THESE GAMES WE PLAY
As children, we played games. As adolescents, we played other games. As adults, Blair Waldorf and Chuck Bass find themselves playing a familiar game of hurt, tears and pain – one that no one will win. Round Three of my SWB Initiative.
When they were five, Blair Waldorf and Chuck Bass were the only children to stay inside during playtime and discuss books and intellectual games while their blonde friends rolled in the grassy fields outside.
It was the only hour in the day that they would even come close to tolerating each other, because the two plain – in their opinions – children would bond over their mutual hatred of fooling around and being anything less than presentable.
And when their golden-haired, prettier-than-them friends returned, they would part and civil conversation would end right there and then, and another twenty-four hours of heated glares would follow, until the next playtime.
It took them years to figure things out, but after a while, Chuck and Blair realized they didn't enjoy those games and books at all. No, it was the company they kept while reading those books and playing those games that made them look forward to that one hour each and every day.
They never told a soul.
"She's perfect for him," A young Blair sighs longingly, looking out of the window, observing her fair-haired friends laughing together, unburdened by the troubles she had been exposed to at such a young age.
"Perfection is overrated." Her companion frowns, pulling his eyes away from the book in his hands to appraise his young friend. Perhaps friend isn't the most accurate of terms, when you take into consideration the fact that they antagonize each other for hours every single day, save for this one hour. This hour is sacred and tranquil and theirs.
"Look at them," She sighs, longing in her small voice. He knows what she thinks: she will never be as pretty, as happy, as innocent. And he knows he will never be as good, as light-hearted, as perfect.
"I do," He admits. "All the time. But I see two children, playing the same games every day, laughing the same laughter every day. And then I turn and I see a young lady in front of me, who gains knowledge and becomes more mature with every passing hour."
Perhaps these words are too grown-up and sophisticated, but he doesn't have to explain himself to her, unlike his blonde companions, the true children who can still play and laugh and do not understand real conversation. No, Blair Waldorf is anything but a child; she is him, and he is her – they share ghosts and fears and thoughts.
"And I see a perfect child."
"Perfection is overrated." She echoes his sentiment, uncomfortable but flattered, because no one has ever called her perfect – no one. And here is this… this Bass, who hates her and hurts her and makes her feel warm.
"Not when it comes to you."
When they were ten, it was a clear point that boys and girls were not to be friends. Serena and Nate, the perfect angels, were the only ones to break this rule and make it seem alright, but the two dark-haired children kept their distances, meeting only when their parents dictated that they would.
It became a game of sorts for them: how long can you ignore that girl? How long can you pretend not to feel the presence of that boy?
It was her perfume – it was always her perfume that hung in the air and tempted him, something so elegant and ladylike applied behind her ears, on her collarbone and the insides of her wrist, even as a child.
And their eyes would meet, and their lips would smile, and no one would ever know that he had winced because she had kicked him under the table.
And no one would know that amidst the chaos of elite families leaving and bidding goodbye and au revoir, he would grasp her hand in his and call her beautiful.
Sometimes, their Sunday rendezvous and his parting words were the only things that got her through each week; days filled her mother's criticizing glance and Serena's perfection and her own glaring flaws.
Young Charles, or Chuck as he is now known, doesn't like Sunday brunches. He hates them with every single fiber of his being; hates the way the mothers fuss over him, stepping in as surrogates; hates the way the men appraise him, a future legacy; hates the way the children whisper behind his back, wondering why he has only a father and not a mother.
And yet, each and every Sunday he rises early and lets himself be dressed up and herded into the car, not because of the food or the promise of warm, motherly eyes or even Nathaniel's company.
No, it is all because of Blair Waldorf.
He spends the first part of this get-together trying to ignore her – it is a game that he finds himself to be particularly fond of. But she has an unfair advantage because her perfume hangs in the air, superior to the culinary delights they are served, and it tempts him and draws him closer, like a parched man to a glass of the sweetest nectar imaginable.
When he concedes his loss, another game begins and this one is, by far, his favorite – even if she does kick him repeatedly, sometimes. He enjoys her rare smiles – the genuine ones, not the half-annoyed tug-of-her-lips she flashes to everyone but their close friends. He makes her laugh, once, and he savors it, memorizes each light tinkle to file away; he makes it a point to somehow draw that laugh out of her each week.
And when everyone is leaving, and her mother starts to chastise her for eating 'so much', even though she barely touched her food, too engrossed in their game, he pulls her aside and holds her hand and throws her a lifeboat, something to hold on to.
"You are perfect." He tells her, and although she always answers the same way, by repeating the same words he'd spoken to her all those years ago, about how perfection is overrated, he can see the glint in her eyes and the smile on her lips and feels better, knowing that she accepts this.
Blair Waldorf's happiness becomes the only thing more important than his own.
When they were fifteen, they conspired for the very first time and hatched a plot to get him the girl and get her the boy, even if some voice inside his head told him that he was getting it all wrong and winning the wrong girl.
The day his best friend kissed the young brunette, he lost all interest in the notion of romance and love and emotions, choosing instead to turn it off – turn it all off, because the pain was too much.
And when she grudgingly thanked him and alluded to future alliances, he held his tongue and smirked charmingly and regarded her as an equal, no longer the pretty child who needed him and his words, but a beautiful woman who had her head held up high and remained perfect amidst the destruction she brought down on others. He was her eternal dark knight, the one who stood and contributed his own dark thoughts and ideas.
No one ever knew why he had distanced himself from Nathaniel or why he had turned into a cold womanizer, only that his eyes would always search for another pair; a pair of eyes that would only ever smile for his best friend, and not him.
He broke his own heart trying to appease hers.
"We're quite the team," She smiles, and he hates that smile; absolutely cannot stand this fake smile she tosses his way, not when he had been the recipient of her real smiles so many years ago. So he hates this.
"It would appear so." He agrees cryptically, keeping his emotions to himself, because really – she doesn't care. She never will again, and it would do him good to try and do the same, to forget her and stop caring about her.
But that's not why he's being polite and nice and agreeable – not because he's trying to forget about the way he feels about her. Even now, he is giving her what she wants, and what she wants is a partner-in-crime, one that will help her achieve every single goal she has ever dreamed of.
Her joy is his only priority, second to nothing, not even his own heart, and so he pushes down that thing in him and pretends; pretends that he is her co-mastermind and nothing else.
"Nathaniel and you seem to be getting alone quite well," He says smoothly, and it burns, these forced words.
"We are," She sighs contentedly, and though a part of him is hurt, so badly, a bigger part of him is just happy to see her happy, and not because her mother didn't snap at her today, or because Serena isn't around, but because she is genuinely satisfied. "Thank you, Chuck. I didn't know you had it in you, to help someone else."
He doesn't – he would never help someone else. But Blair Waldorf is not someone else; Blair Waldorf is Blair, the key to his happiness.
"You're welcome, Waldorf." He forces out these cordial words, and then excuses himself when his friend appears, heading straight for his new girlfriend, because that is what she expects of him: to leave her alone with her Nate.
And never let it be said that Chuck Bass doesn't bow to Blair Waldorf's wishes, even when it causes him physical pain and a foreign tugging sensation in his heart.
When they were twenty, they found themselves old and heartbroken and grieving. Five years of power struggles and denials and betrayals, and yet there they were, two soul-mates further apart than any two strangers had ever been.
They were right there, right next to each other, but the heart knows what the heart wants and needs, and therein lies the conundrum: the heart knows what it wants and needs, but it does not know which is for the best.
And so they come together and fall apart, come together and fall apart; it is a deadly dance, lethal only to the dancers themselves, and each time they die a little bit more inside until eventually, it seems as if they have lost everything.
And then he pushes her away, for her own good, because this is what love is. This is how love works: selflessly. And though it hurts so badly, and though it would be so easy to lure her back, and though she is in pain, too, he walks away.
Because he loves her too much to keep playing this game of destruction.
"Why, Chuck?"
He can't answer her; there are no words for this. For once in his life, he cannot give her what she wants.
"Why us? Why this? Why can't we be like any other couple, like everyone else? Why can't we just be in love and stay in love and not hurt each other? Why-" Her voice gives in to the sobs that have been building up then, and he merely holds her, offering her comfort in the only way he knows how to.
Even in her sleep she is restless and haunted, and it is then that his actions become clear to him. He is horrified and repulsed and angered by what he has done to her – to them. And there is only one way to fix this; there is only one way for his Blair to get the fairytale he has always wanted for her.
No one has ever written a happy ending with a dark knight in it.
He holds her on this last night; holds her closer than humanely possible and yet craves for more. He holds her and whispers of hushed affection and beautiful dreams and how he will fix this. He holds her and closes his eyes and pretends, just for one moment in time, that they will always be perfect together.
In the morning, she is left with a cold half of the bed, a chill in her heart and five words to keep her alive.
I will always love you.
When they are twenty-five, they are strangers with memories of a past lover and a great love and broken hearts. He gives her the city because he wants to give her the world, but it is no longer his to give. He gives her space because it is what she needs, but not what she wants. He gives her time because it is supposed to heal all wounds, but this runs so much deeper than a flesh wound; this is a fracture line that will forever remain hidden deep inside and sheltered from healing balms and soothing words.
She walks away from her fairytale, the one they had painstakingly crafted for her and her alone, and her prince, and returns a little more broken, a little more empty, a little more desperate and lonely, longing for her dark knight.
He walks away from everything he's ever known because bitterness is contagious, and because he doesn't trust himself and because it hurts. It hurts him to even think about her, leading a life without him, one that is beautiful and light and perfect, everything that she is and deserves, everything he is not able to give her even though he wants to, so, so much.
But she finds him. She comes to the end of the world – his own personal Hell – and braves the rain and the dark skies and the bitter wind to find him, a broken man, a shadow of the brave devil he once was. She is a shadow, too. A little more mature, a little more grounded, a little less whimsical and a little more realistic.
A little stronger, to keep up with the hurt she has dealt with for the past few years without him. In his absence everything that had been light had turned desolate; everything that had been perfect had become useless without him; everything that had been beautiful had turned into incomplete pieces of art.
And so she finds him, because if two people are meant to be together, eventually they'll find their way back.
Of course Chuck Bass would come to the one place in the world that reflects his inner turmoil. The city is dark and wet, as it has always been each and every time she's been here, and she wonders just how long he's been hiding.
Finding him hasn't been easy, and she has had to take a few pages out of his book and enlist some professional help, but here she is and there he should be and she will find him.
She doesn't think that everything will be alright; doesn't expect perfection and a sudden appearance of the sun, the Heavens shining down on them.
She knows she will see him, and he will see her, and she will cry and he will hold her, and she will make him promise to never let her go. She knows they will hurt and there will be words spoken in anger and born out of hurt, but she also knows that she will never stop needing him, wanting him and loving him, and isn't that enough?
Despite her well-laid out plans and words she has rehearsed a thousand times, her mind goes blank and her hands shake as she raises a fist to knock on his door. She doesn't think she will be able to stand it if he's not here, and her knees threaten to give out at the mere thought.
But he is here; of course he is, because no other person could ever make her heart flutter just by sensing their proximity.
"Chuck," She sighs, and it feels like new life being breathed into her – just being able to speak his name to his face, as a greeting, and not in the dark of the night as a longing, heartbroken whisper.
He's been expecting her; she can see that. The fact that he is still here and hasn't run yet gives her hope and tells her everything that she needs to know. He hasn't changed. He missed her. He loves her.
He wants her back.
And then she steps over the threshold and sinks into him, his arms holding her up and keeping her alive, her name a constant murmur in her ear. She doesn't let go of him; can't even bear the thought of separation, however brief, and yet they somehow manage to maneuver themselves around the modest room with minimal collision. Longing and pure need and want overtakes everything, becomes a priority and so they come together and find that some things never change.
And later, much later when she's fighting her heavy lids - unwilling to even close her eyes because the last time she had lost consciousness in his presence, she had lost him – and holding him down because she knows she will not be able to survive him leaving again, he murmurs a promise that gives her hope for the future – their future.
"No more games."
And though it is a plunge into the unknown, because these games they play are all she's ever known, ever since those playtime days, she knows it will be alright, because they're Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck, and it is time to move forward, and move on, together.
"No more games."
Second Chair fic and I still can't seem to work my way out of the angst genre when it comes to these two. Tragedy just loves Blair and Chuck, doesn't it? Oh, my poor shipper heart…
Thoughts would be much appreciated, and since 'tis the season of giving, why not wrap them up in a nice review? PMs are welcomed at all times, if you'd like a friend. My new forum, BunnyLand, might be the perfect venting outlet for any tiny traces of insanity. For more information on the SWBI and upcoming titles, visit my homepage and Twitter.
E Salvatore,
December 2011.
The Screw Writer's Block Initiative (SWB Initiative) is open to everyone – and I mean everyone – who's ever won against writer's block. And if you're battling it right now…well, you've got perfect timing! Focus on a small plot bunny that just won't leave you alone and write a one-shot of your choice. Be sure to mention the Initiative or SWB Initiative. Come on, let's kick writer's block's a$$!