Holding Hands
Because you are the death of me, and I am the death of you. Yet we keep coming back to the paralleled pain and beauty that is us.
Chuck and Blair
This picks up where the events of 2x13, Oh Brother, Where Bart Thou?, left off.
No spoilers will be used.
If the story line is related to the series, it will be by sheer coincidence, though that's highly unlikely.
;]
Reviews are love.
I'm sorry for everything.
You deserve much better.
Don't come looking for me.
-Chuck
Her eyes scanned over the thing once again before they became hot with those forbidden tears and the note flitted away to the cold marble floor of her bedroom.
Numbness. She no longer registered the New York City traffic right outside her window, she was simply and completely numb, a complete and foreign state of her being.
It had taken every facet of her willpower to keep herself together when those three words had fluttered out of her mouth; Amazingly, it had taken merely thirteen words of his to completely shatter her and leave her numb, not wanting to feel, not wanting to keep up her brave facade.
Her blurred vision settled on the blue satin comforter, tracing the intricate design of the light embroidery in the little light that remained in the room. She allowed the innumerable tears to fall and perhaps for the first time in her comparatively short life, Blair Waldorf was truly and utterly broken.
"Chuck! Stop! Don't go." Her voice was foreign as it finally registered in his mind; He didn't have the time, nor the strength, for this..for her.
Her words stood firm, yet a trickle of fear was palpable in her front as he turned to face her.
"Or if you have to leave, let me come with you." He was able to grasp the twinge of desperation that flew off of her tongue, though she was doing her best to conceal it. However strained she was, his plan of mourning did not include the woman with chocolate curls.
"I appreciate your sympathy.." He tried to play it off as if he did not care in the slightest, although he did care—A frightening amount, at that.
"No, you don't. You don't appreciate anything today, but I don't care." Her determination was stone set in her eyes, she was being brutally honest both to herself and to the broken man that stood before her, "Whatever you're going through, I want to be there for you."
Her words came at him and blind sighted him; No one had ever wanted to "be there" for him, for he was a stone-- Cold and unfeeling, a shell of a boy, really. Today was merely a weak point; He had let void emotion unwisely slip at his father's funeral, but he was going to fix the wound, preferably by means of a certain comforting amber liquid.
"We talked about this, you are not my girlfriend." His words meant to inflict pain upon her, advise her to leave before he had broken her, as he surely eventually would.
"But I am me, and you're you," Unnerved, prepared for his brutality, her gloved fingers reached over to his trembling ones, clasped upon the door of the awaiting limousine, "We're Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck."
"The worst thing you've ever done, the darkest thought you've ever had-- I will stand by you through anything." She had no idea what she was talking about, he decided. She was seeing him, and he was letting himself be seen truly, and her faith in them, in him, refused to waver. He could not in any reasonable way see how she could do so.
"And why would you do that?" Cold and calculating words, he was warning her-- Chuck Bass sure as hell was not one to stand by, at least this real Chuck was certainly not.
"Because.. I love you," She had done it, she had finally managed to maneuver a piece of her soul in exchange for the sight before her eyes.
"Well that's too bad."
The recent memory plagued him and incessantly streamed through his loaded mind. He was sitting in the darkness in the only place that had ever remotely felt like a home with the only thing that had ever remotely made him feel complete.
Beside her, that is.
He watched the amber liquid swirl in the glass tumbler in the limited moonlight. As the liquid swayed back and forth, the pestilence of memories in his mind overwhelmed him with the feelings that were supposed to be masked under layers of emptiness.
Regret: He had left her and she was certainly furious with him, though he was only trying to protect her from this cold being that seemed to hold the reigns in times of disaster.
Anger: Ironically, there was an emotion that described the disbelief within the weakness of himself allowing to exude emotion; He was Chuck Bass, and nothing was to affect him. He was bleeding, however, the blood of emotion, and was angered that Chuck Bass had the audacity to allow himself to do so.
Love: It was quite possibly the worst emotion that could seep through, seeing as his love (what he presumed to be love, at least) had done nothing but harm the ones around him. However repressed, though, he was a live wire deep inside for only one, for her. That blood, that blood that would inflict long-time pain upon her had to be erased-- He would not, could not, promote pain on any other being, that he allowed himself to pursue.
He would not allow her to be pained as she saw the true entity that was Chuck Bass, so she, like all other emotions, had to be cut away; for anyone who could ever love Chuck Bass had to be delusional or maintain a twisted mental illness.
With that final thought, Chuck refilled his tumbler with hope of completely dislodging himself from emotion of any kind.
Becoming numb was the only way; becoming so wasted that he no longer knew his name and no longer gave a damn. Being numb was the only way. The mantra pounded through his head, seemingly blocking out the pain, the memories, certain to perfect the void he was destined to become. Being numb was the only way-- He decided to be loyal to the motto as the empty scotch bottles doubled and tripled on the cream-colored carpet and his consciousness, with every trace of emotion, slipped away.
"Thank you, Dorota"
She would only speak these three words after Dorota had delivered her another breakfast muffin, one that would join the rest, uneaten, in the disposal; so long as Dorota, Cyrus, and her mother were assured of her existence, she would finally be left to her thoughts in the wide, blue space.
Perhaps she was alive physically, but inside her being was numb, dejected, and most certainly not alive nor well.
Most of her days would be spent staring at her blue comforter, the sheets having remained unchanged for the past week.
No tears would come. None. Her numb soul would have none of that. She thought of nothing, though thinking was certainly not an activity she often pursued in her stupor.
It was as if a single sheet of paper had done the work of hard narcotics and liquor, to place her in such a reverie.
For fleeting seconds, she would think of him, of his whereabouts and welfare. Of them at times. However, those thoughts did not seem to make her flinch, as they probably would have some six months before, when he had left her for the first time. This time she was severely numb, and nothing seemed to affect her, an extreme condition which had never before plagued her.
The newly-formed Waldorf-Roses were having quite a hard time dealing with their daughter. They were worried sick, but any concern shown in front of the girl would generate monotone, bland answers coming from sickly red lips on an icy pale face.
On the first few days they had thought her state had been brought up by their medicine cabinet, so they had a lock placed on it. Later, thought occurred to lock the liquor cabinet, but her stoned-looking stupor remained unchanged.
Ten days after he had gone, however, something seemed to snap within her; Her walls were a little too blue, the sun was intensely bright, the traffic too loud, her mother and step-father's hushed concerns about their only daughter seemed to float up to her room, the birds were quite too loud, her sheets were smelly, her hair was disgusting, her legs remained unshaved.
The sheer intensity of life seemed to astonish her and, in more ways than one, snap her back into her jagged reality.
Look at you, you're a mess. What would he think?
With that, Blair Waldorf finally allowed one tear. One tear, however, was enough to make her feel again.
Pain, sheer agony, anger, concern, sadness, and love all seemed to crash her back into reality-- Bart Bass was dead and his son, in a twisted, ironic sense, had alienated all who truly cared for him to mourn alone.
Collecting herself with newfound strength, Blair rose out of the warm bed and immediately demanded Dorota take care of her sheets via private intercom ( How dare she allow her to rest in such filth?!) and headed for a desperately- needed shower in her dainty slip.
While en route to her bathroom, Blair quickly grabbed her phone to check her messages and Gossip Girl; ten days was, indeed, a good matter of time in which something could have happened, or perhaps changed.
The bitch and fiery spirit that was Blair Waldorf was back, a determination to find Chuck Bass pumping through her veins.
I really hope this is okay.
Haha.
I know where I want to take this, but beginnings always trouble me.
Review?