(A/N So this is my interpretation of the picture that was leaked of the kiss that happened between Blair and Nate. Upon seeing that picture my gut reaction was to hurl, but after a good stomach cleansing I realized that despite my distaste for this couple, they have years and years of history that can't be chased away, not even by all the sexual tension and chemistry that Chuck and Blair share (even though some of us wishes that it would). So I wrote this, and I wanted to post it before the new episode aired, but, sadly, as a result, there are probably a lot of grammatical errors, but I've been working on this for so long that I can't bear to even look at it again. If you catch anything, just press that little blue review button and tell me, and I'd be more than happy to fix it! Thanks!
Hope you enjoy this!)
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Accidents
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The first time Blair Cornelia Waldorf fell in love with Nathaniel Archibald was by mistake.
It was on the first day of first grade and she had been six year old, petrified and sitting stick straight in her chair, the only position that her overly-starched, pristine, white Eleanor Waldorf Original would allow. Before Dorota had dropped her off Eleanor had already warned her that proper princesses did not get dirty—especially not in hand stitched lace dresses. At the word 'dirty' Eleanor Waldorf's face had scrunched up just as it had the time she saw Blair wearing socks from Baby Gap, or when she had learned that Prada was displaying their new line right before here at the Mercedes-Benz fashion show.
'No Mommy,' Blair had replied, face a perfect mirror image of Eleanor's (because even at age six and a quarter Blair Waldorf was still Blair Waldorf, which meant she was still smart and conniving, and knew that person Eleanor loved the most was Eleanor and, if so, a six year old Blair reasoned, then surely she would love her more if Blair was just like her), 'perfect princesses don't get dirty.'
'Good,' Eleanor had nodded, dismissing her child as she would have dismissed her assistant Nancy (who, at that very moment, was crying in a darkened storeroom about how her bitch-boss-from-hell wouldn't let her have a weekend off to get over her boyfriend's rather unceremonious dumping from an hour before), and with that Blair was ushered out by Dorota, who, at that time could not speak more than three words of English, understood the imperious head lift (possible foreshadowing that Eleanor Waldorf was transnational, Blair reflects now.)
So there she had sat, head held up by a stiff collar and her chocolate brown eyes wide with fear, when another little boy of six (five and three quarters, but he would die before he had to admit that) had approached her, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Play with me."
Blair had looked down at him, moving her eyes directly to meet his in superior distain (and partly because she could not move her neck) and had promptly repeated her newest motto, 'princesses do not get dirty.' Usually, this was enough to get anybody to scamper off; however this boy had held his ground, and had glared back at her.
"Play with me," he had repeated, noticeably more forcible this time.
Blair had been quite disgruntled; she wasn't used to someone pestering her—her father would just give in to whatever his Blair Bear wanted, her mother did not possess the time nor did she care enough to bother to pester Blair, and Dorota had always been too afraid to get fired and sent back to Albany. Now, with this unmoving boy standing in front of her with his arms crossed, she became quite perplexed, and, for the first time in her life, she did not know precisely what a PP (perfect princess, but in spite of the gravity of the situation and her somber attitute she could not help but giggle at the abbreviation she had just created) would do in this situation.
So, for the first time that day, Blair had done what she wanted to do—she had slipped off her chair and went to play with him.
She had done it partly because she envied the other children who were scampering about the playground getting their hands dirty and their patent leather shoes scuffed in hopes of catching the blonde girl who was darting around the yard. But the other part, significantly smaller (or at least much more subconscious) she had wanted to defy the boy who had stood before her. His dark eyes had been challenging; daring her and dismissing her as unworthy all at the same time until Eleanor's words had only been a faint ringing in the back of her mind and all she wanted to do was prove him wrong.
If Blair had found herself in a more retrospective mood she may realize the poignant humor in exactly who we love first. She had loved Nathaniel so much, so strongly, and for so long after this day that she had forgotten that it was Chuck Bass she had met first, before Serena, before Nathaniel—and it had been Chuck Bass who she had loved first, before Serena, before Nathaniel.
He had been pushing her on the swings—she had been flying without wings, soaring; it had been exhilarating and dizzying, and frightening, and so, so wonderful, when suddenly she was going too high, flying to far and unable to come back down to earth. If she had been retrospective, perhaps she would realize the parallels that were drawn in unwavering lines throughout their childhood and into their teenage years (thank God Blair Waldorf has better things to do.)
"Stop! Stop! Stop!" She had screeched.
"What? Are you afraid Waldorf?" He had asked, chuckling.
"No, of course not!" She had yelled back while tightening her hold on the chains.
His reply had been another, stronger, push.
Even then, at six, Blair Waldorf was calculating. She knew that she had two choices; either she had to admit that she was afraid or she would have to keep swinging on this death trap—either way he won.
Blair Waldorf chose option three.
It happened in less then two seconds. She had put her feet on the ground, digging them deep into the sand, and the swing had come to a sudden halt, propelling Blair forward onto the ground before back-lashing and hitting Chuck square in the face.
"Ow," one of them said.
"Fuck," said the other.
The rest was a blur of au pairs and nannies and he-said and she-said, when suddenly, in midst of a condemning sentence, Blair Waldorf cut herself off and let out a particularly loud howl.
"I GOT MY DRESS DIRTY!" She had moaned, tears springing back to her eyes, as she rubbed at the spot with her already-grimy fingers. Four nannies, one au pair, and twenty-seven kindergarteners gaped at her. It was during that fit (one for the ages) when Blair Waldorf had first stumbled across that cornflower blue.
She had never seen eyes that color and, even in her state of distress, she had to note that they were quite pretty in their clarity and sparkling innocence—things that Eleanor had told Blair to always look for during their monthly (later turned yearly, then never) hunt at Tiffany's.
He had reached for her hand and she remembered that his had been cold that day, though Nate was rarely ever cold, but apparently he had just been hanging on the cool metal of the monkey bars. He'd pulled her up, and had dragged her off into the bathroom to help her with her dress. Just like that. A superman slash Adonis sent down from the Heavens to save her from everything (including her mother, her father on some occasions, and, later on, herself) from day one. Now she wonders if it was bit too much pressure to put on a wide-eyed innocent like Nate
But in that moment, with Nathaniel Archibald kneeling before her, scrubbing furiously at her white dress, she had looked into his bright blue eyes and had sworn that she would have him back in the very same position someday in the future.
She had gone home that day, dress stained, knees red, and heart full enough to sustain her for the next decade (literally).
The two yards of eye-lit lace imported from France that was delivered to her house the very next day, from a Mr. Charles Bass, was swiftly packed up and stored in Eleanor's fabric closet, and lay forgotten until it turned yellow and was used for the dress that was deemed 'Amish' by a nobody from Brooklyn.
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The second time Blair Waldorf fell in love with Nathaniel Archibald was on purpose.
She had been strolling with him down the lanes of Central Park, something that she had always begged him to do with her but he had been to busy with lacrosse practice (funny smelling cigarette's) and had almost always offered her a soft rebuttal (maybe you should stop trying to make your life a movie?) but now that he needed her he was dying to do, and she was talking about her future (or lack of) because if anybody understood the gravity of the situation (Blair, Yale, and the end of the world as she knew it) it would have to be Nathaniel Archibald; though he was clueless and spent more than half of their relationship high, she could not have been pseudo-married to him for half her life for nothing. When she told him the news (possibly no Yale and Harold's Great Disappointment because his darling daughter happened to have the premonition that her teacher was a corn-shucking slut before she had any real proof) Nate had opened his baby blue eyes wide, and gave the best advice that he could manage (which was basically the pep talk from Coach Carter with some words moved around, and proved to be heartwarming but useless.)
Afterwards Nate had decided to share all his Vanessa problems, and after making a remark about how his only problem was if he could get to the clinic quick enough for the tetanus shot (even with all her self-control she simply couldn't resist), she had advised him as best as Blair Waldorf could (which meant all action, some good, some a smidge more shady, but all justifiable to her, without any of the feel-good-sports-movie pizzazz).
She ignores the slight pang in her heart when she bothers to think back to how distant and uncaring he was when he was with her (and the hits just keep on coming.) It doesn't last long anyway—but maybe her pain tolerance has just become too high (because it is nothing compared to what she feels when she thinks of the word 'wife' being drunkenly slurred).
Nate looked down at her then, his widened blue eyes drinking her in—not with small sips like the ones she had taken on their first date to Serendipity (which she remembers almost nothing of because she tended to block out awkward, non-blockbuster moments), but like the big gulps that Serena and Chuck favored, swallowing the entire contents of their shot glasses in one swig, burning all the way down—and for the first time in more than five years Nathaniel Archibald was finally really looking at her (of course he didn't really see her since these were blue eyes, not brown, but it was really the thought that counted).
She admitted later that it had been her to make the first move. She had thrown her arms around his neck and brought his pouty red lips (no wonder she had felt inferior all those years) towards her own in less than a second because she knew that the spell would only last a moment and once he drew away she would have to go back to being the girl who's expectations (and hopes, and dreams, and heart) had been grinded into powder as fine as the type Serena had once favored, (as fine as the powder that had clung to the corners of his nose; but she still won't go there).
"Why'd you do that?" He had asked after.
"For old time's sake Nate," she'd said, her tongue rolling around a name that she had said more often than her own.
He'd nodded then, satisfied; because Nate was still Nate, and even at his most caring he couldn't be forced to think too much.
However Vanessa was not.
Nate called her at ten that night, waking her up from her beauty sleep (because now without the devil as her constant companion her life ended up quite PG).
"Why did you kiss me?" He'd asked (they'd used up all their hello's and small talk when they were dating). She could see him through the phone lines, his perfectly manicured hands tapping at the desk in front of him, his fair eyebrows scrunched and his blue eyes as introspective as they could manage to be.
"I told you already," she had grumbled into the phone, because even though this was a delicate matter she had finally gotten to sleep and not even all the etiquette she possessed could possibly veil all her annoyance.
"Yeah, but Vanessa says that it wasn't a very good reason," he'd replied, which caused Blair to roll her eyes as she remembered just how dependent Nate had been, and cringing for making him that way (since he did grow up with Blair Waldorf, and obedience was necessary).
"She won't talk to me until she knows exactly why you kissed me."
I kissed you because I wanted to.
I kissed you because I can't remember our last kiss, and when you end a decade long relationship you should be able to remember the last time you kissed.
I kissed you to wash your best friend out of my mouth since it worked so well with you.
I kissed you because…
In truth, she had kissed him because her life had gone up in flames, and her heart had been broken apart (here she damns the mother Chucker even as it ruined her Hollywood moment) into so many pieces. She had thought that maybe, because her heart had rested in Nate for so long, he would know how to put her back together, because she had no idea where to start.
She kissed him because all her life she had dreamed of Yale and of making her daddy proud, but somehow a teacher who could play her little sister had managed to snatch that away from her when she was too busy looking after someone else—someone who didn't even love her enough to let her face his demons with her by his side (or loved her too much, but either way it hurts like hell.)
She kissed him because ever since she kissed Chuck Bass in the back of a limo and then went on to fulfill all of the driver's voyeuristic fantasies, she has been living in a surreal bubble where her prince had dark hair and a sadistic streak as wide as hers instead of the blond hair and innocent eyes, and she thought that maybe kissing him was what she needed to wake herself up.
She had kissed him because he'd saved her once in first grade, snatched her from the devil's layer, and she was hoping that maybe he could do it again, even if the devil's layer was where she wanted to be.
"I kissed you because it's what I know," she said softly into the receiver, then swiftly pushed the little red button, ending their call.
She had been wrong.
Blair Waldorf had a nightmare that night (searching for a pair of brown eyes among the endless sea of blue), but she can't tell the difference anymore.
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(A/N I hope you've enjoyed it. Please, please, please, even if you haven't caught something, press that lovely blue button and review. Give my nails (now properly manicured) a much needed break. Thanks!)