A/N: So I was actually writing this up as a post from my blog, when it suddenly evolved into this! The one which is based on the truth is aged seven. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for the rest of them!
It's very much Blair-centric, with a hint of Chuck, fusing together and sparking to create Chair 3
This is just a little capricious little story. I hope you enjoy.
x
Don't forget to hit that button and tell me what you think! Reviews make my day.
PROLOGUE
The day you are born, the windowpanes are graced with tiny beads of water which merge together to slide down the glass. Your father holds you to his chest, and you hear the soft thumping of his heart.
It's a reassuring sound.
He passes you to your mother, who eagerly cradles you in her arms. He tells her to scoot up, and he climbs into the small hospital bed with you. They cannot keep the smiles off their faces as they grin at each other, and then gaze at you in amazement. Perfection embodied.
Your father bends down to place a soft kiss on the tip of your tiny nose, and then places his lips on your mother's cheek. She smiles, and he puts his arms around his two girls.
And you all lie there in contentment, listening to the sound of the rain.
You're one, and you're lying in a pram. You can see Dorota's face as she pushes you, but you can also see the sky. It was blue, but now it's turned grey. You gurgle and laugh, because little drops of water are landing on your face.
It tickles.
You try to catch them.
It also reminds you of when you have a bath every night, and you splash your little limbs, causing water to go everywhere. It's fun. You don't get the chance to play like that during the day.
You see Dorota panic, and she unfolds the hood so that it protects you. You put your hand in your mouth and taste the water.
You're sitting in your high-chair in the Hamptons, two years old, as your father tries to feed you by making your open your mouth for the choo-choo train. You laugh at his comical face expressions and he deposits the food right in your conveniently open mouth.
Your smile twists into a terrified frown as you hear an abrupt rumble coming from outside. It sounds scary; like the time Mommy and Daddy were having an argument and Daddy slammed the door shut.
Tears begin to well in your eyes.
Your father notices that you're startled by the sudden change in the weather. "Blair-bear," he admonishes, "It's just the thunder." Your bottom lip still juts out. As though still not convinced that something like that can exist in the world.
He holds out his arms to you, and you instantly want to jump straight into them. He pulls you out of your chair and walks to the window.
Outside you can see that everything is no longer sunshine yellow. It's darker, and it's all wet. There's water falling from... You don't even know where.
It looks tantalizing. You want to open the French doors and run barefoot in the wet grass, splashing in the puddles.
"See Blair-bear," Daddy tells you, "It's just the rain."
"Wain," you repeat gleefully, clapping your hands together. "Wain!"
This time you're three years old. Your mother has dressed you scrupulously; a wonderful navy dress with a white cardigan, white tights and black Mary Jane's. Your brown ringlets are pulled back from your face with a satin headband. You know you look quite the part. Mommy told you as much when she brushed your hair that morning.
You look up at her as she buttons her coat. She looks every bit the princess you read about in your fairy tale books.
She opens the door, grimaces, and opens her umbrella when she walks out. Typical British weather, you hear her sigh.
She takes your hand, and together you walk down the street of London; the soft pitter-pattering of rain filling the comfortable silence.
It's the first day of pre-school. You obediently hold Dorota's hand as you walk from the town car to the intimidating gates of Constance.
Your mother told you that you're going to spend the next fourteen years of your life here. "You be eighteen Miss Blair," Dorota gently whispers to you as you struggle to count the big numbers in your head. You're four years old- you know that much.
Serena spots you and lets go of Lily's hand before squealing "B!" and throwing her arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace.
You know that's you'll be friends forever.
Nate hides shyly behind Anne's legs; Anne, who is busy conversing with Lily and Dorota. You cannot believe that this is the boy who you spent the summer playing 'prince and princesses' with; Serena having married the two of you a million times over.
Then there is another boy, smallish, but with enough attitude to intimidate a fourth-grader twice his age. When he looks in your direction, the familiar glint tells you that he's the infamous Chuck Bass. The boy who gate-crashed your weddings to Nate and who threw mud all over your new dress (Mommy said it was Ralph-someone...).
He smiles as he instantly recognises you, and fishes in his pocket to offer you a sweet.
You take it. But only because he offered so politely.
It's a blue raindrop.
You scream that you hate him as Carter Baizen picks the headband off your head and runs across the playground with it. You scowl and chase after him, shrieking at the top of your voice. Your mother would condemn this as very unclassy behaviour, but this is necessary.
You know that you run pretty fast for a girl. After all, you are Blair Waldorf. You need to be good at everything.
He knows that you are close, so he slows down. Smirks at you in that annoying way which you have always despised. "What would happen," he leers, "If I break your headband?"
You're shocked. "You wouldn't," you seethe.
"Watch me," he taunts, and he goes on to snap it clean in two. The sound is like thunder. Plummeting fear straight into your heart, tears on the verge of forming in your eyes.
Chuck and Nate come to your side and ask you what is wrong. You tell them it's nothing. Nate smiles at you and goes to play with Serena; some unicorn game that never really made much sense.
On the other hand, Chuck still stands there. "You're headband is missing," he states. You nod, barely able to form words.
He shakes his head in anger and asks his name. You nod. He finds him and is about to hit him, but you stop him- not wanting him to get into any trouble.
Five years old, and already engaging in public warfare.
They split, going their own separate ways of the playground. You follow Chuck, and you both spend the rest of recess playing games about destroying the ants which have dominated your perfect world.
The world outside your window is nothing like the New York that you know of. It's dark and stormy, and actually downright scary. Mom and Daddy have gone away for a while. You're six, so you can't really stay at home by yourself, but you have Dorota, and Serena sometimes sleepover.
But it's nights like tonight when you wish nothing more than to climb into your parents bed and let them hold you until you can sleep again.
Daddy takes you to France when you're seven for a few days as part of his business trip. It's a law case about Bass Industries in Europe, so Bart Bass has to come. As does Chuck, of course.
The South of France is hot. You love strolling around the large fields in your best Dior and Marni, collecting flowers and sun-kissed oranges. Everything is yellow and warm from the sun.
It's like heaven.
(Except for Chuck Bass whose very presence makes it hell.)
You talk and play games with him. After all, he did buy you four new Gucci headbands after Baizen broke yours. He does have a heart... somewhere.
You tell him everything.
You tell him how things at home really aren't so good. That the screaming matches sound like they can go on for days at a time. You tell him how after he almost punched Baizen, he hasn't even looked in your direction. You tell him thank you, and he just gazes down on the floor shy.
You tell him that although France is lovely, you wish for New York where things are less rough.
He tells you that he misses not being able to see the sky.
You laugh and say that you miss the rain.
Chuck blows out his candles. Eight of them. All in one go. Serena stands next to you excitedly, holding her present. Nate is obediently sitting next to Chuck, watching as the final member of the group finally turns eight.
(You pretend to hate him, but really, he's your favourite. Blondes will always be blondes.)
There are too many other children at the party. Each of them giving Chuck another present that you just know he won't play with. He rips open toys upon toys, model cars upon model cars, a model motorbike from Nate, a new pen from Bart, a mini-snooker set from Serena.
Some have already gotten tired of watching Chuck, so they skip off to the Bouncy castle and chocolate fountains.
And then somehow, it's just you left.
"Waldorf," he drawls, "After our little rendezvous in France last summer, I thought that you would bring me something."
You retort, "Since you're being so demanding, I may as well not give it to you."
"You know I was only joking Waldorf. Out of the pile of gifts I got, yours was the only one I was looking forward to, He says pulling that puppy dog face of his."
"And why is the Bass?"
"Because Waldorf," he says, looking at you, "you know me."
You stay silent and you give him your perfectly wrapped present. He eagerly takes it, but this time carefully opens it.
It's a light and dark blue polka-dot bowtie.
He tells you that he adores it.
You stand in front of a mirror sucking your stomach in. A single tear escapes down your face.
"Watch what you eat," your mother told you.
You twist and turn your body this way and that way. But you still can't see the fat Mommy was talking about. You know that you don't look like the princess-like models that you see in Dorota's magazines; but you're nine. You're not tall and thin and beautiful.
You're fat.
When Dorota tells you that it's time for dinner, you lie. You tell her that you have a stomach ache, and that you're going to go to sleep.
Daddy bought you a mobile phone for turning ten and you're ecstatic. Okay, it is a brick, and if you try to put it in your cardigan pocket, it would look odd. And it takes up too much space in your Marc Jacobs bag. But it's a phone nonetheless. You're content.
You're doing your homework on the dining table, and your phone vibrates. You jump at the sound. You still haven't gotten used to it.
You smile when you see that it's from Serena.
Hey B! HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Can't wait for your birthday party tomorrow! You'll love every minute of it! S xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Typical Serena, you think. Always excited. Even in text messages.
Your phone buzzes again. The resounding sound echoing in the silent room.
You frown when you see it's from Chuck.
As you know I'm in London for a week. This is your city Waldorf, I've only been here for three hours and it hasn't stopped raining. And yes, my scarf is currently being dried :(. Go figure.
You smile without realising, and grin even more when you read the following message.
By the way, Happy Birthday B. I won't go all out like S does, but I think you deserve at least one kiss and hug on your special day – C xo
A/N: And that's it for the Prologue! Hope you enjoyed it. Next Chapter see B aged 11, 12 and 13. The teen years it when it kicks off, so hopefully those bits will be a bit longer.
Thank you for reading this Chairy fans! Fingers crossed for the HW ring of Blair's slender finger and a shower of peonies. x