inches from his.
He leans in, delicately pressing his forehead against hers before whispering what they both so desperately need to hear.
"I'm sorry, Blair, for not doing this right."
She pulls away a few inches, confused by what he said and while she ponders his words he somehow has ended up down on the sidewalk, balancing on one knee and reaching into his jacket pocket.
"Marry me, Blair Waldorf," he whispers as he produces a round brilliant-cut classic Harry Winston diamond ring. "Not today, or tomorrow, or this year, or even before we graduate, but promise me that one day you will. I love you." He says it like it's the easiest thing in the world, his voice all even toned and velvet.
For once in her life Blair Waldorf is speechless, but she finds herself nodding and suddenly her cheeks feel wet. He stands up, sliding the ring onto her left hand and the electricity she feels when their skin touches tells her that this is going to be alright.
End.