Painfully Beautiful.
This baby came to me last night and took me surprisingly long to write. I love the idea of role reversal in GG, mainly because the characters are all so capable of fitting every role. Please don't give up on this when you read the first paragraph haha, I know C/S is not every ones cup of tea. They're my favourite AU couple bar none but I assure you this is mainly chair.
There had been a time when this expression was lost on her, that was until she watched whilst Serena practically sparkled when Chuck Bass asked her on their first date.
A sting at the initial news, "oh my god Blair! Oh my god!" A clenched fist as Serena tried on outfits, twirling around the room in canary, cerulean and fuchsia. A cold sweat as she finally unfurled her fingers as the sleek black limousine grew smaller and smaller as it whisked Serena further and further away ( leaving bubbling giggles, a head rush from too much downed champagne and the smell of thick fruity perfume in the air.) Finally a jolt at the sight of the tiny half moons embedded in her palm that were dripping scarlet onto a cream Gucci clutch; earlier discarded in favour of an acid green Dior that went "way better with these shoes, right, B?"
Blair soon learned exactly what it meant to be physically marred by a sight. Of looking at a masterpiece and feeling a lump in your throat. (The necklace he bought for Serena's sweet sixteenth sparkled so much that it made Blair's eyes water, like looking into the sun)
Martini glasses also shimmered in the light, the effect was particularly prevalent when several had been emptied at a sleek topped bar. Her mascara didn't smudge so much in that example though. Probably the dusky atmosphere counteracted the glare, after all, she only admired Serena's necklace in the (blindingly) bright light of her best friends room.
When Chuck asks her opinion on earrings he could purchase to match the necklace, Blair rolls her eyes and spits, "ask someone who gives a shit, Bass." When he shoots her a deprecating glare before walking away, Blair ignores how fast her heart is beating and attempts to stop wondering just what shade his eyes are. Later, when he catches her gaze across the courtyard before quickly turning his attention back to playing with Serena's hair, Blair settles on dark amber.
"Let's go dancing, S."
It's a Friday night, her toe nails are scarlet and she has a ridiculously revealing dress on to match.
"I can't, B," a distracted reply as bright pink gloss is applied that would look garish on Blair but only succeeds in making her best friend look about nineteen.
"Why?" she knows why, of course she does, Chuck asked Serena to dinner six minutes before second period on Monday. Blair skipped the rest of the day, scoffing as Serena pleaded with her not to. "Don't, B. We have that test on Thursday." The third flunked assessment was worth the relief Blair felt as she exited the courtyard and the crushing feeling dissipated.
"I'm having dinner with Chuck. He asked me Monday, remember?" Of course I remember, I can't seem to fucking stop.
"Vaguely." Perfected indifference. "Blow him off, S. Come on, there's no contest, stilted conversation and a mediocre meal or dirty martinis and table dancing?"
"As sophisticated," Serena raised a perfectly waxed brow, "and tempting as that sounds, it's all ready arranged and I really want to see him." Faraway look, painfully beautiful, where the fuck were those sunglasses?
"Ugh, fine, have fun..don't get carried away and do something crazy like stay out past eleven." Eye roll.
"B.." The elevator dinged. Saved by the bell.
"Serena? Charles is here." Maybe not.
Blair sent her town car away and walked home.
When Blair first kisses Chuck at the age of six he pushes her away. When she kisses him again at age sixteen he pushes her away and then pulls her closer so fast she gets whiplash. She snaps out of whatever the hell possessed her pretty quickly and turns to leave. Serena is in the next room for fuck sake, she's wearing mint green and singing karaoke.
"Wait."
She pauses, her head hurts, her chest hurts, her eyes hurt, it all fucking hurts so much. All. The. Time. It's a cliché, a soap opera storyline. She is not in love with her best friend's boyfriend. She has to have a say in this, and she says no.
"I love her," his voice is velvet in the dark.
She loses her virginity on a coat pile, he muffles her cries with kisses that suffocate, there's relief and finally and amber eyes.
She loves her too.
She leaves Manhattan for a month.
When she returns everything is exactly as it was.
Serena is still dizzily happy, "how was Paris, B? Were the guys hot? Is your dad well?" How a best friend should be. The, even though you left without any notice the day after my birthday I still hope you had a blast kind. Funnily enough not the, I fucked your boyfriend in your bedroom and I'm pretty sure the only reason you never heard me scream his name was because you were wailing along to "don't stop believing" kind.
She was a train wreck.
He didn't look at her. Not even when her best friend sat in his lap as she chatted aimlessly about the new Birkin bag.
A hallway confrontation, "are we ever going to talk about what happened?" was the last time he had acknowledged her presence.
"No."
She tried to forget the way he stood static in the corridor as she clip clopped away. The prickling sensation at her neck confirmed he watched her departure; the one in her eyes was irrelevant.
Life goes on and all that jazz. Soon it wasn't so hard to forget about frenzied kisses and desperation. A fire no longer pitifully contained.
Little things didn't matter, fucking someone was tangible and unable to be white washed and ignored. Lingering looks, hand's that brushed together under tables at brunches and wishes were easily concealed and so didn't impact.
A drunken argument, uncovered the dirt.
"Leave me the fuck alone."
"Stop dressing like a whore and making a fool of yourself, this is Serena's night."
What night wasn't fucking Serena's night?
Too many martinis, pressing together chest to chest, no air space, can't fucking breathe, don't want to.
"Make me," please. Care enough to want to.
He fingered her in the hallway through her panties, her legs wobbled too much afterwards to walk in her "hooker heels"
Serena's night was perfect.
Heavy breathing, post coital serenity. Like sitting in a quiet room as a storm rages right outside the walls.
"What the fuck are we doing to her, Bass?"
"Don't think about it, Waldorf," Not tonight.
She didn't. Theirs was a painfully beautiful tragedy; it stung her eyes to dwell on how long it could last.