A/N: This doesn't mean I'm writing again. It just means I wrote again. Not going to flood this author's note with cries of low self-esteem (though this is a pretty bad fic, no lie). Please ignore mistakes, just imagine them correctly. Enjoy!
Shatter
Lipstick marks stain his pastel collar, scratch marks bloom across his arcing back – violet and red, brilliant swirls of hatred and passion. Jewelry is strewn across the room, Cartier watches buried in the rug, Tiffany's earrings tossed carelessly onto the counter, the sink.
"Chuck, please, please, please," cries reverberate on the empty, barren walls of the hotel suite, blonde tendrils twisted violently around his hand, eyes blankly lolling onto the ceiling in the climactic seconds before the grand finale, the piece de résistance.
"Chuck…" the blonde – too blonde – whispers into the silence.
"You may leave."
A mass of tan and blonde and waves and Californian beauty rises out of the darkness, naked and furious, hungry for emotion she can never evoke.
"Why do you do this to me?"
He doesn't know.
"Don't forget your shoes."
A door slams. Wood hits metal and the two scream in pain as they collide, almost a beautiful cacophony, echoing, echoing, echoing.
Each fuck more pointless than the last, each moment seemingly darker than before– a porcelain brunette etching her name, her sound, her touch deeper, the carving throbbing in his alcohol-flooded mind – the blackness envelops him; ice cold blood, an empty soul, and the numbness of vodka and tears and self-loathing cushioning him into a desolate slumber.
...
In the dim entrance of the Van Der Woodsen-Humphrey apartment, she looks like a sculpture: chiseled to perfection, ivory upon ivory, glittering lights dancing across her marbled collarbone.
"Blair," his voice catches, breaking in the last note – he momentarily relives his adolescence.
"I didn't know you'd be here," eyes lowering, hands flying up to fiddle with the impeccably coiffed chestnut tendrils.
A throat ache reminiscent of grade-school laryngitis occurs, a burning sensation flickers to life in his chest, exhaustion pours into every last crevice of his body – his muscles, his bones, his brain.
"You look beautiful, as always," rage spreads through him like wildfire, "It was good to see you."
He's playing a game, a game he knows all too well – because her beauty is blurring his vision, her utter perfection tampering with his path to the high road.
Blair, and oh Jesus fucking Christ it hurts to think the name, throws a chaste smile. She plays well, a worthy opponent, with a reply, "I miss you."
He barks – the black laughter caught in his throat, the scorching ache turning bitterly icy.
"Don't."
Her head snaps up in surprise. She steps forward. One. Step. Another. Her hand reaches to his cheek, his stone-cold cheek, and caresses it with a passion he no longer wishes to remember. His cheek flames, red hot against the chilled fingertips.
He flinches.
Her face is void.
He hates her.
"I'll see you around, Chuck," she hisses his name. Like a serpent, like venom, like death, she sends chills down his spine. And with a grace only she can possess, the elevator doors close in front of her, nothing to prove that she was more than a mirage to a man starving and ravenous for what he can never have.
...
An addiction, a treacherous addiction, can only be quit by counterbalancing. He returns faithfully to Mary Jane, the one girl that never disappoints.
His flawlessly rolled blunt, pinched between thumb and index, smells beautifully of weed – of a weakness that doesn't cause as much pain.
A drag.
Another drag.
Smoke clouds judgment, lungs blacken. Smoke clouds images floating in his deceitful mind, heart blackens. Smoke clouds his past, his future blackens.
If for nothing else, in this moment, he can think of nothing but the marijuana giving him a beautiful high. Floating above, floating away, she's just a distant memory, playing in black-and-white with a frosty overlay. He doesn't need her any more than she needs him – if for nothing else, in this moment, this is clear. Clarity enters, then leaves, and the confusion returns.
He doesn't want to need her any more than she needs him.
Shot of vodka. Hit of joint.
A blur of blue and white and tights and headband and…
The all-too-familiar blackness.
...
"Are you alright?"
No. Even his hallucinations cannot recreate the euphonious sound of beauty and disaster – it's no hallucination.
"Please, don't, " his eyes flutter open, "Blair, I don't want– need –"
"Bullshit."
A bomb, a nuclear weapon, dropped on the lies woven into his brain – intricately and delicately – blowing them into nothing but debris. Want and need are synonymous in his mind, the pain of pure thinking a violent ricochet within his head.
"You should leave."
"I should do a lot of things."
He grabs her wrists – her dainty porcelain wrists – and yanks her in. Brown on brown, her soul an open canvas, her eyes thirsting with a mixture of want and need, she is breaking too. Satisfaction shoots victoriously through his veins. He won't go down alone.
"Do you still love me?"
The question from a place he does not know, the words awkwardly formulated into a sentence he wants, no, needs, the answer to. Eyes roam her face for a sign of ambivalence.
He sees none.
"Yes –"
Heart drops.
" –but."
"Yes, but what?" fury threatens to erupt, grip tightening around her tiny wrists.
No answer.
"Yes, but what, Blair?" screams of anguish, cries of torment and agony and torture.
His voice is unrecognizable.
"I need to stop wanting you before I can be with you."
The response is illogical yet so perfectly rational. He has no response.
His lips touch hers, brush over her dazzling collarbone, the crevice between her breasts, her hairline, her neck. She is fully clothed, but moaning nonetheless, eyes never leaving him.
"Chuck, I –" unfinished sentences whisper into the empty night.
She is broken; he shattered.
They are nothing but shards of human with nowhere and no one, together alone in a place where want and need are forgotten – realizing the impossibility to exist without the other.
end.