He Writes
It feels strange; writing about brown curls and doe-like eyes and porculain skin, when he used to write about tanned, neverending legs and eyes that seeked adventure and blond hair that reflected the sun.
But, when love wasn't strange?
She calls him Dan and he lives for the moments when his name rolls off her tongue; so softly, like honey. Not Daniel or Humphrey or Brooklyn or Cabbage Patch. Just Dan.
He always called her Blair. Except when it was Waldorf. Or "one ninety-five pound, doe-eyed, bonmot-tossing, label-whoring package of girly evil".
He writes.
He writes because in stories he can be with her without Serena (to whom he has always been just a toy) or Chuck (who just kept hurting everyone over and over again) or Louis (who never really loved her in the first place) and it's just the two of them in any world he creates. In any scenario he invisions. He writes because he is the poet and she is his muse and he just can't get enough of her.
But, eventually, real life comes up (it always comes up) and he's taken out of his imagination, out of his world and scenarios, and brought back to reality where Serena and Chuck and Louis exist and breathe and just fucking live and it can't be just the two of them (never ever ever) because, "You're Blair Waldorf and I'm just Cabbage Patch."
He's surprised when she slaps him.
"No.", she says, her voice showing him that she couldn't care less about what others think and her face has that same expression of determination that he adores, "You're Dan."
His name rolls off her tounge again and his blood boils. The things she does to him are stronger than the effects of any drug and he just wants her to keep saying his name over and over again until he dies from overdose.
"And I kind of fell in love with Dan."
(He doesn't care now, either.)