"What are you doing, Chuck?"
That was the question of the hour wasn't it? What was he doing?
Every fiber of his body ached– no, that wasn't his body, it was his head, in fact he couldn't even feel his body anymore. His senses had been severely limited since those last couple glasses of scotch. Of course, he knew better, he wasn't called a Bass for nothing, but he had wanted nothing less. Only the constant rhythm of his throbbing head and the vague feeling of chilled marble through expensive material against his burning skin held any meaning to his quickly disintegrating sanity, or what was left of it, now. Despite the aching, despite the pain, despite the numbness, he was smiling and an odd smile at that; half way between a grimace and a pleased smirk, the only smile he could manage at this point. His mind was no longer capable of processing any thoughts, memories or even– God forbid– emotions. The sting of countless glasses smuggled from the bar was, clearly, in his opinion better than the sting of regret and guilt.
The echoing gurgle whirring of water in the porcelain toilet bowl before him brought him back to where his senses had long since abandoned him– the master bathroom of the Bass Upper East Side flat. From downstairs he heard muffled giggles and stifled tones of meaningless pleasantries that were often exchanged at small get-togethers with important people. For a brief moment, he thought he could hear his father's voice, no doubt trying to sell his son's future to a good colleague of his– No, not father, he corrected himself; he really hadn't been a father (if he ever could have been rightly called that) for a while now, just a man who claimed to share the same DNA, balanced his accumulating trust fund and constantly shared with him his constant disappointment in the boy he called his son. He sat there bent over the toilet, feeling sicker than ever and listening to the sounds that bounced off the tiled bathroom walls– this, he decided, was the soundtrack of his life.
He had heard the bathroom door open, he knew someone had silently slipped in but, like the few who dared attempt entering the hectic personal circle of Chuck Bass, he figured they'd be making their exit soon enough.
After a long while of staring into the toilet bowl and watching the contents of his stomach swirl down the drain, he looked up, half expecting to see the one constant person in his inner circle of interchangeable friends: Nathaniel Archibald. Dark eyes scanned the person who was now gracefully hoisting themselves onto the bathroom counter, who much to his disappointment was not Nathaniel Archibald. Instead, Serena Van Der Woodsen, sat staring down at Chuck with a look he could not even begin to start deciphering.
A sharp pang of realization hit Chuck hard in the stomach as he remembered the reason for Nathaniel's absence. Staring, he watched Serena carefully, wondering why she was there in Nate's stead and then remembered with the aid of a burst of commotion and laughter from downstairs: his father's engagement party for, yet another, doomed marriage, this time to Serena's mother, Lily Van Der Woodsen. It seemed like a chain-reaction of memories, the things that had been said, the bridges he had burned even up to the reason he was in this bathroom in the first place.
"It's time for another drink," Chuck reached sideways, grabbed the crystal glass of amber liquid on the floor next to him and hastily emptied the glass of its contents. Chuck slumped back against the cool tiled wall, loosening his tie once more.
"Chuck, what the hell are you doing?" Her voice was condescending, nearly pitying in an almost– it pained him to think it– caring way. Since when had anyone given a damn about Chuck Bass? He was supposed to be an egotistical, arrogant, self-righteous ass; no one cared about him aside from Nathaniel, who, because of his own self-destructive qualities, he thrown out of his life, so far that he knew he'd never come back.
"What does it look like I'm doing, little sister?" He added the last phrase with spiteful relish, as if to prove to himself that he was once again capable of being hated and that no one could possibly pity a Bass, even a Bass that was deserving of pity. He'd rather drown in booze and self pity than to accept Serena's 'help'.
"I'm having a wonderful time getting wasted. Care to join? After all, it's never too late to teach an old dog… well, I would say a new trick but I think you already know this one, don't you? Just think of me as your new mentor." Serena shook her head sadly, Chuck grimaced as a wave of dizziness fought its way to his forehead, "See, I love being an older sibling already."
Serena looked away, somewhat in between being disgusted that she would soon be related to the wreck on the floor and ashamed at his reference to her past. She had hoped it would have been safely forgotten with her brief disappearance from the Upper East Side but it seemed, as far as Chuck was concerned, those were skeletons that would never be safely locked away in her closet. "I'm not that person anymore, Chuck, you know that." Serena whispered, avoiding his eyes which danced with silent amusement.
"You're a broken record, when will you learn that, Serena?" Chuck sighed forcing a small sneer against the nausea, "That little song may have worked for Nate and–" he stopped himself, as if choking on something, he couldn't bring himself to say her name. He coughed loudly, covering up the awkward pause, "…and the rest, but you know just as well as I do, you're the same Serena you were before you left to boarding school. You may have gone to a Catholic boarding school but that doesn't mean you've come back ordained Mother Teresa and absolved of your many, many,mortalsins. Don't think you can escape God when you've been so far into the depths of hell."
There was a silence between the two of which only the sound of music from below penetrated. For a moment, Chuck thought he could almost hear Serena's tainted conscious at work, chiding, scolding, blaming. Her guilt made him forget his, not that he would ever admit to having any in the first place. Watching it eat her up made him feel almost decent, as if nothing he could have done could even compare to what she did. Truth was, he did the exact same thing, only worse but that was beside the point. It made him feel truly, and honestly…good. Maybe there was something wrong with him and maybe this is why Blair didn't want him in the end, because he took pleasure in other's pain, but he took whatever would get him through another day of suffering. In Chuck's mind, a wrong did make a right and to hell with morality, it was just as overrated as Kati Farkas's new Manolos, anyway.
"You've never believed in God, Chuck, why start now?" Serena asked, trying to turn the conversation back to Chuck; after all, he was the one getting wasted, alone, in the bathroom at their parents' engagement party. To do that, you either have to be incredibly stupid, or incredibly messed up. For most Ivy-league-bound Upper East Side kids it was the later. Unlike most people, Serena had faith in Chuck and despite what most people thought, there was someone who actually cared about Chuck, truly cared, but God knows, he was raised by Bart Bass.
Dark eyebrows furrowed as Chuck leaned his head back against the wall. There it was, that firm blue stare that sent Chuck right back to square one, "I always have my sister's best interest at heart, especially, if it means I get to 'tuck her in to bed', as it was."
"You will never cease to disgust me, will you?"