A/N: You might have seen this before. Don't be alarmed! I can assure you, I'm not ripping anyone off, as I'm the original author. Cross-posted on LiveJournal, at the community: blair chuck, under the user name murder mysweet.
"You're staring again."
Chuck shifts his position and the sheets murmur. It feels nice to be back home, back in Manhattan, with the lullaby of the city dancing below the hotel window. No matter how far she goes, a part of her will always live in Manhattan. It's become entwined in her veins; when she got out of the taxi, she stood on the sidewalk and simply breathed it in.
Summer in the city is much different than summer in LA. In LA, people shuffle with the slow confidence of expectation, of knowing where they'll go and knowing who they'll see. The sun is much too bright and distorts everything, making it look too pretty, almost to the point of being grotesque. She didn't realize how much she missed New York until the plane landed and she drained the last of her gin and tonic and the pilot announced: Welcome to New York! We're now entering JFK Airport. Her heart had hiccupped and maybe it'd been the alcohol or maybe it'd been her own sense of surprise, but she'd smiled. Not for too long though, because it was the type of smile that showed too much of her teeth.
"Ok,what is your problem?"
He laughs. The bastard.
"I'm just amazed, is all."
"Amazed? Why?"
"I'm amazed that Blair Waldorf is in my bed. And naked, nonetheless."
"I see you haven't lost your tendency for the crude and vulgar."
"It's all a part of the charm, mon cherie."
He kisses her shoulder. She doesn't flinch; it takes a minute to kill the impulse to purr.
"Charm? Don't fool yourself, Bass. You disgust me," Blair shoots back.
But it's a bullet that's really a blank and the power behind the shot barely grazes Chuck's shoulder. The thermostat has been turned down and her skin is littered with goosebumps. The waves in her hair haven't been broken, but a small hand reaches out to smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles.
Chuck straightens his back and leans into the headboard. She's watched him grow from a pretentious, bewitching boy, to a pretentious, devastatingly handsome man, the kind that could buy the world but would rather work for your love. It's scary to think that Chuck Bass could ever fall in love and Blair's still wondering if miracles repeat themselves. The last time Chuck had said I love you, they'd been seventeen. They'd been waiting for a cab to God who knows where, (they were always rushing off those days), and they were holding hands. Chuck was smoking a cigarette and all of a sudden, she felt his eyes on her face. I love you, he said, as though this were a fact printed in a textbook. Blair hadn't known what to say and so, said nothing at all.
"I hope you know that I'm not staying the night," she crassly informs.
"Didn't expect you to."
"You don't want me to?" Blair wonders, horrified that she even cares.
"That doesn't really matter, now does it? You're free to come and go as you please. You're free to leave right now, if you want. Just as you were free to make the decision to come up here in the first place."
They're both twenty-five and yet, Blair knows Chuck hasn't changed. At least when the subject revolves around them. Around whatever sort of relationship, liaison, they're so intent upon maintaining. Chuck still carries around the silhouette of his seventeen-year-old self, the boy with the shaggy hair and the dark, dangerous eyes and a voice that could make your skin crawl or your heart ache. Whenever she's around him, she is terribly aware that their interactions thrive on power and politics, on who's winning and who's losing. Chuck likes to change the rules and erase the score without telling her.
"I'm supposed to meet Nate in half an hour."
"Give Nathaniel my regards. Serena too. The wedding should be beautiful," Chuck smoothly replies.
Blair knows that what she feels for Nate mirrors possession rather than love. She misses the notion of being in love with him, of pouring her affection and energy into their doomed relationship, of attempting to resurrect a ghost. He used to be her's and thus, she'll never really accept the idea of Nate belonging to someone else, especially her best friend. Because when she thinks back, her love for Nate was relatively simple. And she misses the simplicity of adolescence, of loving someone for all the right reasons, instead of all the wrong.
She wants to revisit a time when her future means marriage and a white picket fence and expensive china. When sex and love were synonymous and her head could overpower her emotions. Sitting in bed with Chuck Bass is a testimony to twenty-five years of soiled work, of conditioning undone, of practiced rationale unraveled. She shouldn't be attracted to him, but there are butterflies, goddamnedbutterflies clogging her throat every time his fingers trace circles on her hip. It's so much harder to hate him when his lips taste like honey.
"I can't believe they're getting married."
"Well, you weren't here to stop it. You were running around in Hollywood. Nate has a short attention span, remember?"
Blair scowls, though there's far more truth than fiction in his assessment.
"I needed a fresh start. New York was getting claustrophobic."
"Then why'd you come back?"
"Maybe I'm stupid for coming back. But this is my home. And the farther I go, the more I'm reminded of that."
"I went to Paris last year. I hated it."
"You went by yourself?"
"Yeah, what a smart idea that was, huh? Whoever said Paris is for lovers was a fucking liar. Paris is for the oblivious. Paris makes you realize that you can be alone or lonely, and they both mean the same thing."
"Aw, what's this? Genuine human emotion from Chuck Bass? Am I dreaming?"
"Perhaps. And perhaps it's just my twisted way of saying that you're still in love with Nate and this time, when he fucks you over, I'm not going to be there to pick up the pieces."
Blair's eyes widen and she turns her full attention to him, head snapping, teeth clenched. A fist is squeezing her heart. Chuck shrugs, mouth itching to bloom into a smirk. His tone is wrapped with sincerity, though his voice quivers on the last few words. She decides that she'd much rather experience his rage than his indifference. His apathy has the sort of chill that lingers for days, lacing into your skin like a tattoo.
"I didn't come back for Nate, if that's what you think."
"Then why else would you? It comes back to Nate, it always does. It's kind of pathetic, really. He's your greatest weakness. But really, who am I to criticize? We've all got our vices."
She snatches the sheets and scrambles out of the bed, climbing over Chuck's long legs. She quickly spots her black bra and underwear, slipping on the garments with fingers that claw at her body.
"You're a disease, you know that? A fucking disease."
"You always had such a way with words," Chuck teases.
She scowls, knowing this is the honest truth. Chuck Bass invades your system and latches on like a parasite, draining until you're bled dry. What's even worse is that she doesn't want anyone else, doesn't want to trade in the sickening feeling for anything else. Blair buttons her blouse and puts on her skirt, zipping the side. One heel hides underneath the bed, the other waits by the door. She shoves them onto her feet, grabbing her St. John trench coat from the back of the desk chair.
Blair moves toward the door. Chuck doesn't get up.
They both know she'll be back, sooner rather than later.