Eric van der Woodsen knew how it felt to die. He knew exactly how it felt to slip into a black abyss, spinning until everything was blurry, and there was nothing but you, and the somehow comforting darkness around you.
Chuck Bass killed himself slowly. By every drink, every girl and every little pill. He knew it. He knew that this was killing him, but couldn't bring himself to stop. He treasured every burn in his throat, every hot breath on his throat as he fucked girls, and every high that drugs gave him.
Chuck didn't know why he just didn't get it over with. Why he didn't just get a gun and blow his brains out.
Eric didn't know why he hadn't just remembered to lock the bathroom door. So it would have taken much longer for his mother to find him.
Eric knew how Chuck spent his days. Chuck had heard the story of the little blond van der Woodsen who had slit his wrists. Such gossip did people not just let go.
And one day, Chuck knocked on Eric's door, booze in hand and Eric taught Chuck just how to bleed.
Somehow, it was comforting to have someone to share the darkness with.